The Mongoliad: Book Three

She recognized the Emperor’s pavilion. Strange to think it had been but one overnight since she had left here; how much had happened in so short a time! A week ago she had known nothing of Father Rodrigo, Ferenc, Cardinals, or emperors.

All the sides and tent flaps were rolled up to the eaves of the tent, so they could see the Emperor, and he could see them, a good twenty paces before they arrived. Frederick was sitting in the camp’s one oak chair, low- slung camp stools scattered before it, as if he were expecting a party. A guard stood at the entrance and others were stationed around the perimeters; a page boy stood behind Frederick’s chair. Otherwise he was alone. When they were half a dozen strides distant, Frederick opened his arms wide as if in greeting. He smiled.

“Damn him,” Fieschi muttered. But his voice, for once, lacked rancor.

“Welcome to my home away from home,” Frederick called out. “Won’t you join me for a cup of wine?”

They entered into the shade of the pavilion. Helmuth, in the lead, saluted, said, “Sire!” then bowed briskly and stepped away to the right. Ocyrhoe wanly imitated his bow.

“Hello, my young friend,” Frederick said to her, amusement in his eyes. Ocyrhoe managed to squeak out, “Sire” and scurried to the left, away from Helmuth.

She watched Fieschi and Frederick as they looked each other in the eye without speaking. Neither wore the challenging or angry expressions she had expected-their faces were both neutral, almost pleasant. Neither one would break the stare.

“I outrank you, Sinibaldo,” Frederick said eventually. “I expect you to at least bow your head.”

“I will prostrate myself with gratitude,” Fieschi promised, “as soon as you return him to me.”

Frederick gave him a small, mocking smile. “Who? The priest?” He put a finger to his lips. “No, I am mistaken. The Pope. Yes, is that who you are speaking of?”

Fieschi closed his eyes a moment, took a careful breath, and said through gritted teeth, “He is not-”

“Oh, and what was it that he had with him?” He waved away Ocyrhoe’s brightening expression with a wave of his hand. “No, not the boy. The other thing. The cup. Yes, that’s what it was. The Cup of Christ.”

“What?” Fieschi exploded.

“The Holy Grail,” Frederick said patiently. “You got my note, clearly, and your rapid arrival confirms my suspicion.” He glanced at Ocyrhoe for a brief second, and she was surprised by both the merriment and caution in his eyes. “I am glad I kept my language circumspect-”

“What suspicion?” Fieschi asked, his face even darker with rage than before.

“You wouldn’t come trotting out of the safety of Rome for a mere priest, especially one as addled as that poor man is. Even if he was your newly elected Pope. No, dear Sinibaldo, I think you’ve come for something much more important.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fieschi raged. “The Holy Grail doesn’t exist.”

Ocyrhoe heard a ragged breathlessness in the Cardinal’s voice as if he were struggling to hide a different emotion entirely. Panic.

“Oh, I beg to differ, my dear friend,” Frederick countered heartily. “A dozen or so members of my entourage, after setting eyes on the cup, wished to traipse after the priest on his idiotic crusade; my guards had to physically restrain them. I thank God I have some atheistic sentinels who were immune to the goddamned allure of the thing.”

Fieschi was still changing color, paling now. “What do you mean, follow after him? Where is he?”

Frederick shrugged. “No idea. I released him into the wild, a few hours back. I thought it was only sporting to give him a head start if Cardinal Fieschi was on his trail.”

“Goddamn your-” Fieschi started. The sentinels around the pavilion instantly stepped inside; soldiers passing by on the avenue beside them stopped and turned toward them, as if the entire camp was prepared to assault Fieschi should he shout again. He took a very large breath and let it out forcefully, holding his hands up in a ceding gesture.

Frederick regarded him calmly. “I have already been excommunicated this week-in a much more official manner-so I will look upon your outburst as nothing more than-”

“Where is the priest?” Fieschi demanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Why did you let him go?”

“Well, he was very intent on his mission,” Frederick said, in an approving tone. “And his mission did nothing to challenge my authority. His resolve was very admirable. I admire that in a religious authority, especially in one who thinks he is the Pope. Very useful. And appropriate. So I chose to assist him. He and his undomesticated little hunter friend. Gave them clean clothes, and a good meal, and plenty of supplies for the road ahead.” Then as an afterthought, “Oh yes, and a couple of horses. Some of my fastest, as they are both excellent riders.” He grinned at the expression on Fieschi’s face. “You are bursting with the impulse to call me a shithead. It’s all over your face, Sinibaldo. Unfortunately, there are witnesses who would be stricken to hear such language coming from the mouth of a Cardinal, especially after that previous outburst.”

“Frederick!” Fieschi snapped in a constricted voice. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”

“Did I not just fucking itemize it for you?” Frederick said with mock exasperation. “Would you like me to write it out for you? I can do it in crude pictures if that will make it easier for you to grasp.”

Ocyrhoe ducked her head and pursed her lips together as hard as she could bear. Hearing Fieschi spoken to this way was a reviving antidote to the events of the past days.

Fieschi huffed with frustration, turned away, and began to stalk around the tent like a caged animal. The sentinels followed him with their eyes, adjusting their positions to discourage him from leaving. Ocyrhoe watched his face change mood over and again, as a dozen different strategies and tactics were dismissed. Finally, he returned to his position in front of the Emperor.

“I am here as a representative of the Holy Roman Church to seek your assistance in the retrieval of Church property.”

“Go ahead,” Frederick said agreeably, gesturing toward the avenue outside. “I’m not stopping you. Though if you are referring to the Grail-and I find it curious how quickly you’ve gone from complete denial of its existence to calling it Church property-I should point out that I’m not entirely sure it is Church property. At least, not the physical manifestation of it. Oh, I’d be happy to have a long and interesting discussion with you about the metaphysics of the Cup of Christ, given what I’ve seen with my own eyes, but-”

“I am speaking of the man,” Fieschi ground out.

“The Pope is Church property?” Frederick asked.

“And all artifacts that he might carry,” Fieschi amended hastily.

“Oh yes, of course, my mistake,” Frederick snorted, waving his hand toward the door of his tent. “Be my guest, though I am out of fresh horses. Perhaps you could untether one of the nags from the carriage that carried your august personage here and ride it, though I suspect that would be a most uncomfortable ride.”

Fieschi again resorted to a groaning sigh to release his frustration. He paced about the tent, his mouth working around words that never came out, and then he stopped and whirled toward them again.

“You, Binder,” he said, directing his ire at Ocyrhoe. “You are the cause of all this. You have meddled beyond your reach. I will-”

“Has she?” Frederick interrupted.

Fieschi whirled on the Emperor. “Stay out of this,” he snapped, shaking a finger at Frederick.

“I’d like to, but if you’re going to blaming all of this nonsense on a small girl-who, I would like to remind you is not a true Binder, inasmuch as I understand any of their strange rituals and observances-I think that reflects poorly on your own judgment. Which, frankly, is already suspect. I would hate to see that reflected in, say, the next papal election.”

Fieschi slowly curled his finger back into his hand. “She helped the priest escape.”

“From a prison you put him in in the first place.” Frederick shook his head. “Sinibaldo, this is beneath you. It gives me great joy to watch you sputter and foam like an old toothless woman, but after awhile, the joy passes and watching you”-he raised his shoulders and sighed-“it fills me with an unremitting sadness.”

Fieschi curled his hand into a fist, and then realizing what he was doing, he lowered his hand. Regaining his composure, he attempted to affix a smile on his face. “This jest has been ill-timed, Frederick. I am under enormous pressure to facilitate the resolution of this sede vacante. Perhaps, you might rise above