The Mongoliad: Book Three

Capocci’s hands had been badly burned, and the Master Constable had found some cloth that had been soaked in water and wrapped around them, to provide some relief from the pain while a healer was found. Colonna kept wanting to check the bandages but, realizing he was being a fussy nursemaid, would catch himself. Capocci ignored the other man’s fluttering presence, his gaze steady and unwavering.

Fieschi did not shy away from that gaze. Whenever he glanced over, Capocci’s expression was the same, and he found no reason to give the man any satisfaction. He met Capocci’s glare with a calm and untroubled expression of his own. He knows nothing, he thought. He might have seen Somercotes’s body, but he cannot know what happened. He wants to believe that I am responsible; it would fit his impression of me-a simple solution that would ease his mind.

Fieschi looked away from the wounded Cardinal, returning his attention to the line of guards and the open field beyond. His mind drifting, wondering about the races that had once been held in the valley. Thousands of citizens had once clustered around the raked sands while charioteers beat their horses bloody in an effort to gain glory for their leaders. The pagan rituals of the gods of Imperial Rome had been brutal, savage rites of a weaker age, but they had had their place in that world. It did not surprise Fieschi that a place like the Circus had fallen into disuse; Christianity was, after all, civilized. Love for Christ had brought them all out of darkness, and-with proper guidance-that love would bring them all to salvation. It was much as Augustine said: Rome loved Romulus and made him a god; the devout believed Christ to be God, and therefore loved Him.

Yet he could not help but wonder about the power of that crowd’s love. The roar of their voices, chanting and screaming the names of their champions. The orgiastic surge of delight when their man won a race. Or the tumultuous rage when a favorite son fell, his body most likely crushed beneath the wheels of another’s chariot. To control that energy, to know that these men raced for your pleasure, to soak in the emotional exultation of the crowd that had come to worship at this barbaric temple of your creation. Such power was an aphrodisiac to the Roman Emperors, surely, as it would be to any ruler. It was an earthly love, a devotion to the materials of the flesh and the world; while it felt fierce and all-consuming, it was not the same love one could have for Christ, for God.

He had, in fact, had this argument with Frederick once. Years ago, before the Holy Roman Emperor drifted from his allegiance to the Pope. Frederick, reveling too much perhaps in his delight at playing the fool, had taken the side of Imperial Rome. It was better to have the love and respect of your subjects, he had argued, than to persist in frightening them with the threat of losing the love of a Supreme Being they will never know.

He had quoted Scripture in response. Fieschi caught himself smiling at the memory. The thirty-first Psalm. Diligite Dominum, omnes sancti eius, quoniam veritatem requiret Dominus, et retribuet abundantur facientibus superbiam.

God rewards the faithful, and His rewards were abundant to the proud believer.

The Rome of Romulus was gone, sacked and pillaged as it grew too decrepit to protect itself. Rome belonged to Christ now, and he was going to make it the heavenly city that Augustine had posited.

“Ego autem in te speravi, Domine,” he whispered, lighting touching his forehead with a trembling finger. “Deus meus es tu.”

Fieschi caught sight of the mad priest, standing in the far corner of the stable like a forgotten child. He clutched a plain jar in his hands, holding it tightly as if it contained a sacred relic. Much like he had clung to his satchel when he had been first lowered into the Septizodium.

Fieschi finished making the sign of the Cross before letting his hand drift toward his satchel. He still had the priest’s parchment, the page covered with the frenzied scribbling of a heretical prophecy. For an instant, Fieschi almost felt some empathy for the deluded priest. To be so bereft of God’s love that he could be snared by the heretical vision of those words, to be so lost that he could believe that he had been the recipient of a divine visitation. To feel the Serpent’s tongue and mistake it for the whispering voice of an angel.

He sent a silent prayer of gratitude to God. Quoniam fortiduo mea at refugium meum es tu. His purpose was clear; his path was like a ribbon of shining white stones, laid before him.

They called him the Bear, a nickname that Rodrigo assumed was nothing more than a childish play on the Senator’s name, but when he saw the man approaching the stables, he realized how true the appellation was.

Matteo Rosso Orsini wore his hair long, in a style reminiscent of the sculpted faces of Roman Emperors that peered down at the citizen of Rome from every building and temple. His hair had lost some of its youthful luster, but it was still a rich brown color that reminded Rodrigo of the dirt in freshly plowed fields. The Senator was tall and wide, though not so tall that he was a giant among his men, nor so wide that his detractors would call him fat. The wind toyed with his hair and flung his cape about his shoulders. The light of the sun inflamed a tracery of gold thread in his tunic, making his clothes appear to be made from a wealth of golden leaves, all stitched together in a seamless pattern. When he reached the stables, he stood silently at the doors, waiting for the Cardinals to acknowledge his arrival.

Eventually, their conversations trickled to an end, though Bonaventura seemed hesitant to let go of the audience he had been enjoying.

Rodrigo had been watching Cardinal Colonna. The feud between the Colonnas and the Orsinis had been so long-standing that it was a persistent part of his memories of growing up in Rome, like the Colosseum or the ruins of the Circus Maximus. Judging by the Cardinal’s expression, nothing had been settled between their families.

“Look what has dragged itself out of bed,” Colonna muttered, a little too loudly in the near silence.

“Good afternoon, your Eminences.” Orsini ignored the Cardinal’s comment, and his voice was naturally loud and commanding, rising from the barrel-like vault of his chest. “I deeply regret the occasion of our meeting. I have just come from the Septizodium, where Master Constable Alatrinus has informed me of the tragic death of Cardinal Somercotes.” He paused, his eyes on de Segni, who appeared to be on the verge of speaking. The Cardinal, who was nearly the tallest among the group (other than Cardinal Colonna, who was taller even than the Bear), squirmed under the Bear’s gaze and finally looked down at the ground.

“There will be opportunity later for discussion as to how this tragedy came about, and I will hear all of your recriminations and accusations in time. However, this tragedy does not alter the critical task which is your duty-”

“He would not be dead if you hadn’t imprisoned us!”

They were all surprised at the source of the voice. Mild-tempered Castiglione, who was prone to disappear in any given gathering of the Cardinals, was flushed and animated. Spurred on by the echo of his voice in the chamber, the Cardinal strode toward Orsini, one hand raised to point dramatically at the Senator. “You will bear the mark of the Cardinal’s death, Senator,” Castiglione continued. “When your soul is released, God will reject it. You will not be afforded a place in Heaven; your soul, weighed down by your actions, will be cast into endless perdition.”

“Is that so?” Orsini asked, raising one eyebrow. Rodrigo thought he was remarkably calm for a man who had just been condemned by a Cardinal of the Church. His own stomach was tied in a knot at the very idea of being subjugated to such an accusation, and the Bear seemed nonplussed by Castiglione’s accusatory finger. “I am wounded by your words, Your Eminence,” he said. “I fear your temper and exhaustion do you a disservice; your head is filled with words you do not mean to say. How, pray tell, do you find me responsible for Cardinal Somercotes’s untimely death? I was not in the Septizodium. I have been at my estate all afternoon. In fact, the Master Constable tells me that the halls beneath the Septizodium are still filled with fire and smoke. It would be a miracle if the Cardinal were still alive down there, but, alas, I must confess that I have no hope that such a thing is true.” He brought his hands together and bowed his head. “May God receive his soul with all alacrity.”

The Bear’s reaction threw Castiglione, and the Cardinal’s outrage faltered for a moment. “Our imprisonment is unjust, as is your insistence that we immediately vote on a successor to the late Pope. This is a matter of the Church. We do not elect a new Bishop of Rome at your command. You serve at our-”

“I serve Rome,” Orsini thundered. “Have you forgotten your late Pope’s concessions to the city when we allowed him to return from his inglorious exile? Have you forgotten the insults laid against the Church by that jackanape of an Emperor? Frederick wants-”