The Mongoliad: Book Three

Et Factum Est Ita

And thus it was done.

When the votes were tallied, the Cardinals were in agreement. Castiglione would be their new Pope, and the very result Fieschi had been fighting against the last few days had, ironically, become the solution to his troubles. Castiglione would not be Pope long enough to unduly influence the Church.

It was not an optimal solution, but it was one that would allow him time to lay a more solid foundation for the next election. When they could dispense with the nonsense of worrying about whether the Holy Roman Emperor could influence the election in any way.

There was still the minor annoyance of what to do about Father Rodrigo should he resurface, but, as Capocci had pointed out, in several days it would no longer matter. All of the Cardinals looked eager to put the grievous error of their first vote behind them. Da Capua, in fact, had such a permanent crease in his forehead that Fieschi suspected that he would, within the year, retire to a monastery and live out his days, staring at the walls and plucking his lyre.

De Segni and Capocci took responsibility for informing the few priests, bishops, and lay servants necessary to ensure cooperation in the Papal mummery, as Capocci called it.

Fieschi went outside, squinting in the midday glare, and began to cross the broad central meadow of the Vatican compound toward the Castel Sant’Angelo. The board was decent there, compared to the miserly rations served from the makeshift kitchens outside Saint Peter’s.

He was nearly to the castle when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned quickly, to see a young messenger approaching at a run. “Cardinal Fieschi!” the young man cried as he arrived. “I was told you are Cardinal Fieschi?”

“I am,” he said, with a frown of caution.

“I have a message for you from His Majesty, Emperor Frederick,” the young man said, bowing while gasping for breath. “I am to wait for your response before returning.”

He handed Fieschi a small piece of parchment that had been folded into thirds and sealed with the imperial eagle. Intrigued, Fieschi broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read.

The note was short and to the point, written in Frederick’s own scrawl. Do come for a visit soon, dear Sinibaldo. There is a delicate matter that I wish to discuss.

The missing priest, he thought, interpreting Frederick’s message. He didn’t get very far. He should have suspected that a madman wandering around the countryside would have been found by the Emperor’s men. He glanced up at the dome of the basilica. Did it matter that the Emperor had the missing priest? he wondered, and then he smiled as an idea occurred to him. If the priest was mad, and he could convince the Emperor that this madness was part of a larger conspiracy, then perhaps he could redirect Frederick’s attention elsewhere.

The heavy wooden door was thrown open so forcefully it bounced from its hinges and almost ricocheted back at Cardinal Fieschi.

“I know where he is,” he gloated.

“Who?” Lena asked as if she didn’t know who the Cardinal was talking about.

“Your young friend will be with him,” Fieschi said, ignoring Lena’s question. He pointed at Ocyrhoe. “You will be coming with me,” he said.

“I will?” Ocyrhoe squeaked.

“Why are you taking the child?” Lena protested stridently. In her head, Ocyrhoe heard an echo of Lena’s earlier words. You see? What you need will be offered. Though she could not see how being remanded to the angry Cardinal was going to help her escape from Rome.

“Frederick has sent me a message, asking for a meeting. He has the mad priest and I suspect he wants to ransom him back to me. I am not so foolish as to go alone,” Fieschi sneered. “Nor am I going to be caught in a political trap. The girl will help me convince Father Rodrigo that Frederick is not his friend.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Lena asked.

Fieschi gave Lena a feral grin. “I will still have you, here, under my guard. If Frederick wishes to negotiate the return of the priest, I will have something he will want to negotiate for.”

“And the girl wouldn’t be more useful to you here as your hostage?” Lena asked.

“In the last few days,” Fieschi snapped, “this child has caused me more headaches than Robert of Somercotes-”

“Dead so unexpectedly,” Lena sighed sadly.

Fieschi paled slightly, at a loss for words all of a sudden. “We depart at once,” he growled, with an impatient gesture. “They are saddling a pony for you.”

Ocyrhoe gasped. “I don’t know how to ride.”

“All you have to do is sit,” Lena said reassuringly. And then to Fieschi, “What if the Holy Roman Emperor’s intent is not as malicious as you make it out to be?”

“Do not insult me,” Fieschi snapped. “I have known Frederick a long time. I know how he thinks. He won’t pass up an opportunity to force concessions from the Church. What do you think his blockade of Rome was for? I don’t trust him.”

“He will be saddened to hear that,” Lena pointed out. “He considers you one of the most rational men in Rome.”

Fieschi slashed his hand through the air, silencing her. “Be that as it may, you will stay here,” he said.

“Well, I’m happy to stay,” Lena observed, and for a second, Ocyrhoe thought Fieschi was going to change his mind, but when Lena smiled innocently at the Cardinal, he stormed out of the room.

“Off you go,” Lena said, shooing Ocyrhoe toward the door.

“Wait,” Ocyrhoe argued. “I don’t understand any of this. I thought you said you weren’t tied to Frederick. How can he be trying to get you back if you don’t belong to him?”

Lena put a finger to her lips. “The Cardinal seems to have overlooked that point,” she said with a wink. “Let’s not tell him, shall we?”

It was a dry, dusty day, even as the shadows began to stretch eastward. Ocyrhoe liked the rocking motion once she had gotten used to it, and to her surprise, her mount sped up, slowed, and shifted at the precise moment she was wondering how to make it move in those ways. As if the pony was itself a Binder, or at least communicated as Binders do. Animals do not have a spoken language, she thought. They must have other ways in which to communicate.

From the height of the pony, the Holy Roman Emperor’s camp looked very different to Ocyrhoe’s eyes; she could see the boundaries much better now than before, when it was all just a big jumbled maze and she was breathless with anticipation at fulfilling her first Binder assignment.

From Robert of Somercotes.

She wondered again at what had passed between Lena and the Cardinal when Cardinal Somercotes’s name had been brought up. The Cardinal had died in the fire, and it was her understanding that it had been a tragic accident, but there had been a mocking note in Lena’s voice. She marveled at how the older Binder had given such a simple declaration such weight. And Fieschi’s reaction! What was he hiding?

If they weren’t about to arrive in the Emperor’s camp, Ocyrhoe would be more concerned about being in Cardinal Fieschi’s presence. She had seen his face when he had lunged at her early this morning. He was just as dangerous as the Bear, maybe more so.

Where the camp met the road, guards stopped the group, asking the riders to dismount and for the Cardinal to descend from his carriage. Helmuth had returned with them, so they were admitted immediately into the campsite. The mundane details of daily life teemed around them in the tent city-chickens crooning in cages, women scrubbing laundry in tubs, bakers shaping loaves beside portable ovens, metalworkers and leatherworkers intent upon their crafts. The size of the camp itself did not impress Ocyrhoe-it was smaller than even one neighborhood of Rome. But the fact of its mobility, of its inhabitants and creators having traveled hundreds of miles together to erect this temporary town, it was a marvel she could not quite get her mind around. Cities were permanent things, yet…