The Mongoliad: Book Three

wants to hear from him. So we must give them a Pope-immediately.” He looked around the room with anticipation, as if he were seeking somebody who could guess what his next words would be and shout them out like an eager student. Nobody did. Not even Colonna. “Therefore,” he prompted. “We present them with a Pope, so that we do not look like a group of incompetent idiots, we anoint this Pope as if he were the one we voted in, we enthrone him-and then, right away, we kill him.”

With a flourishing gesture, he leaned back on his heels and smiled at them all.

“What?” Bonaventura demanded, horrified, into the stunned silence that followed.

Capocci stared at them as if he could not imagine why they were all so shocked. Then his face lit up. “Ah!” he said, still buoyant. “My mind was working faster than my mouth. What I mean is: we pretend that somebody in this room has been elected Pope. We go through all the motions of crowning that man, with the understanding-shared by all of us, but not to be told to another living soul, not even our most faithful servants-that within a fortnight, the pseudo-Pope disappears forever, and we claim that he has died.”

The shocked silence remained, but now the Cardinals were all exchanging glances rather than staring slack- jawed at Capocci. Even Fieschi held his tongue, waiting to see how his peers would react. The idea was ludicrous, but in its insanity was a very narrow path out of the current disaster.

“We’d need to have a body,” Colonna said at length, an implicit acknowledgment that he was willing to entertain the plan.

“There are bodies enough in Roman morgues,” Capocci said.

“What happens to the man who volunteers to do this thing?” da Capua asked. He too seemed cautiously interested now.

“I think that’s up to him,” Capocci said. “It is an enormous service he will be performing, saving the appearance of our integrity. We have no actual integrity-I think we have demonstrated that quite thoroughly by now-but the appearance of it will be deeply comforting to our flocks. It is almost a kind of martyrdom. If I were such a man, I would ask for a bucket of gold and a nice quiet hermitage in which to spend my days in happy anonymity.”

“Nobody in this room would consider such an absurdity,” de Segni snorted. “Every man here is brimful of ambition or he would not have become a Cardinal.”

“That’s true enough,” said Gil Torres. “But as the senior-most Cardinal alive, I can tell you that ambition wanes as surely as it waxes. I would not put myself forward for the sacrifice, but I can imagine it might be attractive-to the right man.”

“What about the priest?” Torres asked. “The one who is already Pope?”

“Ah,” Capocci said, “this is the clever bit. If we do this quickly enough and we all swear that it be true, then Father Rodrigo’s claim simply becomes the spurious ravings of a country fool. He’s just a pretender to the position, and if he’s insane enough to insist that a conspiracy has been perpetrated…”

Fieschi had to admit there was a certain elegance to the solution. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of controlling the next Pope, but simply leaving the position vacant. He had been able to accomplish quite a bit during the sede vacante-including turning the bullheaded Senator to his side. The Cardinals would scatter soon after a successful vote, leaving Rome to him. During the time it took to recall all the Cardinals- including the ones that Frederick had managed to intercept-he would have ample time to fully dominate Rome.

And after Rome, what next? Sicily?

Fieschi smiled. The doubts would fall away, readily enough.

“Would my fellow Cardinals be willing to consider this?” Capocci asked. “Shall we at least entertain it for discussion?”

“How about a show of hands?” Colonna suggested.

“Wait a moment,” Castiglione said. “Seven of us voted for Father Rodrigo. We caused this strange catastrophe, and so it should fall to one of the seven to make this sacrifice.” The dei Conti cousins and Bonaventura-the only three who did not vote for Father Rodrigo-all visibly relaxed, while the half dozen others eyed each other nervously. “But of all those seven,” Castiglione continued, “The one who bears the greatest shame for writing down Father Rodrigo’s name is me. I wrote his name because I did not want to be elected. The stress of these past few months, and most of all these past few days, forced me to look honestly at my own ambition, to use Cardinal de Segni’s term. The rest who voted for Father Rodrigo did so for reasons of their own, but I am sure they were sound ones. I, however, voted for him to shirk my own duty, and so the burden of guilt for all of this falls upon my shoulders more than on any other’s. I volunteer to be the Pope who dies.”

There were gasps of amazement from around the room. “This is a feint!” Bonaventura shouted above the din. “You will take power and threaten us all with blackmail if we try to remove you!”

“Of course I won’t,” said Castiglione. “If I had that kind of ambition, Cardinal Bonaventura, I would not have voted for Father Rodrigo, and then we would not be in this ridiculous position. Furthermore, if I volunteer to do this and then seize the office for real, I am sure Orsini will dispatch me very quickly.”

The Senator could certainly be called upon to do what was necessary, Fieschi thought, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips. “Well,” he said dryly. “That sounds very convincing. How about the rest of you?”

The narrow path lay open before him. Yes, let them choose this man, he thought, that will work out just fine.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Mongol-a-Mongol

Shortly after the hunting party left the confines of the valley, it ascended a narrow ridge, and Ogedei reined in his horse to admire the view. The valley was a long indentation that ran east to west, as if Tengri himself had reached down and dug a trough through the verdant forests that blanketed the lower slopes of Burqan-qaldun. The air was clear and crisp, and Ogedei could see the tiny shapes of his subjects moving among the colorful mushroom shapes of the ger.

I will build a palace, he decided, caught up in the crystalline clarity of the moment. I will have all the materials brought here. No trees will be cut down. No rocks moved. It will stay pristine-just the way it is today. He stared at his ger and fixed its position in his mind. The palace would be built in the exact same spot.

“My Khan?” Namkhai’s broad face was impassive, but there was the barest hint of a question in his voice.

“I am admiring the view, Namkhai,” Ogedei said. “Is it not a magnificent day?”

“It is, my Khan.”

“A man could accomplish anything he desired on a day like today, could he not?”

“He could, my Khan.” Namkhai’s stony mien cracked slightly, allowing a brief smile to escape.

“And there would be no reason to rush, would there? A man’s destiny will wait for him, yes?”

“It never arrives before he does, my Khan.”

Ogedei laughed. “A wrestler and a philosopher. You are filled with surprises, Namkhai. Once I have slain the bear, will you compose a song in my honor?”

“I regret not, my Khan.”

He is fearless, Ogedei thought. He does not shirk from telling me the truth, even though it might displease me. He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the rest of the hunting party, and his gaze lingered on Alchiq and Gansukh. Would that I had a tumen of men like him, there would be no stopping the Mongol Empire. He casually laid his hand on the shaft of the Spirit Banner, the tall pole stuck into a leather boot attached to his saddle. In his mind, he saw a