The Mongoliad: Book Two

it.”

Somercotes took a deep breath and let it out slowly. By keeping these two intruders here in secret, he could quite possibly ferret out more information about this Father Rodrigo, something more definite than the muddling ravings the priest supplied in plenty. But Somercotes felt certain he knew what the girl was and might learn soon enough who had sent her-and with that knowledge, he could think of far better uses for her.

Before he could speak, Ferenc let out a cry of delight and reached for a small bag hanging from his belt. He began to jabber away again in his native tongue, and Rodrigo-who had again slumped into a glassy-eyed stare- suddenly sat up straighter, blinked, and looked alert. As Somercotes watched, the boy reached into his satchel and pulled out a small metal object-a ring. A signet ring. An ecclesiastic signet ring-which meant the delirious priest really was a cardinal.

Ferenc handed it to Rodrigo, who took it between thumb and forefinger, staring at it as if he could not understand its significance.

The three cardinals exchanged looks; even Capocci understood now that this was serious.

“May I see that?” Somercotes asked Rodrigo, holding out his hand.

Rodrigo, confused, held it up toward Somercotes without relinquishing his hold of it.

“That is not a cardinal’s ring,” Somercotes announced, examining it. He made this pronouncement in a pleasant, casual voice, as if complimenting Rodrigo, but the words were meant for Colonna and Capocci, who nodded sagely as if they already knew this wisdom. “It is an Archbishop’s ring,” he added. “There is some story here, no doubt fascinating. Perhaps”-and here he straightened and peered at the girl again-“perhaps you can help us by filling in the details by signing to your friend there in Rankalba.”

The girl was plainly shaken by the fact he knew the esoteric name, and her instinct to flee was plain on her face, but to her credit, she mastered her fear and nodded. “He has already told me everything he knows,” she replied. “He does not know very much.”

“Tell me what he does know,” Somercotes persisted, smiling at her in a way he thought might inflict a small chill. “Something significant, worthy of an Archbishop’s ring.”

The girl swallowed hard. “Only that the priest has a message to deliver.”

“Of course, there is nobody to deliver it to,” Rodrigo said, speaking in Italian for the first time since the foursome had pounded on the door for entrance. “I am a word lost in the empty air. I am a seed thrown on stones.”

“Ah,” Somercotes said appreciatively. “A messenger stuck forever with his message and no one to receive it.”

Somercotes turned his attention back to the pale, narrow-shouldered girl. “Speaking of messengers…” he said and lifted his eyebrows. The girl looked away, then back, with a faint but noticeable spark of defiance. In reward for this show of character, he gave her a reassuring smile. “If you are what I think you are,” he said in a low, confident tone, “then I have an assignment for you. A true message to deliver. A message that will definitely be heard.”

She lowered her gaze. Somercotes waited patiently for her to answer.

“Give me the message,” she said finally, looking him squarely in the eye.

Capocci and Colonna watched them both with mild curiosity. Ferenc’s attention was on Rodrigo, who was slipping once again into a fog of confusion. “The word who spins in the air, the dove who is a buzzard who is a dove…” Rodrigo muttered. “The flies that buzz God’s song, mosquitoes humming along…”

“The recipient of this message,” Somercotes said delicately, crossing himself, “is His Majesty King Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor. If you cannot gain an audience, you may deliver it to any commander in his army, which is camped just outside the walls of Rome.”

The girl kept her face calm. “And what is the message?” she asked.

“The message is quite literally this,” Somercotes said, with a sweeping gesture all around them. “This place. The fact of this imprisonment by Senator Orsini, the location of the Septizodium. Whatever route you took to break in here, show someone, and bring them back here with you.”

“As is…my duty,” she said, pressing both hands over her heart and bowing her head slightly. “I go at once.”

Somercotes held up a hand to stop her. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. When she shook her head, he smiled at her. “It will be difficult to inform the message’s recipient as to who sent it if you do not know my name, don’t you think?”

She blushed, though the expression in her eyes said she was more angry than embarrassed.

“I am Robert of Somercotes,” he said, “a cardinal of the Church.” He placed a hand on the top of her head. “And I offer you all my blessings for your journey. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He felt her flinch as he said the Latin words, but she held still until he finished.

“I…I am Ocyrhoe,” she said, and though she seemed to want to add something, she clamped her mouth shut and shook her head slightly.

“Well met, Ocyrhoe. We are bound together now by our message, yes?” The fact she had not offered the ritual exchange did not concern him overmuch. She knew what he asked of her; he didn’t care that she seemed too young to fully understand. The message itself was what mattered. “Go and deliver it.” He gestured toward Ferenc. “Take the young man with you. You seem to work together well.” And it will be less complicated for us to explain his presence here.

Outside the door, Fieschi suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. He straightened, glanced around the corridor to make sure nobody saw him, and walked swiftly back down the corridor toward the tunnel that would lead him to free air and Orsini.

There was so much for he and the Bear to talk about.

22

An Afternoon at First Field

The crowd swarmed across the wooden planks of the scaffolds like a ferocious colony of termites, a writhing mass of humanity that twitched and leaped and shouted in response to the two combatants. First Field had three fighting grounds, and as only the center one was in use, the audience had repositioned the scaffolds to more tightly embrace it. In between the scaffolds, crates and wooden beams and chunks of rock made for makeshift platforms from which still more of the commoners could watch. There were patches of color in the otherwise uniform sea of dirty brown, tiny clusters of men in finer robes, surrounded by their mailled guard.

A standard stood next to the ring; Kim caught glimpses of it through the throng. Every time the crowd parted slightly, affording him a brief view of a corner, his desire to see it fully only increased.

His Mongol guards hung back, milling about on the periphery of the excitement. They were outnumbered, and the crush of people was too great, too uncontrolled, and they were hesitant to force a gap through which Kim could reach the fighting ground. Unwilling to wait for them to decide how best to approach the crowd, Kim walked to the back edge of the scaffolding and leaped, reaching for a bracing bar. He pulled himself up, feeling the muscles stretch and pop in his shoulders, and he hung there, a few feet off the ground, face pressed up close to the back of a Westerner. He pulled up a leg, got it hooked on the long plank, and pulled himself over the bracing bar, barreling into the top row of spectators.

They were not amused, and several turned angrily on him as he shoved his way into their midst. Below them, his Mongol guards shouted up at him to come down, and the Western men, hearing these strident voices, suddenly lost interest in pushing Kim off the scaffolding.

Kim ignored the men around him. He was too busy examining the fighter in the ring.

Down below, a tall, powerfully built man in a quilted coat-apparently the Frank-stood near an equally sized, heavier-set man who was lying on his back. The Frank held a wooden sword, and though he was breathing heavily, he did not appear to be overly tired. His brow was damp with sweat, matting his blond hair to his head, and he had