The Mongoliad: Book Three

“Neither you nor Frederick have any authority over us,” Castiglione interrupted. He stepped closer to the Senator. “God sees the willful blasphemy of your pride. He has marked how your words and actions have injured those of His flock who are close to Him. Deus iudex iustus, fortis, et patiens; numquid irascitur per singulos dies. Have care, Senator Orsini, your soul is in peril.”

Something flickered across the Bear’s eyes-a shadow of fear, perhaps-but it fled so quickly, Rodrigo had nothing more than a fleeting impression of the Senator’s reaction. The Bear’s face was otherwise impassive as he considered the Cardinal’s heated words.

“What would you have me do, Your Eminence?” the Bear finally asked.

“Release us,” Castiglione snapped.

“I cannot do that,” Orsini said, and Rodrigo heard a surprising weariness in his voice. “You have a sacred task to accomplish, and I cannot allow you to shirk that responsibility.”

Castiglione drew himself, puffing out his chest. “We shall never cast a vote,” he replied. “One by one, we shall all die of exposure or accidents, and God will condemn you again for each of us.”

An ugly sneer twisted Orsini’s mouth. “No,” he replied, rejecting Castiglione’s defiance. “You will vote, and you will vote tonight.” He stepped close to the Cardinal, towering over him. “By sunrise, you will have elected a new Pope.” The sneer spread across his face. “You have all had enough time to bicker amongst yourselves and select a candidate you can all live with. Let God strike me down-right now-if He thinks I am asking too much of Your Eminences.”

Rodrigo held his breath, as did everyone else in the room. Everyone except for the hawk-faced man, Cardinal Fieschi, who seemed to be watching all of this with barely concealed delight. Orsini did not waver; he stood his ground before Castiglione and met the Cardinal’s gaze without a shred of fear in his broad features.

A burning sensation started in Rodrigo’s belly, a bloom of fire that spread to his ribs and chest. It was the fever, assaulting him again. He clutched the jar tightly to his chest, and fell back against the wall of the stables. His teeth began to chatter. Bright lights began to spark in the corners of his vision. Was this the presence of God coming over him? Was a thunderbolt about to split the brick roof of the stables? Rodrigo shivered, unwilling to watch what came next, but unable to close his eyes or look away.

Castiglione took a step back, and he passed a hand in front of his face, making the sign of the Cross.

“Master Constable,” Orsini barked, his gaze unwavering.

“Sir!” The Master Constable stepped up behind the Senator.

“Prepare some transportation for these eminent persons. This location is hardly suitable for the task before them. They need food and shelter that more reflects their station.” He raised his shoulders slightly. “Perhaps your previous lodgings were ill-considered. I see no reason to repeat those conditions…”

Castiglione, realizing he was being addressed, shook his head. “No,” he said. “The Lateran Palace will be fine.”

The Master Constable bobbed his head in acknowledgment and made to leave, but the Senator stopped him with a word.

“They go to the Basilica of Saint Peter,” Orsini corrected. Castiglione thought to argue the point, but Orsini cut him off. “You will be under my guard until morning. Unless you prefer to allow my men complete access to the Papal residence…?”

“Saint Peter’s is fine,” Fieschi spoke up from the edge of the room. The hawk-faced man glanced at the other Cardinals. “It is one more night, my friends, and it will be more comfortable than the Septizodium. Let us not forget what it is that we are supposed to accomplish. And how little time we have left.”

Rodrigo did not recall the particulars of the wagon ride. The soldiers procured two rickety wagons and several equally aged and withered mules readily enough. It was hardly a suitable procession, but the events of the day had taken their toll, and the Cardinals submitted meekly enough to the ignominy of a bumpy wagon ride across Rome.

He lay against the front of the cart, still holding on to the jar given to him by Colonna, who was in the other cart with Capocci. When he turned his head to the side and peered through the uneven spaces in the slats, he could see the other wagon, but he could not tell which of the slumped shapes were either of the two men. He still felt isolated, and while such a feeling was not unusual, he felt it with newfound clarity. Some of the men he had met in the Septizodium had given him hope. Soon, he hoped, the new Pope would be elected, and then he could finally divest himself of his message.

The wagon jumped sharply, and several of the Cardinals voiced their annoyance at the bumpy ride. The jar popped out of Rodrigo’s grip and bounced on the wooden floor of the cart. He got his hands on it quickly enough, but as he checked it, he realized the stopper had come loose.

He sat up hurriedly, his eyes frantically scanning the wagon bed for the narrow plug. He caught sight of it on his left, near the wall of the wagon. As he reached for it, the wagon hit another bump, and the stopper jumped out of reach. It slid across the wooden floor, bounced against the lowest slat on the side, and then slipped through the gap. Rodrigo stared, and then whipped his head around to fixate on the jar.

It was open! What had Colonna said was inside? Rodrigo tilted the jar up to see its contents, and as he did so, he saw with utter clarity what was going to happen next. When it happened, he was not surprised; he simply accepted the Hand of God as it reached down and jostled the cart one last time.

The jar spun out of his hand, scattering its contents all over him. He closed his eyes, accepting the squirming offerings that God was giving to him. Scorpions.

He remembered waking from a horrible dream while trapped underground. There had been a scorpion on him-one much smaller than the specimens that crawled all over him now-and he had wondered if it had stung him. If the return of his fever could be attributed to the poisonous sting of the tiny creature.

There were so many more of them now. They were in his hair. One crawled across his forehead, and several more had already found their way into his robe.

This is God’s Will, he thought, spreading his arms and accepting his destiny. He had not delivered his message; God would not let him die. Not until he had completed the task He had set for him.

One of the Cardinals noticed the pale shapes crawling all over him and started screaming.

CHAPTER TEN

The Khagan’s Banner

On catching sight of the Spirit Banner, the Khagan’s warriors instinctively flocked toward it, and as he strode through the camp, Master Chucai found himself acquiring an entourage of blood-stained soldiers. At first he had waved them off, shouting at them to continue hunting for Chinese rebels who might still be skulking among the tents, but as his survey of the caravan continued, the soldiers began to show up in greater numbers.

They knew he was going to end up at the Khagan’s ger eventually, and they wanted to be there when he arrived. They followed the banner, and Chucai’s practical examination of the damage and status of the caravan took on an air of a celebratory parade.

Chucai ignored the soldiers. They had been ambushed by an unknown force, and had reacted well. It was still too early to make an accurate assessment of how many had been killed or the extent of the destruction to the wagons and livestock, but as far as his eye could see, it looked like the damage was minimal. A few isolated fires still burned, but most of them were tiny patches of flame that were trying to creep off into the night and were slowly being starved of readily accessible fuel.

The Khagan’s wheeled ger had been spared, and while some of the men following him were beginning to spin tales about the Khagan’s