Mongol invaders bringing an end to the world, and how to defeat them.”
There was the slightest collective sigh as all the Cardinals exchanged knowing glances. “So he is still demented,” said Fieschi. “Despite reports to the contrary.”
“He did not seem demented, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said. “He got a lot of attention right away. Well, not he himself so much, but…” his eyes widened. “Your Eminences, I know you won’t believe this, but he was carrying… he said it was… it did look-”
“What?” Fieschi demanded.
The boy seemed on the verge of tears, but his face was caught between despair and such a wild delight that Fieschi could not help but feel a sense of dread creeping over him.
“It glowed,” the boy said, “When he held it up. It was so bright, and it blinded me. I put up my hand to shield my eyes, but he turned it and it only glowed more brightly. He smiled at me, and… and he said it was-”
“Damnation, boy!” Fieschi could not contain his impatience. “What was he tossing around out there?”
“The Cup,” the boy said, staring around at the group. “The Cup of Christ.”
“
“I saw it,” the boy insisted.
Fieschi watched his face closely. At heart, Timoteo seemed a practical young fellow, and the reactions of the Cardinals had made him swallow hard. Perhaps he was wishing he’d never said a word, but Fieschi suspected the boy would defend his story vigorously, now that he had told it. He would elaborate now, adding more details to the story. It was quite wonderful, actually, he reflected, to see how God shaped the world with such subtlety.
The priest was mad, clearly, and this boy’s testimony was only going to further the Cardinals’ impression of the priest’s insanity. The new Pope would need strict guidance, they would all see that, and it would be so much easier for him to insert himself…
“I was standing right next to him,” Timoteo said. “It materialized from nowhere, and then suddenly he was holding it in his hands, and the sunlight hit it, and rays spread out from it in all directions-” here Timoteo excitedly and awkwardly tried to demonstrate emanating rays. “It was almost as if the light was reaching out to touch people, people in the crowd, and you could see it, you could see when they were touched, their faces changed, they lit up, they suddenly could not take their eyes away from him. It was the most miraculous thing I have ever seen in my life!”
The boy had gone quite far enough. Such a story could be dangerous, after all, if it got around. “That’s blasphemy,” said Fieschi sharply. “There is nothing miraculous about it, it was just a trick of the light. Why did you leave him there unattended when you were ordered not to?”
“But he wasn’t unattended, Your Eminence,” the boy said. “Hundreds and hundreds of people were hanging on his every word-”
“The child exaggerates,” Fieschi said with contempt, and turned away from him. He gestured to one of the bishops. “Send guards to the Forum to find Father Rodrigo before he disappears again. Tell them to look for the crazy preacher.”
“There are a lot of crazy preachers in that marketplace,” Capocci pointed out with a smile.
“He… you will find him, surely,” Timoteo said hurriedly, trying to be helpful. “He is the one that hundreds of people are flocking to. He could have jumped off the ledge where we were standing and been caught and carried away by them, they were so packed together, jostling to come closer, to see this miracle-and more were moving toward him every moment. I was sure we would be separated by the crowd, for there were people climbing up the ruins to get near to him. I thought it was my duty to come back here and inform Your Eminences of what was happening. Of… what I saw.” He blinked at Fieschi, wide-eyed innocence. “Have I done wrong?”
For a moment, Fieschi was too flabbergasted to speak.
“It seems our new Pope already has both a calling, and a following,” Colonna announced philosophically. “We really must give him more credit.”
Ferenc, Ocyrhoe, and the rest of the party from the Emperor’s camp entered the city without incident from the Porta Labicana, and took the left of the broad roads. This led a mile west to the Colosseum, where a turn to the left would lead south to the Septizodium.
The day was hot and dry, and the streets too noisy for comfortable conversation. Ocyrhoe led the way with Ferenc beside her, the adults abreast behind them. Occasionally Ocyrhoe would glance over her shoulder to make sure they were still close on her heels. Each time, she saw them making assorted faces of displeasure. She took it as a personal insult that they did not like her city.
When at last they reached the ruined Colosseum-and she exacted some satisfaction from the amazed expression on surly Helmuth’s face-she was surprised to notice that all the foot traffic was suddenly heading only in one direction: westward. People were moving into the market area between the Colosseum and the Forum, but nobody seemed to be leaving.
Ocyrhoe knew her city well, knew how to read its pulses as if it were a living organism. Beside her, Ferenc was equally distracted, picking up on other clues from his own training: something strange was afoot.
The two of them stopped at the same moment. Ocyrhoe did not even bother to sign. She simply glanced ahead toward the marketplace, just out of view around the bend of the Colosseum, and then looked back at Ferenc, raising her eyebrows. He raised his too, and nodded.
From the market, echoing from the walls, boomed a great voice, and around that voice, the murmurs of entranced listeners… like the lowing of contented cows in a field.
“Father Rodrigo,” Ferenc said.
Ocyrhoe nodded.
Without explaining, they turned together toward the market, ignoring the protests from their companions, who held back for a moment, then ran to keep up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rutger leaped to his feet as the spear sailed through the air. The collective voices of the audience turned from raucous cheers to screams of panic. The Shield-Brethren in attendance at the arena wore maille and carried weapons under their cloaks and plain robes in preparation for the culmination of Andreas’s plan. But everything had gone horrifically wrong the moment one of Dietrich’s men had walked into the arena instead of one of the Khan’s fighters. The Shield-Brethren had all been waiting for the fight to end, hoping that their brother would be triumphant, but fearing they would be forced to watch him fall. Forced to watch one of theirs die, unable to do anything to prevent it. And their plan would have come to naught, undone by the Livonian Grandmaster’s desire for revenge. Everything undone.
But Andreas-bold, stupid, heroic Andreas-had refused to give up. He had tried to save them anyway.
Rutger’s eyes followed the path of the shaft as it vanished between the curtains of the Khan’s box. He stared at the billowing curtains, trying to ascertain if it had hit its target. His lips moved in a silent prayer.
A Mongol swathed in silks and drenched in blood, staggered into view, the spear through his midsection. He was thin, dressed like a functionary.
Andreas had missed his target. The gambit had failed.
Everything was undone.
The death of the Khan would have made for much more confusion, which they had planned to use to their advantage. As it was, their enemy was simply aroused and angry, actively seeking the presence of enemies within the crowd. They had to flee the arena before anyone realized they were there. Before anyone thought to look more closely at their bulky clothing. They could not afford to be caught in a riot.
