The Mongoliad: Book Three

beyond a waterfall and a field of singing rushes.

All very mysterious, intentionally off-putting so as to maintain an air of secrecy and mysticism. Gansukh was a humble steppe warrior-sure to be mentally constricted by long-extant clan superstitions that would keep him docile and respectful. So that he wouldn’t question what his eyes were telling him; so that he wouldn’t allow his curiosity to ask too many questions.

The Darkhat armor was worn-not from use, but from age. Their horses, while sure-footed and well-groomed, were no longer young stallions. Gansukh was fairly certain his pony could outlast any of the larger Darkhat horses in a long-distance race. While all of the Darkhat carried bows, nearly a quarter of them had quivers that were only half full. And the men themselves? None of them were his age, and, in a less formal setting, he probably would have referred to more than half of them as grandfather.

He ruminated on these details during the remainder of the day, and as the caravan slowly trundled down a gentle slope toward the sunlit meadows of their camp, Gansukh was struck by an odd discrepancy. No one was waiting for them.

It was not a significant social failure. The Khagan had not yet rejoined them, and such pomp was typically reserved for his eyes, but Gansukh found himself wondering why there had not been more riders waiting for them in the valley. Typically, when receiving visitors, an ordu chief would send out his best warriors as escort, and he would greet them himself when they arrived at their destination.

There are no more Darkhat, he realized. The two arban that had met the Khagan at the river were all the Darkhat fighting men. The clan was dying out.

He tried to dismiss this conclusion as the caravan came to a halt and began the lengthy process of settling into camp. Once he had removed his saddle and gear from his horse and performed the remedial tasks of brushing and feeding it, he joined the other men who were clearing the field for the ger. The busy work would keep his hands and mind occupied, so that he would not dwell overlong on the conclusion he had reached.

It wasn’t just the Darkhat clan he kept thinking about; it was the empire as a whole.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Man Who Would Be Pope

Ferenc’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, making him look like a younger Monferrato. “Father Rodrigo!” he gasped, grabbing Ocyrhoe’s arm and pointing excitedly.

Too far away to tell, she signed on his arm, reluctant to believe the evidence of her ears.

Ferenc and Ocyrhoe paused at the edge of a crowd of at least a thousand people, no longer milling and murmuring, but transfixed, all eyes trained on a small man dressed like a priest, standing halfway up a huge mound of rubble, head bowed as if in prayer. Ocyrhoe could not see his face clearly, but he held out something that flashed and gleamed-something brilliant, golden, almost hypnotic in the steady sunlight. The cattlelike lowing sounds had subsided into a profound quiet. Ocyrhoe was used to the city and its busy, noisy throngs, but she was not used to so large a group falling mute all at once, unified in utter silence.

The three adults-Lena, Cardinal Monferrato, and the soldier, Helmuth-came up behind. The Cardinal was breathing heavily through his mouth.

After a long break, the priest on the mound lifted his head and resumed his harangue. His voice rang out clearly over the onlookers and echoed from the far walls.

Ocyrhoe had seen many prophesiers in many marketplaces, but never before had she seen one of them attract this kind of attention. And his words! She shook her head, still unwilling to believe what she was hearing. He was preaching violence.

Ferenc shook his head and exclaimed out loud, “It is Father Rodrigo!” Around them, outliers glared in disapproval and lifted hushing fingers. Oblivious, Ferenc spoke to Helmuth, the one man who could understand his native tongue. “That is the man we have come to Rome to save!”

Helmuth frowned. “We did not come to Rome to save anyone,” he said. “We came to bring Cardinal Monferrato to vote for the Pope.”

Ignoring him, Ferenc turned back to Ocyrhoe. Tell me what Father Rodrigo’s saying, he signed.

Ask Helmuth, she begged off. Too many words. She couldn’t tell Ferenc what the priest was saying.

The Cardinal was staring open-mouthed at the man on the rubble pile. “Who is that?” he demanded. “How is it this boy knows him?”

Ocyrhoe wondered how best to explain. After a deep breath, she began. “It is Father Rodrigo Bendrito, a Roman priest who once lived near Ferenc’s home. Ferenc and Father Rodrigo traveled together to Rome, and then Father Rodrigo was put into seclusion with the Cardinals in the Septizodium. As he is not in the Septizodium, that could mean the others are no longer imprisoned there, either.”

Monferrato closed his eyes a moment, as if hoping to open them to a different, saner reality. “He is preaching a Crusade. He is telling these people to rise up and defend Christendom against the Mongols.”

“I hear what he’s saying as well as you,” Ocyrhoe said. The man’s face pinked. He puffed and looked outraged that she had dared to address him so abruptly. Out of the corner of her eye, Ocyrhoe saw Lena frown. “He was very ill when they arrived here, both physically and mentally,” Ocyrhoe said quickly, trying to find some explanation that the Cardinal would find suitable.

Monferrato blinked owlishly at her, and she shrugged, not sure what else to tell him. She had no idea why the priest was exhorting the crowd to launch a Crusade against the Mongols. It seemed so unlike the kindly-albeit somewhat dazed man-she had met in the Septizodium.

Beside them, Helmuth was translating Rodrigo’s rant to Ferenc, who looked as if he were watching eels do circus tricks. Ocyrhoe felt somewhat mollified; Ferenc couldn’t believe what Father Rodrigo was saying either. He replied to Helmuth in a tone that Ocyrhoe took to be a defense of the priest, and used the word Mohi several times.

Lena started upon hearing the name. She snapped her fingers in front of Ferenc’s face to get his attention and repeated, “Mohi?”

When Ferenc nodded, she turned her attention to Helmuth. “What was he saying?” she demanded.

The Emperor’s guard shuffled nervously, his face pale. “He talks of the battle at Mohi, as if he and the priest were there.” He said something to Ferenc in Magyar, and Ferenc nodded tersely in reply. “They didn’t just witness it,” Helmuth continued. “They were on the battlefield.”

“You poor boy,” Lena said softly. She touched his arm, her fingers dancing lightly across his skin, and Ocyrhoe was surprised when Ferenc pulled away from Lena’s touch.

Lena hesitated for a moment, and then she turned to the others. “The priest and this young man were present at one of the most atrocious battles Christendom has ever witnessed. It was a battle no one should have had to witness-least of all a man of God-and what the priest saw must have driven him mad.” She indicated Ferenc. “With what sanity he had left, he must have asked this boy to bring him back to Rome, perhaps to seek redemption-or whatever peace might be left for him. But now it would appear that his madness has consumed him, and he is infecting the rest of the city.”

She listened intently to Father Rodrigo’s sermon, as if hearing him differently now. She had the same expression on her face that Ocyrhoe had seen previously-her attention both intent and distant.