The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  Cnán let loose a tiny cry of frustration. Completely stubborn, she thought. Just like Feronantus.

  “They are my friends,” Haakon said. “They are my family.”

  She glared at him. Was that not the same reason she had defied Feronantus to stay behind and rescue Haakon? Had she not—over the long journey from the West—come to think of the Shield-Brethren as family? She couldn’t find fault in Haakon using the same reasoning in his argument.

  “Fine,” she snapped. She pointed at Lian. “What about her?”

  Krasniy laid a large hand on the Chinese woman’s shoulder. “She can be with me,” he said, a broad grin on his face.

  Lian tossed her hair back from her shoulder and smiled up at the giant man. Cnán was unsure whether Lian had been able to follow their argument, but she could tell from the anger in the woman’s eyes that Lian understood the meaning of Krasniy’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Come on,” she said with a hint of resignation. She turned and started to weave her way through the woods.

  This whole rescue was turning out to be much different from what she had planned.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  An Imperial Breakfast

  Frederick squinted at the pair who had interrupted his breakfast. “You seem to have traded down,” he said to wide-eyed Ferenc. “We gave you a Cardinal and you have brought us back a mere priest. And where is the rest of your posse?”

  “Your Majesty, he doesn’t understand you,” the priest said in a grandfatherly voice.

  Frederick sighed. “I know. You were not present for the farce yesterday, a tedium exacerbated by the fact that even as I was being excommunicated—again—the Cardinals were electing a new Pope. I have heard there was white smoke sighted. Are you here to inform me of the identity of the new Pope?”

  “I am, Your Majesty,” the priest said.

  Frederick waited for the priest to continue. “And that man is...”

  “I am he,” the priest said. “The new Pope.”

  Frederick started to smirk, but upon noticing the unblinking sternness of the priest’s expression, he delicately raised a hand to hide his amusement. “Of course you are,” he said. “Obviously.” He spread his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Splendid. Well, here you are, already coming to give me grief,” he said, a mocking tone creeping into his voice.

  The priest gave him a puzzled look. “You do me a disservice, Your Majesty, in thinking my intentions are malign.”

  “Ah, a benign papal visit then. And so early in your reign. To what do we owe this honor?” Frederick asked. He signaled a servant waiting by the tent flap, and made a gesture demanding wine. He leaned back in his carved wooden chair. “I do wish you spoke Italian or German,” he said in Ferenc’s direction. “It would be nice to get a second opinion as to whether I should believe this story or not.”

  “Ferenc is a good boy,” the priest said as if protecting him. “He would not tell you anything unless I gave him permission. So you may as well just talk to me directly.”

  “Very well then,” Frederick replied. “This comedy continues. I have no other choice but to play my role in this, do I?” When the priest did not answer, Frederick continued. “Have you selected a name for yourself, or is there a Christian name your mother gave you that still suffices?”

  “Rodrigo,” the priest said with a tiny bow of his head. “Rodrigo Bendrito.”

  “Well met, Rodrigo Bendrito. Or would you prefer Your Holiness?”

  The priest demurred responding, offering a much more pious and humble nod of his head instead.

  “I shall split the difference then,” Frederick offered. “Tell me, Father, what brings you here.”

  “We are paying our respects.”

  Frederick laughed. “You don’t know my history with the Church, do you? It is amusing, admittedly, to have the Pope here, in my tent, offering respect when he is so newly anointed, but you must understand that I am more than a little reticent to believe such a statement.” He waved a hand at Ferenc. “Your companion can tell you. He was witness to my most recent excommunication.”

  Father Rodrigo’s face lost some of its serenity. “The Church has lost its way,” he said quietly. “I do not cling to what it was. I have seen...” He shook himself as if he was shrugging off a heavy blanket. “I do not believe in your prior transgressions,” he said.

  Frederick blinked. “Are you un-excommunicating me?” he asked. He glanced at Ferenc, who seemed both oblivious to their conversation and pleased that they were talking. “You’re no help,” Frederick noted.

  He sat forward in his chair, returning his attention to Father Rodrigo. “This is a most curious turn of events,” he said. “And suddenly, I find myself being drawn into your delirium. If you are indeed Pope, what a marvelous thing it would be to discover a friend in Rome. So, yes, tell me. Is there any reason other than a mutual exchange of respect that brings you into my camp?”

  The priest reached for his satchel as if to reassure himself of its contents. “I have been called to service by God. I must raise an army against the infidels. I seek to call a crusade.”

  “In person?” Frederick asked incredulously. “Usually one sends bishops and priests out to do that sort of ugly legwork.”

  “I believe my appearance is the only way to move people to action: show them I am doing, myself, what I think they should be doing. I moved a great many people in Rome yesterday, and I intend to move others as I travel.”

  “I see, I see,” Frederick said, nodding. He crossed his arms, then slumped back farther in the chair and crossed his legs. He stared intensely at Father Rodrigo, his mind a welter of thoughts. Was this man as barmy as he seemed, or was he truly the new Pope? There was an intensity to the priest’s gaze and he spoke his words with an equal fervor. But he had also met zealots like this before, and even though they believed—so very ardently—that they spoke God’s truth, so many of them had found only an ugly death. “And may I ask, since the boy cannot understand me, what has happened to the Cardinal I released yesterday?” he asked, mainly to give himself another few moments to think. Had Léna a hand in this?

  “Oh, yes, that sounds familiar.” Father Rodrigo said. He turned to Ferenc, and they had a brief exchange in Magyar. Then Father Rodrigo turned back to Frederick. “Cardinal Oddone de Monferrato, would it be?”

  “The very same,” said Frederick. “He was to be the tiebreaker in the papal vote.”

  “They voted before he arrived,” Father Rodrigo explained. “Apparently it was quite a surprise when I won.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Frederick laughed. The page boy reentered with a flagon of wine and three cups. The Emperor pointed to a camp table deeper inside the tent, and the boy crossed to it and began to pour the wine. “And how did you come to be a candidate?”

  “I have no idea,” Father Rodrigo said. “When Ferenc and I arrived in Rome, I was mistaken for a Cardinal and tossed into the Septizodium. I was sick and weak, and I cannot account for anything that happened there.”

  “But apparently somebody decided to put you forth as a candidate.”

  “I don’t know who, or why,” Father Rodrigo said. Frederick studied his face. Barmy or not, the priest radiated calm sincerity.

  “I realize the vote is in confidence, but have you a sense of who your allies were?”

  “Oh, yes. The kindest man of all was killed in the fire—”

  “What?” Frederick demanded.

  “There was a fire in the Septizodium, an unexpected blaze that released us from our prison. Sadly it also released Robert of Somercotes from this mortal coil entirely.”

  Frederick uncrossed his arms and legs and sat up very straight. “What the fuck has been happening in that godforsaken city?” he demanded.

  The priest remained calm. “I believe the fire may have been set deliberately as a way to force the issue of the election, perhaps, or for more nefarious reasons. Once rescued, we were all moved to a horse stable, and from there to Saint Pet
er’s, where the Cardinals elected me to be the next Bishop of Rome. But they wanted to keep me locked up. They would not let me speak to my flock, and so I had to run away.”

  Frederick stared at him, wide-eyed. “This is the most goddamned improbable story I believe I have heard in my life,” he declared. “And that is saying a lot, my friend.”

  Father Rodrigo nodded amicably. “Yes, it does have the sense of a dream, doesn’t it? I have wondered myself, but having recently been infected with dreams, I know now that I am awake. So very wide awake. And my health has been restored, allowing me to carry out my mission.”

  Frederick pursed his lips together, struggling to find a rational explanation for the priest’s presence and story. It beggared comprehension, but... he couldn’t ignore what Léna had told him prior to her departure from his camp. Opportunities will present themselves. Take care that you recognize them.

  He signaled to the boy for his wine cup. “I will ask you about your mission in a moment,” he said, “But first let us return to my first question: tell me about your supporters. Besides the English Cardinal, who befriended you?”

  Father Rodrigo smiled as if nostalgic. “Most of the Cardinals were very pleasant to me. Two fellows named Colonna and Capocci especially took me under their wings, so to speak—”

  “Indeed?” So we have the same friends, Frederick thought. Or at least, your friends are not my enemies.

  “Yes, and there is Cardinal Fieschi. He is most attentive,” Father Rodrigo concluded carefully.

  That made no sense at all. Fieschi and Colonna would never be on the same side of any issue. Frederick frowned, and dismissed the boy offering wine.

  “Fieschi? Sinibaldo Fieschi? You are sure of that?” Frederick said. “If both Fieschi and Colonna are your allies, I’m pretty damn sure that one of them is not actually your ally, but wants you to think he is.”

  “Which do you think is not my ally?” Father Rodrigo asked, a curious cunning in his eyes.

  What am I supposed to read in his face? Frederick found himself wondering. The priest continued to surprise him with these alternating moods. He appeared harmless, a simple priest struck daft by some beatific vision he thought he had had; but at other moments, there were these flashes of a deep intelligence and passion.

  “The fire in the Septizodium,” he said carefully. “You said it was unexpected. Unexpected for you, perhaps, but not for everyone.”

  “Ignis succensus est in furore meo,” Father Rodrigo said.

  Frederick couldn’t help himself and rolled his eyes. “God, you priests and your Scripture. Yes, I get it. The fire was born out of someone’s anger, but whose?” He stared at the priest. “Somercotes died in the Septizodium,” he mused. “Who benefited from that accident? Orsini, for one. Somercotes was English, hardly an advocate for a Roman Pope. Did he have men set that fire to cover up some other nefarious deed? Or did he have a man inside?”

  “Et ardebit usque ad inferni novissima,” Father Rodrigo said quietly.

  The fire that burns in the lowest pit of Hell, Frederick thought, still considering whether to believe what the priest was suggesting. He held his hand out. “I’ll take the wine now, boy.” The page immediately held out the chalice. Frederick drank it off in one gulp and handed back the cup. “Have some wine,” he said, gesturing to the other two cups. He looked directly at Ferenc and repeated the gesture.

  As the two visitors rose and crossed to the table, Frederick carefully considered what the priest was suggesting. The fire in the Septizodium had been set on purpose, mostly likely to hide the suspicious death of Cardinal Somercotes. Did he know who committed the heinous crime? he wondered, and of what use was that knowledge—to the priest, to him?

  He had his doubts about the man’s claim to being the Pontiff-elect, but he also knew to keep an open mind for such a possibility. The machinations of kings and caliphs and popes affected all of Christendom, and a vast portion of his duties as Holy Roman Emperor were to understand these games better than anyone else. He had learned, long ago, to keep an eye out for the chaotic oddity that might change the rules. In the case of Father Rodrigo—madman or Pope—what was he supposed to do? The priest wanted to engage in this foolhardy business of all-out war? He doubted the man could actually accomplish the goal he sought, but what he thought meant little. What mattered more was the Church’s reaction, and Frederick strongly suspected the Church—if any of what the man said was true—would want to lock him up somewhere, against his will, to keep him from discrediting the Church with his public declarations.

  When they finished their wine, Ferenc and Father Rodrigo returned to their stools. Frederick noticed that the boy had left his cup beside the decanter, while the priest still held on to his. His fingers tapped against its rim, and he was unaware of the noise he was making.

  “Two more questions for you,” Frederick asked. “First, this foreign boy that’s with you—”

  “Ferenc,” Father Rodrigo said affectionately; Ferenc turned nervously toward him. Father Rodrigo made a soothing gesture and murmured something in Ferenc’s language. “He was with me at Mohi, and he accomp—”

  “Jesus Christ, you were at Mohi? Having seen that, you still want to call a crusade?” Frederick asked, eyes widening. “That settles it, you’re definitely mad.”

  “I believe I was, Your Majesty, but I have been healed by God’s grace,” Father Rodrigo replied evenly.

  “So you came from Mohi with this feral creature,” Frederick prompted. “You were thrown into the Septizodium—”

  “Yes, and he tried to rescue me with the assistance of a waif of a girl, Osie... Osie-someone.”

  “Ocyrhoe,” Ferenc said promptly.

  “Yes,” Frederick said. “I’ve met her. Archetypal urchin, not what I go for. I sent Ocyrhoe and Ferenc to the Septizodium in the company of three normal adults—a Cardinal, a soldier, and a woman. Where are they?” Seeing the priest’s expression, he mentally expressed his displeasure—mainly to keep from profaning God that much in front of the priest—and pointed at Ferenc. “Ask him,” he snapped.

  The priest and the boy had a brief exchange, as Frederick kept moving the pieces around in his mind. The man had to be deranged, however pacific his exterior behavior.

  Father Rodrigo turned his attention back to the Emperor. “When they arrived at Saint Peter’s, Ferenc and Ocyrhoe were allowed to have a private audience with me. Ferenc has not seen the others since then. Ocyrhoe stayed behind after she helped us to escape.”

  “Your story grows more fucking bizarre with each utterance,” Frederick said. “I’ll have to thank Fieschi for the entertainment next time I see him.”

  “You’re not going to send me back to him, are you?” asked Father Rodrigo, worry darkening his face for the first time.

  Frederick looked at him and thought about all the possible ways there were to answer that. “Of course not, Your Holiness,” he said at last. He turned and signaled to the boy standing by the entrance of his tent. “Before we discuss what is to happen to you, let’s eat, shall we?” He mimed eating to Ferenc, who perked up and nodded. “It is much easier to make important decisions with a full belly,” he said.

  Father Rodrigo nodded absently, his empty hands resting lightly on his satchel.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Unexpected Allies

  On the other side of the open field, the Mongols massed. They outnumbered the Shield-Brethren at the gate by no small number, but they appeared to be in no hurry to assault the gate again. Behind the roiling mob of infantry, horsemen rode, parading back and forth. Rallying the men, Rutger thought.

  “That’s a lot of Mongols,” Knútr observed. The blocky Shield-Brethren had lost his helmet during the initial fracas and the right side of his head was sticky with blood. He grinned, and Rutger noticed one of his pupils was larger than the other. “They seem a bit... nervous.”

  Knútr was correct in his assessment. The Mongol vanguard jeered and shouted at the Shield-Brethren, trying t
o goad the knights. Rutger didn’t understand any of the insults being shouted, but he was familiar with training-yard bullying. They were afraid, and all the bluster in the world couldn’t hide the fact that their superior numbers were not decisive enough an advantage for them to press the attack.

  Rutger knew they would come eventually. The men on horseback were shouting at the infantry, whipping them into a frenzy. Calling them cowards, unworthy dogs that were an embarrassment to their Khan. How could they face their families, their fathers, if they ran from this meager band of nameless knights? Rutger knew what was being said. He had used the same words himself. Bolster their courage. Call upon their sense of duty. Inflame their rage.

  The Mongols would come again. They had no choice in the end.

  The cart had been hauled to one side of the gate, and the dead horses (along with a number of Mongol corpses) to the other, forming a definite channel around the gate. The Mongols would have to funnel into it in order to attack the Shield-Brethren; it was an ancient tactic that had been used successfully over and over again. Reduce the killing field so as to strip away the enemy’s advantage of numbers.

  Rutger dimly remembered a siege in the Holy Land—he couldn’t even recall the name of the castle now—that had lasted six weeks. The Muslims breached the wall twice, but each time the defenders had managed to beat the invaders back, inflicting such grievous casualties that the Muslim morale quailed. It took the Muslim Sultan so long to reestablish control of his army that the Christian engineers had been able to reseal the breaches. Eventually reinforcements from Jerusalem had arrived, and the Sultan had fled.

  Reinforcements. Nodding, Rutger looked over his shoulder, scanning the open ground outside the walls for signs of movement. Where were they?

  With a ragged howl, the Mongols came again. Spears and arrows flew in advance of the angry mob, and Rutger heard a coughing gurgle off to his left as one of the hurled spears found a target. “Stand and hold,” he shouted, his voice ragged and hoarse. He forced his fingers to tighten around the hilt of his sword as he readied himself for the charge. It was only the boon of battle fervor that made the pain in his hands tolerable.