The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  He had been Gregory’s right-hand man. He had run the College of Cardinals. He had bent the Senator of Rome to his will. He had dirtied his hands for the Church. But what had any of that gained him?

  Gregory had been grooming him; Fieschi had no doubt that the previous Pope had been preparing the way for Sinibaldo Fieschi to become his successor. Perhaps he might even have taken the name of Gregory X. But the Pope had unexpectedly fallen ill during one of the heat waves that perpetually suffocated Rome in late summer. The man had caught a chill—seemingly impossible in the heat—and had died nearly overnight, leaving the Church headless. Between the Mongol threat in the north and the Holy Roman Emperor coming up from the south, it had been nearly impossible to call the Cardinals back to Rome in order to vote.

  He had worked so very hard, trying to keep the Church alive. But no matter how hard he tried, matters kept slipping away from him. First, the country priest who had stumbled into the election and wound up being elected Pope. Then, the matter of the girl and the witch network in Rome—he had warned Orsini the trouble they could cause and he had placed too much faith in the Bear’s ability to contain the witches. They had missed one—one tiny girl!—and she had caused so much grief.

  He pounded his fist against his wooden seat. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself, wallowing in the doubt that had nipped at him earlier in the day when the question of the second election had come up. He was letting these tiny reversals get the better of him. He was letting Frederick get under his skin—the Emperor’s words continuing to echo in his ear, nursing the doubt in his heart. Like a tiny breath that keeps a weak fire alive.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the Grail.

  Had the spirit of God come back? And what were the chances that the Cup of Christ was the only artifact of God’s Grace that had been awakened?

  He suddenly recalled the prophecy the mad priest had been carrying. The scrap of parchment he had taken from Father Rodrigo’s satchel was in his chambers and he recoiled at the thought of someone finding it there. He was going to burn it as soon as he got back to Rome. How he wished he could burn those words out of his mind.

  A new order rises; if it falls, woe to the Church! Battle will be joined, many times over, and faith will be broken.

  Léna found Cardinal Castiglione walking in one of the tiny gardens near the basilica. He was in the company of two other Cardinals: Colonna, the tall missionary who had survived more than one imprisonment; and Capocci, the builder whose shrewd mind was equally at home planning cathedrals as it was putting down insurrections. “Your Eminences,” she said, bowing, as they caught sight of her. “Such a pleasant afternoon for a stroll.”

  “Indeed,” Castiglione said, eyeing her with a modicum of caution. “You are the woman who accompanied Cardinal Monferrato from Frederick’s camp, are you not?”

  “I am, Your Eminence. I am Léna, a—”

  “Binder?” Capocci said.

  She inclined her head. “More often I am simply an ambassador.”

  “For whom?” Capocci pressed her.

  “Does it matter?” she said sweetly.

  Colonna chuckled at her verve, while her words only seemed to cause Castiglione more distress.

  “Do you have a message for me?” the Cardinal asked.

  “No,” Léna said after a moment’s hesitation. “I bear no message for you today.” She cocked her head to one side, studying the three men for a moment. “Do you have one you wish me to carry?”

  “Why would I?” Castiglione asked.

  Léna shrugged. “I have recently seen Cardinal Fieschi. He was in quite a hurry to visit the Holy Roman Emperor.” She noted their reaction, reading the entire power structure of the Church in their faces. Castiglione’s reaction was the one she found the most interesting. The sort of outrage brought about by a lack of control, she thought. When someone you think is under your command makes their own decisions, forgetting to inform you. Which lead to an interesting question: why did Castiglione think Fieschi reported to him?

  “Have you seen the Pope?” she asked innocently, and her question was rewarded with a nervous glance between Colonna and Capocci and further distress from Castiglione.

  Now I see the heart of it, she thought, suppressing a smile. It all comes together now.

  There was still much to do, and many pieces to still move about, but she felt her heart start to thrill at the idea of seeing a gambit come to fruition.

  “I see,” she said in the wake of their awkward silence. She dropped to one knee. “My apologies, Your Holiness.”

  “Get up,” Castiglione said gruffly. “Stop this public abasement.”

  But you didn’t deny it, Léna thought as she stood.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “I thought I had heard that the priest—Father Rodrigo—had been elected, but I must have been mistaken.”

  “You were,” Capocci said quickly.

  “It is a clever ruse,” she added, “letting everyone think this simple man is Pope—long enough to distract the Holy Roman Emperor—and then announcing yourself as the true Pontiff. If Frederick seizes the priest and attempts to ransom him, it is a simple matter to embarrass the Holy Roman Emperor for inventing a Pope and then trying to ransom him back to the Church. He will lose a great deal of face with the leaders of other nations. Why bother excommunicating him—which we both know has had little effect on his efforts to dominate Christendom—when it is easier to publically shame him?”

  “Why indeed?” Capocci noted.

  “Well, Your Eminences, Your Holiness,” she bowed to each of them, “I do not wish to trouble you. You appear to have much to discuss. I am simply on my way to see Senator Orsini. There is a little matter he and I need to clear up. A small matter of unjust imprisonment.”

  She almost laughed at how readily Castiglione took the bait.

  “Unjust imprisonment?” he echoed. A fire sparked in his eye and he stood up a bit straighter. When he spoke to her again, there was a righteous indignation in his words. “Yes, in fact, I do wish you to carry a message for me.”

  Léna smiled. “Give me the message,” she said, invoking the sacred trust of the Binders.

  “I, Goffredo da Castiglione, send a message to—no, let us do this correctly.” He glanced at the other two Cardinals who gave small nods of encouragement. “I”—he cast about for the proper words—“Pope Celestine IV of the Holy Roman Church, send a message to Matteo Rosso Orsini, Senator of Rome...”

  Léna listened the new Pope’s first proclamation, repeating his words back to him at the appropriate intervals. Yes, she thought, this will suffice nicely.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Arrow’s Flight

  Gansukh and Alchiq were spotted before they were able to get high enough on the hill to have a clear shot at the pair of archers behind the boulders. But they were high enough—and close enough—that the two Westerners had to deal with them before they could go back to killing Mongols in the valley. In that sense, they had done all they could to save the Khagan, but as the tall Westerner turned his fearsome bow on them, Gansukh realized his own life was now in mortal danger.

  The long arrows of the Westerner were not deterred by brush or tree trunks less than a hand’s breadth in width. One of the broadhead arrows punched completely through the twisted roots he had been lying behind, the tip scratching his shoulder, and he stared at the razor-sharp arrowhead for a moment. So much power, he thought with a shudder. He scrambled over the roots, diving for the security of a jumble of rock. His shoulders remained clenched during his frantic dash, and even after he was nestled securely behind the rocks, he couldn’t relax. Would the rocks be protection enough?

  The other archer, a gaunt man with black hair and bristling whiskers, had a bow like his and Alchiq’s. Deadly enough, and Gansukh couldn’t ignore him entirely, but the real target was the tall man.

  Gansukh laid another arrow across his bow as he slowly peered around the edge of his shelter. Alchiq’s bow sang behin
d him, and he risked a glance as Alchiq’s arrow flew toward its target. He could see the edge of a man’s cloak, fluttering behind the rocks. He stood, held his breath for a second—waiting—and then released his arrow. He snatched another arrow for his quiver, laid it across the notch, pulled the string and released. The fluttering cloth was still there, and his second arrow pinned it to the ground.

  He ducked down, duck-walked to his left as far as he could without exposing himself, readied another arrow, and rose to his feet again. He exhaled, staring at the wild eyes of the black-haired man for a second as he looked up from tugging at his pinned cloak, and then Gansukh released his arrow.

  Even as the arrow flew from his bow, he knew it was going to miss. The man was leaning to his left, straining against his pinned cloak. Gansukh reached for another arrow, got it nocked, and was starting to pull the string back when the tall man stood up. Gansukh released early—much too early—and his arrow flipped out of his bow like a feather flying off a duck’s back. The man convulsed his body, a strange motion that made sense to Gansukh as soon as he saw what it accomplished, and then Gansukh was throwing himself to the ground to avoid the tall man’s long arrow.

  Hands and chest pressed against the ground, breath stirring up dust, Gansukh stared up at the arrow quivering in the rock upslope of him. The head wasn’t buried deep in the stone, but enough that the arrow stood out straight. It quivered, as if were an angry wasp trying to sting the rock to death.

  “Again,” Alchiq hissed at him from a spot above and to his left.

  “You first,” Gansukh whispered back, still transfixed by the rock-piercing arrow.

  The horses were scattering, and by his count, Rædwulf had killed six. Istvan had killed the horse of the one they thought was the Khagan, and he had almost put an arrow into that man’s purple jacket. Almost.

  Rædwulf knew that if he didn’t manage to kill the Khagan in the first few seconds, he probably wouldn’t get the opportunity. Their location was far enough from the bear’s cave that hitting a moving target—one that was doing its best to evade his arrows—was going to be very difficult. As soon as the hunting party dissolved into a confused mass of horses and men, he gave up trying for the Khagan. He focused on the slow-moving ones. And the horses. If they had to walk or run, it meant they stayed in range longer. He would have more time to kill them.

  Except for the pair of archers who had climbed up to the bear’s cave. He had glimpsed white hair on one, and he knew, without a doubt, that it was Alchiq. He knew what they were going to do, and he told Istvan to keep an eye on them. Let them think they are getting close, he had said. And then we’ll deal with them.

  They had gone upslope though, which presented a bit of a problem, but it wasn’t an insurmountable issue. He would have to break off shooting at the men and horses to deal with them.

  He tracked one last target, a tall man with a flowing beard astride a beautiful black horse, and with a twinge of guilt, he put an arrow in the horse’s flank. He grinned as both horse and rider went down, the man’s leg pinned to the horse’s flank by his arrow.

  Istvan cursed, and Rædwulf glanced over his shoulder. The Hungarian was pulling at his cloak, which appeared to be caught on something. Istvan stopped suddenly, raising his head and looking behind upslope. Rædwulf threw himself toward the rocks as another arrow whistled down from above. Istvan grunted as the arrow sliced through the meat of his arm.

  Rædwulf turned, his hands positioning an arrow on his bow with unconscious alacrity. He drew the string of his longbow back, sighted, and when the Mongol he was aiming at fumbled his arrow, he loosed his own shaft with a sigh.

  He was impressed at the speed with which the Mongol dropped out of sight.

  Setting another arrow across his bow, he stepped to his right and kicked at the arrow pinning Istvan’s cloak to the ground. The arrow snapped off, and he stepped forward into a wide stance with his left foot. He was out from behind the rock, but he had a clear view of the hillside. If either of the two Mongols moved, he would put an arrow right through them.

  He hoped it would be Alchiq.

  The Mongols rose together, and for a second he hesitated, torn between targets. Letting a blasphemous curse slip, he loosed his arrow, aiming for the gray-haired bastard who had dogged them endlessly, and then he tried to move back to the protection of the rock.

  He made it, but something slammed into his right hip and he leaned back against the stone, teeth clenched against the ribbon of fire running up his side.

  A Mongol arrow jutted out of his hip, and when he moved, it moved too. It had pierced the flat bone, and would be hard to get out.

  “Istvan,” he snarled, looking around for the Hungarian. The other man wasn’t there, and Rædwulf wasted a few precious seconds wondering where he had gone. Had he fled? Had he been hit as well and tumbled down the hillside?

  It doesn’t matter, he told himself, returning his attention to the arrow in his hip. He had to get it out. It was going to interfere with his shooting. He gripped the shaft, and a fresh wave of pain slammed through his body. Break it off, he commanded his hands. There isn’t time to pull it out.

  With a savage chop of his hand, he snapped the shaft of the arrow off, and the resulting pain brought tears to his eyes. He threw his head back against the rock, gasping for breath, straining against the vibrant colors that threatened to block his vision. The pain ebbed, and he could move his hip now without debilitating agony.

  He reached for his bow, which had slipped to the ground next to the rocks. Bending was difficult, but he managed to hook his fingers around the horn end of the bow and tug it toward him. Just as he was maneuvering himself back upright, he heard the crunching noise of a boot against loose rock.

  Alchiq stood above him, not ten paces away. His bow was drawn and the tip of the arrow was pointed at Rædwulf’s heart.

  The tall Englishman didn’t flinch as the gray-haired Mongol released his arrow. It flew straight and true, and he heard it hit its target. So this is what it feels like... and then all sense and meaning passed.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  The Guan Do

  The battle had left the field near the gate, and Rutger slowly made his way toward the distant peaks of the Khan’s pavilion. His heart was alternating between racing and standing still, and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. The index finger of his left hand refused to bend, and he tore a long strip of cloth off the shirt of a dead Mongol. He couldn’t get his gauntlet off, not by himself, and it would probably have to be cut free of his hand. In the meantime, all he could do was immobilize the finger as much as possible to prevent the pain from being too unbearable. He wound the cloth tightly around his hand, clenching his teeth against bursts of pain that made his hand twitch.

  A pair of chargers emerged from the smoke on his right, sweeping across the field. When the riders spotted Rutger, they changed their course, heading toward him. They wore the white and black, respectively, of the Templar and Hospitaller Orders, and as they reined their animals to a stop, Rutger recognized the two Masters. “The enemy has been broken,” Emmeran called out in way of greeting. No amount of dirt and blood could completely obscure the pleased expression on his florid face. He brought his horse close to Rutger and leaned over.

  Rutger took the extended hand with his left, and Emmeran had the grace to offer a compassionate nod when he caught sight of the dirty cloth wrapped around Rutger’s right hand. There was a long bloody smear down the left side of Leuthere’s surcoat, and based on the tiny rip in the white cloth, Rutger surmised the granite-faced Templar had taken an arrow to the ribs.

  “They’re in a panic,” Leuthere said, “nothing more than a rabble. There is no organization to them, and unhorsed...” He shrugged, as if the fight between an armored knight and a Mongol on foot was no contest worth mentioning.

  “What of Onghwe, their Khan?” Rutger asked. “Is he dead?” He waved his bandaged hand in the direction he had been heading.

 
Emmeran’s face lost some of its enthusiasm. “Those of the enemy who still have spirit left have fallen back to protect their master, but they will not withstand our assault for long,” he said.

  “But has anyone seen him?” Rutger pressed. “Has anyone confirmed that Onghwe is even in his pavilion? If he senses the battle goes against him, he will flee. Have we accounted for all of his commanders? If any of them still live, they could be providing a cover for the Khan’s escape.”

  Emmeran and Leuthere exchanged a quick glance, and Rutger felt an icy hand clutch his chest. “Who?” he demanded.

  Leuthere shook his head angrily and jerked his horse’s head around. The Templar master galloped off, leaving Emmeran to answer Rutger’s question.

  “The commander of the party who went to your chapter house,” Emmeran explained. “We did not find his body among those at the bridge. We suspect he made it across the river.”

  “Where is he?” Rutger shouted, even as he realized the Hospitaller did not know the answer. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If the Khan escaped and managed to flee back to the main Mongolian army at Mohi, he would return with a host many times larger than the force he had commanded at Hünern. The people of Hünern could flee, but that would only exacerbate Onghwe’s rage, and Rutger knew the Khan would pillage and burn everything until his bloodlust was satisfied.

  Breaking the Mongol grip on Hünern was an impossible feat—one so very nearly in their grasp—but without the death of Onghwe, their efforts would amount to little more than waking a slumbering bear.

  They might win the day, but Christendom would only be even more imperiled by their actions.

  “My men are scouring the camp,” Emmeran said. “There is no way out but through the main gate. Even if some of the Mongols manage to escape, we will have weeks to hunt them down.” The Hospitaller shook his head, a grim smile on his lips. “But the Khan will not escape.”