by Mark Teppo
Fieschi made a disgusted sound and turned back toward de Segni. “I approached him when he was delirious. I took his satchel from him. What little we know about the man we know because of me. If I had walked across the courtyard to get close to him today, it would have been obvious, even to him, that I was up to something. Somercotes and I would have gotten into a veritable tug-of-war and torn his arms off. Whereas you had managed to approach him as if in innocent greeting, welcoming him to our special little hell, offering assistance and introduction. And then you handed him over to the enemy!” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I ever considered putting you forward as a candidate.”
De Segni stiffened. “I would have made a better choice than your precious Bonaventura.”
Fieschi’s nostrils flared, and the whites of his eyes flashed in the torchlight. “I swear, if you waver in your support of Bonaventura, you will find a scorpion in your bed.”
De Segni held up his hands as if warding off a blow. “Of course he’ll get my vote, Fieschi. That doesn’t mean I approve of him.” More bitterly, and softer, he added, “At least it isn’t you I have to vote for.”
Fieschi’s face, which had been florid with anger until that moment, was suddenly unreadable. Incompetency distressed him; insults did not touch him. “You have just demonstrated why you would have made a poor candidate for Pontiff,” he said, almost triumphantly. “It takes a selfish, petty man to choose a Bishop of Rome according to the candidate’s personality. There are important issues at stake, and we cannot afford to indulge our egos or our personal preferences. I am not fond of Bonaventura myself-”
“You’re not fond of anyone, Fieschi,” de Segni interrupted, in full control of his disdain now, “except yourself.”
Fieschi shook his head slightly, slowly. “This is precisely the petty bickering that Frederick’s men want us to devolve to. Rise above it, Rinaldo. Now.”
He turned on his heel and stalked out of de Segni’s room.
As much as he despised Robert of Somercotes, he respected him, as an able enemy ought to be respected. Somercotes had snatched a quick and easy victory away from Bonaventura; the Englishman had quickly mustered the necessary voices to put Castiglione forward as a challenging candidate, and now the two factions were deadlocked. It enraged Fieschi that so many cardinals would consider voting for a man whose will would bend not to the Church but to the Holy Roman Emperor-somehow Somercotes had intellectually seduced them into it. One candidate or the other would need a two-thirds majority to become the next leader of the Catholic Church. That meant eight votes, now that this mysterious priest brought their number to an even dozen. The new arrival was the fulcrum upon which to rest the necessary lever to pry loose the undecided cardinals. But damned Robert of Somercotes knew that as well and had clung to the priest like a leech, seldom out of his company and never out of his sight.
“I heard you cry out in your sleep,” Somercotes said gently, sliding the damp cloth from Rodrigo’s forehead to the back of his neck. “I have some knowledge of physics, but the guards will not allow my medicines to be brought in. Fieschi is afraid I will drug my fellow cardinals to bring them under my sway.” He laughed bitterly. “At this point, I admit, I would be sorely tempted to do so if my simples really had such power.”
Rodrigo shook his head. His hair was drenched in sweat, and he still trembled from his nightmare. Somercotes’s voice was soothing, but the words rolled over him with as much meaning as a gentle surf. “I don’t understand,” he managed to say.
“And you are the luckier for it,” Somercotes said peaceably. “Here, try to sit up. We have nothing to give you but water, until they bring the next meal, but try at least to sip a little more.” He held out the wooden cup to the priest. Rodrigo looked at it warily, uncertain he could hold it without spilling all the contents.
“I’ll help you,” Somercotes said at once, understanding his expression. The cardinal solicitously held the cup up to Rodrigo’s dry lips, and the priest parted them to let the water slosh over his tongue. He swallowed quickly and, on reflex, inclined his head toward the cup, wanting more. Somercotes tipped it slightly higher, his free hand behind Rodrigo’s head for steadiness. Rodrigo swallowed again, then shivered and sagged back against the stone wall. He was glad the nightmare was over, but he would rather have been dead than awake.
“I must understand,” he said, his voice harsh and ragged.
“Are you unfamiliar with the means by which a new Pope is elected?” Somercotes asked, leaning forward. He set the cup on the floor. Rodrigo, glancing at it, remembered the scorpion that had scuttled across that same part of the floor moments earlier. He wondered if he should tell Somercotes.
“The sede vacante,” Somercotes continued.
“Yes,” Rodrigo said, stirring out of his reverie. “There is no Bishop of Rome. We must elect another one. I understand this process.”
“We are deadlocked,” Somercotes said. He regarded Rodrigo warily still, as if there were questions he wanted to ask but was not sure if he wanted to hear the answers. “Neither candidate has enough votes. We are imprisoned here until one of the two-Castiglione or Bonaventura-is elected.”
“And then that one is Pope,” Rodrigo said to himself. “And to that man I may deliver my message.”
“What message is that?” Somercotes demanded, his voice suddenly sharper.
Rodrigo, eyes glassy, kept staring at the floor. “It is not for your ears, and you should rejoice at that mercy.”
“From whom does it come?” Somercotes pressed, in a more careful tone.
Rodrigo shook his head, exhausted.
“Is it from the Emperor or Orsini?” Somercotes asked. He used an either-or inflection that confused Rodrigo, so Rodrigo ignored the question.
But then he sat up a little straighter as a thought struck him. “I want to meet the two candidates,” he announced. Surely given the momentous message he carried, the unspeakable significance of it, the angry angels from Mohi would show him which was meant to be the true Bishop of Rome, and he could unburden himself at once, without waiting for the technicalities of investiture. There was no time for such trivial rituals now.
Somercotes cleared his throat. “The candidates themselves are mere men. What matters is the values they embody, their devotion to the divine Will.”
Rodrigo nodded, his eyes suddenly clearing. “That’s why I must meet them,” he said. “I must see which one the divine Will has chosen.”
Somercotes opened his mouth to argue with the logic of this, then shut it again quickly. “How can you see that before it has happened?” he asked, trying a different tactic.
Suddenly, finally, Rodrigo met his gaze. “I will be able to see it. You cannot imagine what I…see.”
Somercotes relented. “Very well,” he said. “Afterward, perhaps, you can tell me more of your message and how you came to be here.”
“Perhaps,” Rodrigo whispered. And then his eyes turned away again, the glassiness returning.
Ocyrhoe always kept a stub of candle rolled in her belt, but she had no way to light it, so the first hundred yards or so had been in total blackness. Now that they had finally descended the steep stairway-thirty-two steps, she counted-it was a little easier. They had gripped hands, harder than they needed to, and with Ferenc in front, they felt their way along the left-hand rock wall, cool and musty.
He stopped suddenly where a passage opened up. The air moved slightly toward them, and his sharp nose picked up human scents. He let go of Ocyrhoe’s hand, grabbed her wrist, and signaled, “This way.” They grasped hands again and, still in absolute darkness and silence, moved slowly forward.
Ocyrhoe wondered if Ferenc realized how unprepared she was for this so-called rescue attempt. She hoped he was not relying on her to know some secret trick. She had none. He now knew as much as she did about where they were-more, perhaps, with his tracking skills. She knew only the myths and hearsay of the city and of history; he knew what his heightened senses told
him, and she trusted them more than the whispered rumors of ignorant locals.
After some twenty paces, Ferenc stopped suddenly and released her hand, only to take her wrist and move swift fingers over her skin. She had difficulty counting the fingers in the dark, but context supplied some of the words. “Two men ahead,” he informed her. She was surprised; she could not hear a thing. “Around the corner. Light.”
She jerked her head aside to look past him and saw the slightest, faintest hint of a blackness less absolute than the blackness they’d been walking through. “Follow,” Ferenc signed, then took her fingers again. She followed him, step for step, ashamed to be relieved he was in front of her.
As they sidled forward along the wall, the patch ahead grew gray, and then a grayish amber. Soon she could hear sounds, but not voices. The sounds confused her; they were the blunt noises of construction, or perhaps of mining, a rhythmic, soft percussive sound, like someone digging. And then voices, but not speaking-the occasional grunt of effort, a heavy sigh.
Soon it was clear to her what Ferenc must have realized when he first stopped: just ahead of them, on the right side of this tunnel, there was a corner turning off to another tunnel, and it was from there the sound and soft light came. Ferenc paused again and then let go of the wall, pulling her gently over toward the far side of the subterranean corridor. She reached out her free hand until it touched the rock to her right-but here it was not rock. It smelled earthier and felt more like hard-packed clay or soil. Again, she followed Ferenc step for step as they approached the corner.
He stopped just before they reached it and turned toward her. She could barely make out his silhouette as the light from down the tunnel spilled out weakly behind him. He resumed signing along her wrist. “Two men. Large. Not young. Twenty-five paces away,” he spelled out laboriously. “Dangerous?”
Now she took his wrist. “I don’t know,” she replied. She felt him stiffen. He must be realizing only now that, despite her impetuosity, she was not the expert here. “Maybe priest prisoners,” she signed. “Maybe.”
After a hesitation, he fingered, “Let’s go,” and turned back toward the corner.
He stepped around it. She followed him.
Ahead of them were two large men in ragged cloaks or gowns-ruined finery, she guessed, so possibly two of the imprisoned cardinals. The burlier one, with a huge beard, was attacking the wall. At the moment she saw him, he seemed to have just shoved a spike into the compacted earth, and then he dropped the spike and began to claw his way into the small hole it had made with his bare hands so that flakes and clumps of dirt fell away. He stood on a pile of debris that rose above his ankles. The other man, thinner but taller, stood on the far side of him, holding the torch. His face was more visible than the bearded man’s; he looked not only relaxed but actually delighted by his partner’s progress.
“Go?” Ferenc asked on Ocyrhoe’s wrist.
She had no idea; she was almost annoyed with him for making her decide. “Yes,” she tapped back finally. They were here to find the priest; they would not find him by avoiding people who probably knew where he was.
Ocyrhoe and Ferenc were both so soft of foot, and the two men ahead of them so intent on their activity, that they crept very close before the one holding the torch glanced up and noticed them. They froze. He blinked, frowned in confusion, and then grinned.
“Capocci,” he said amiably. “Soft. We have an audience.” He spoke in Italian.
The one named Capocci grunted, “Eh? What?” and straightened up from his labor. The torchbearer gestured into the fading light. As Capocci’s shadowed face turned toward them, Ocyrhoe said quickly, in the same dialect the torchbearer had used, “We are friends, seeking another friend.”
Capocci chuckled. “Did you hear that, Colonna? They’re only friends.”
“Friends of whom?” Colonna asked, as if this were a casual afternoon chat with fellow passersby at a market.
“Father Rodrigo,” Ocyrhoe said, a hint of defiance in her voice. The two men sobered immediately. Capocci took a step back, staggering over the pile of dirt he’d amassed around his feet. Now he was level with Colonna, and four dark, searching eyes glistened in the torchlight at the young duo.
“Father Rodrigo? How interesting,” Colonna said after an appraising pause. “Well, you certainly look the part; you’re both even more ragged than he was when he got here.”
“Is he alive?” Ocyrhoe asked, forcing her voice to remain dispassionate. “Is he well?”
“Alive but not well,” Capocci answered. “We’re curious about your curiosity.”
Ferenc grabbed her wrist. “What are they saying?” he demanded. She brushed his hand away.
“Can you take us to him?” Ocyrhoe asked. “In exchange, we will show you a way out of here so you do not have to dig yourselves out.”
The two men exchanged glances, and then their faces softened with mirth. “What, this?” Capocci said, gesturing with his filthy hands to his destruction. “I do this for exercise.”
“We’ve already dug two others,” Colonna explained. “And we know about Fieschi’s exit. Is that how you got in here? It’s only guarded after sundown.”
“No surprise you have nothing to offer us,” Capocci concluded cheerfully. “But don’t let that stop you from trying to convince us to help you. I could certainly use a new distraction, couldn’t you?”
“Absolutely,” said Colonna heartily. “In fact, I personally thank God you’ve come. What is it you want, exactly?”
It was spectacularly ill-advised to go to Orsini’s home in broad daylight. Fieschi knew that. But he also knew that Robert of Somercotes had let himself into the new priest’s room and blocked the door behind him. He knew from listening at the crack of the door that they were talking, or at least that Somercotes was; the sick priest sounded perhaps delirious again, or at least deeply distracted. Fieschi knew exactly what he wanted to do, but he knew better than to undertake it without first consulting Orsini. Waiting until darkness might be safer-but Somercotes moved fast. There was no way to ensure the Englishman would not have rallied the priest, and by extension the entire swing vote of the College of Cardinals, before sunset. Damn Rinaldo for letting Somercotes steal him, he said to himself for the thirtieth time in an hour. A vital opportunity had been thrown away because de Segni wanted to be the first to get his morning meal. Fool. Selfish, lazy, shortsighted fool. Like all the rest of them.
He decided to risk being recognized. After he stalked away from de Segni’s room, he pulled off his cardinal’s robe and hurled it into his own chamber as he walked past; underneath, he wore a simple priest’s robe, so perhaps he could disappear into the midday market crowds, anonymous. He grabbed the torch outside his room, which demarked the limits of habitation along this particular tunnel.
He walked on into the darkness, to the second empty room along the corridor, which had a broken beam blocking most of the door. With practiced efficiency, he twisted his body and the torch around the beam and slipped into the small chamber. It was empty, but on the far side was a dark gash in the wall. He crossed and moved into this narrow opening; turning sideways for ease of movement, the torch held in his forward hand, he navigated the tight, zigzagging tunnel some thirty paces as it sloped gently upward. Then it opened onto a broader tunnel, which, if Fieschi took to the left, would lead eventually to his convenient freedom.
But above his torch’s hissing, he heard a sound. He stopped moving. He stepped out into the tunnel but saw nothing. He could not tell from which direction the sound had come. Another sound-a voice. Voices. He glanced in the direction of the tunnel egress. If there was anyone between him and the exit, he should be able to see them, at least the faintest trace of them, in the outer reaches of his torchlight. There was nobody there.
So he turned to the right and began a slow trek. Now another voice, and unexpected-a girl’s voice. A girl’s voice.
Could it be the young woman from the marketplace? The one who’d fled
on horseback with the wild young man?
He wanted to rush toward the voices but constrained himself. One slow step at a time. The voices continued.
Laughter. He stopped short again, briefly; he knew that laughter. Capocci and Colonna. They leaned toward Castiglione, Somercotes’s choice. Fieschi fought off a sudden, enormous wave of dread. Was Somercotes carrying out a full-sprung conspiracy right under his nose, without Fieschi realizing? Was that toady of the Unholy Roman Emperor truly that efficient?
He saw the light now, coming from around the corner to the right; he hesitated, wondering if he should douse his own torch and try to approach in stealth. That would not work; they’d smell the smoke. And he would be at the mercy of whatever they decided to do with their own torchlight.
Cursing the entire enterprise-especially de Segni, who could have prevented it coming to this-he took a broad stride forward, putting himself in the middle of the tunnel that branched off to the right.
“Good afternoon,” he said loudly. “What an interesting situation we find ourselves in.”
Capocci and Colonna, he recognized, of course. He had not seen the girl or the youth before, but they fit the description from the market very neatly.
All four of them froze and stared at him. He smiled smugly and took a few slow, almost cocky steps toward them. “There is something unsavory about subterranean assignations,” he said, lazing over the words. He directed his words toward the bone-thin girl, memorizing her face with his keen stare. “I hope, young lady, that they are paying you well for these abominations?”