by Mark Teppo
And leave her behind? Where was he supposed to go? What was the message they were supposed to deliver? The old man in the Septizodium-the one with the kind face and the presence-had sent them out of the city on a secret mission, but he had described that mission only in the language Ocyrhoe knew. If Ferenc kept climbing, he would be leaving Ocyrhoe behind, and that meant abandoning the mission.
Ocyrhoe swung her free hand up and managed to grab a loose brick. The brick slid sideways but held. The guard, just a few feet below her, let loose a stream of frustrated curses.
The boy gauged the distance between Ocyrhoe and her pursuer, who had given up trying to grab her from the ground and had started climbing the wall himself.
She flattened against the wall, sucking in a breath, then planted her feet and resumed her climb, as quickly as the crumbling wall allowed. She was a good climber, but she didn’t have Ferenc’s experience or the guard’s strength.
The guard’s searching hand was now just inches below her heel. She wasn’t going to make it.
Ferenc shuffled laterally to his right. Just a little farther. He glanced down, checking his position, and then took a deep breath. Ocyrhoe looked up and to the left, her face screwed up in panic and confusion as she tried to figure out what he was doing.
He met her gaze and nodded once. Without you, there is no mission.
Ferenc let go of the wall.
Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he whispered the seventh Psalm. “…Iudica me, Domine, secundum iustitiam meam et secundum innocentiam meam, quae est in me…” The rope burned across his palm and his knuckles ached, but he could not let his grip loosen. Not yet. “…Consumatur nequitia peccatorum; et iustem confirma; scrutans corda et renes Deus iustus…”
The body trapped in the rope-already he was no longer thinking about it as a living person-had stopped thrashing and clawing. As Fieschi continued to pray, he felt the man’s hands loosen and the deadweight increase. God strengthens my armor, he thought, for I am virtuous and upright in my heart. He heard a rattling noise, like sand being scattered across a stone floor, and the muscles in his hands cramped from exertion.
His prayer was cut short by a sound that escaped from his chest-part sob, part exclamation-and his hands opened without his willing the action. It was as if one of God’s angels had touched his wrists, and the ethereal touch of the divine messenger had broken his grip. He fell back and sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath. A weight lay against his legs. A heavy, still weight.
When he finally noticed the stink of death-the expelled shit and piss from the dead man’s bowels, mixed with the faint tang of blood-he opened his eyes. He shuddered slightly at the sight of Somercotes’s face-the bulging eyes decorated with a lacework of blood; the tongue protruding from the agonized mouth, a copious smear of blood across his lips and beard from his broken nose; dark shadows around the cardinal’s neck, a rope burn under his jaw.
“Convertetur dolor eius in caput eius,” Fieschi whispered, making the sign of the cross, “et in verticem ipsius iniquitas eius descendet.” He brought it upon himself.
He pushed Somercotes’s body away and, legs trembling, got to his feet. His hands ached, and his right palm was raw from the rope, but he was standing, he was alive. Somercotes was not. The distinction was very clear in Fieschi’s mind, uncluttered by remorse or guilt.
This was not his victory, his personal triumph. By garroting this heretic, he had saved the Holy Roman Church.
The ring. He remembered what they had been arguing about before the Will of God-Deus iudex iustus-had flowed into him and guided his hand. The ring that supposedly belonged to that charlatan-a cardinal’s ring. It was a symbol that would allow him to participate in the election of the next Bishop of Rome-a potentially key vote. He had to find that ring.
He crouched over Somercotes’s body and, trying to ignore the stench, pulled and poked through the simple robes, feeling for the ring. There were few places to hide anything in the cardinal’s garment, but he checked the seams for unusual bulges or gathers that would suggest a hidden pocket; after a few minutes of fruitless searching, he turned his attention to the dead man’s shoes. Without Somercotes’s feet in them, they were just old leather scraps-worn thin in the heels, the stitching unraveling along the outer edges.
Would he have hidden the ring in his chamber? Fieschi crawled toward one corner to begin, on his knees, feeling the stones in the wall for fit, trying to shift or pry each one out to reveal a hiding place. No success. He then stood and ripped the heavy mattress cloth, flinging away handfuls of the straw stuffing. From the pegs on the wall, he ripped down Somercotes’s cloak and extra robe, pawing through the cloth for the hard shape of a ring. He even tore apart the cardinal’s damaged Bible, though part of his brain knew there was no way to hide a ring within the pages of the book.
Nothing.
Fieschi glared at the body. Even in death, the man confounded him. Could he have secured it somewhere in the tunnels? No, that would be even more risky than hiding it in the room; he would have to keep it where he could find it quickly, and such a place would have to be nearby, familiar. Somercotes’s chamber was the only place where he could be afforded some privacy, where he could be assured he would not be disturbed while he hid the ring or retrieved it.
Did he even have it? Fieschi had to admit the possibility that Somercotes had been lying to him. His breath caught in his throat as he recalled the conversation he had overheard between Somercotes and the messengers. They had brought the ring back to the mad priest. He had heard them talking about it; he could distinctly remember the tone of Somercotes’s voice as he had examined it. An Archbishop’s ring…
“You fool.” He savagely kicked Somercotes’s body. “You lied to me.” It wasn’t a cardinal’s ring at all; it was the ring of an Archbishop.
Fieschi’s mind raced, sorting back through the letters and documents that he had read to the Pope in His Holiness’s final days. He had been so caught up in the speculation of who this stranger was and the effect his presence was going to have on the election of the new Pope that he hadn’t given enough thought to why the man was here or who he was.
There had been reports from Hungary, following the battle at Mohi. Reports of who had been lost at that battle. An Archbishop…
Fieschi needed time to think. He needed to figure out what to do next. Time to pray, even, if that would help. He looked at the room-the dead body, the torn clothes, the scattered straw from the ripped mattress-and realized, as if seeing it all for the first time, that he couldn’t simply walk away from the room as if nothing had happened. Bits of straw clung to his robes. His right hand was red and raw. No one could connect his appearance with what had happened here. Had anyone seem him with Somercotes?
The mad priest.
He could deal with him later. Right now, he had to get out of Somercotes’s room. He had to get rid of the robe he was wearing-the same plain vestment he had worn when he snuck into the city. It smelled too much like sweat and piss and shit. Like violent death.
His gaze was drawn to the small metal lantern that provided the illumination for the room, the flickering flame like a single, blinking eye. More of a wink, in fact, as if it knew some deadly secret it would impart to him if he would only pick it up.
Stepping around Somercotes’s body, he scooped up the lantern and went to the door. Placing the lantern on the floor, he lifted and removed the door’s timber bar, then carefully opened the door a few inches to check the hallway. Satisfied it was empty, he bent over and delicately plucked the small stub of candle from the lantern’s metal shell. The candle’s flame danced eagerly.
Fieschi tossed the candle into the scattered straw. The candle bounced once, then lay on its side. The flame grew brighter as it spread into the straw.
With a grim smile, he left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. No one would know of his handiwork, not until it was too late.
Omnis arbor, quae non facit fru
ctum bonum, excidetur, he thought as he walked, and thrown to the fire…
Ferenc twisted and angled his body as he fell. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Ocyrhoe’s open mouth and wide eyes as he flashed by her, but there was no time to tell her his plan. There was no time to do anything but pull his arms and legs in before he collided with the guard. He felt the guard’s head against his arm and side, and then the two of them were falling, a mass of flailing arms and legs.
They hit the ground, Ferenc on top, and the impact drove the air out of his lungs. He rolled off, then stood, wincing as he tried to put weight on his left leg. He had twisted his ankle. It wasn’t a bad sprain-he could walk, albeit it with a bit of a limp, and if he was careful, it would stop hurting in a day or so.
The guard groaned, eyelids fluttering, and his arms and legs jerked in uncoordinated spasms. He was stunned but not senseless. In a few moments, he would regain his wits.
Ocyrhoe landed lightly nearby and started jabbering at Ferenc. Ferenc shook his head and tried to grip her arm, but she yanked it from his grasp, poked his chest with an angry finger, and then pointed to the wall. Ferenc shook his head again and touched his left leg, taking a limping step. “I can’t climb,” he said. “Not quickly.” He grabbed at her arm again, with both hands this time, and held her fast while he signed. “We have to go. Unless you want to kill this guard.”
She snapped her mouth shut and glared at him. Her eyes darted back and forth like the tiny swallows Ferenc had once watched hunt and swoop across the flower meadows in the spring, and then she nodded. “Sequere,” she said, disengaging her arm from his grip. She took his hand and pressed her fingers against the top of his wrist. “We’ll find another spot to climb,” she signed.
He began to walk as fast as his rapidly swelling ankle allowed. He reversed their hands-now holding her-and began to sign. “Hard to climb now. Harder to jump. Can climb this side, but how to get down?”
She shrugged and shook her head, clearly not understanding his question.
Just before they turned a corner, he glanced over his shoulder. The guard was still on his back, feebly waving his arms and kicking his legs. He looked like a bug. In a moment, they would be out of his sight.
“Wall keeps people out,” Ferenc signed. “Have you ever been outside?”
She blushed and looked away, and he could feel her arm tense as she thought about pulling away. He had embarrassed her and was surprised at his reaction to her pain. He squeezed her arm, trying to tell her he did not mean to cause distress with the question. But he knew the answer.
Ocyrhoe had never been outside of Rome. She didn’t know what the other side of the wall looked like, much less the world beyond-but judging by her reaction, she understood why he had asked.
It didn’t matter how easy it was to climb the inside of the walls of Rome; the inside might be left to decay, but the outward-facing rampart must be kept reasonably strong and smooth, or it would not be any sort of barrier against enemies.
He had injured himself falling not much more than three times the height of a man. Jumping from three stories? Neither of them would survive.
“Need different route,” Ferenc signed. He thought of the dark places they had recently visited, the tunnels under the old temples of the city. His fingers curled and tapped her forearm. “Underground. Can you find a way?”
30
Waiting For the Storm
Andreas sat on his pallet with a grunt of pain. The stone walls were a mercy during the rain and the wind, but in the murderous heat of summer, they made little difference, especially when it was a gray heat-a steaming, sunless heat. There was no breeze without or within, and little for him to do other than sweat.
In all the stories singers told of heroics and of battle, they rarely, if ever, spoke of the waiting or the coming down afterward. Unless it served the story, they didn’t speak of the wounds either. He tried to straighten his aching back and felt muscles move beneath skin so tight from exertion that he wanted only to fall into a deep slumber and never move again.
The bruises he had received on the First Field overlaid their own dull throbbing upon previous layers of older pains. Battle rush and focus on opponents permitted a man to ignore these irritations, but after battle, they came rushing back with an angry vengeance.
At Petraathen, Taran had taught them numerous exercises designed to drive away fatigue, as well as stretches that kept abused muscles and ligaments from seizing up, and he would need to do more of those soon or else suffer the consequences.
Still, Andreas sat, feeling the sweat pour down his face, acutely aware of his own mortality.
The fight against the Flower Knight a week ago had taken more out of him than it should have, and now he was staring at his sword hand, listening with a grimace as the finger bones clicked uncomfortably as he opened and closed his fist. That’s new, he thought.
“You look like hell,” Rutger said from the doorway. Even against the gray of the outside, the quartermaster was a dark silhouette. “I warned you this was dangerous.”
“Someone has to reap what I sowed,” Andreas replied with a rueful attempt at a smile, quickly distorted by a grunt of pain. Unless he got up and did his exercises, come morning he would barely be able to move at all. “Better the consequences fall on my head,” he said.
“You sound like Percival,” Rutger chuckled, pulling up a chair.
“Percival? God and the Virgin, I hope not,” Andreas laughed in return. It hurt the tensed muscles in his midsection. Everything hurt just then. “Was he here before I arrived? Did he go with the others?”
Rutger nodded.
“Ach, I am sorry to have missed him,” Andreas said, “more so because we could use his sword arm right about now.” He leaned back and raised his own sword arm experimentally. The knuckles clicked again. Cracking roasted pigs’ feet-that’s what his knuckles sounded like. “At least now I can rest for a little while.”
Rutger shifted in his seat. His worn expression immediately told Andreas that something was wrong. “I don’t like that look, Rutger,” he said. “That look says no sleep and no food for a week, or worse. What’s happened?”
“We’ve just had word from Hunern,” Rutger sighed. “Your show of audacity has sufficed to intrigue the Khan. The gates to the arena open tomorrow.” He paused. “Your name is on the lists-high on the lists.”
The news hit Andreas like a fresh punch to the stomach. He stared blankly for a moment. He’d known in the back of his mind that this might happen, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that it could happen before he’d had the opportunity to get any real rest.
Andreas started to laugh. That hurt as well, and for a moment, he tried to hold it back, but to no avail. His shoulders quaked, and his abdomen spasmed as he shook with grim mirth at his circumstances. Then he threw his head back and laughed at the ceiling. Tears flowed from his eyes before he mastered himself and wiped them away. “God indeed pays the foolish their due,” he said after he regained control of his voice. Now he took a deep breath, and that hurt as well. “So be it.”
“You damn fool.” Rutger shook his head. “You’re in no shape to fight.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, pushing himself once more to his feet and stepping around like a drunken crane. His legs burned, but if there was real need, he could fight-perhaps even manage a burst or two of speed, if danger pressed. He’d regret it afterward, but this was no time for conserving strength. He had attracted the Khan’s attention, and if he was in the ring, perhaps those tiger eyes would not look so sharply upon the rest of his order.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Rutger said again, more quietly. “You’re one of our best, but even the best can be broken and beaten. Be careful in the lists, Andreas. We can’t afford to lose anyone.”
Andreas flashed a rueful smile. “We’ll all be putting everything on one line of battle or another, sooner or later…I just need to live long enough to see it.” He laughed and fe
lt a cough travel upward, doubling him over, which hurt even more. The injuries were piling up. He’d yet to break any bones or rip out hamstrings or sinews, however, which was a godsend.
“Look on the bright side,” Andreas went on. “Our plan worked. The arena is open and the bouts will begin anew. All eyes will be on the Circus.” And I will fight again, and harder, against opponents as dangerous as the Flower Knight-and he didn’t even want to kill me.
Rutger seemed to guess his thoughts. “I warned you about this,” he said. “Be cautious.”
“Caution won’t get us victory or success.” Andreas dropped forward onto his hands and flung his legs out behind him. He began his exercises against the protest of every muscle in his aching limbs and torso. Bruises cried out, innards rebelled at the sudden upset of their brief, cherished balance.
But his arm went beyond complaining and nearly folded under him. It had still not recovered enough. Don’t grumble. Plug on, he thought.
Rutger watched him for a long moment in silence.
He could feel the older man’s eyes on his back.
“There is a difference, Andreas,” he said, “between walking on the edge of a blade and dancing merrily across it like some caperer in a great hall. Do not mistake foolishness for courage.”
Andreas didn’t pause in his exercises. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When he had finished, and his body was aflame all over, he sat back down gingerly on the pallet. Rutger handed him a cup of water. He downed it, thirsty as if he might never drink again.
“There is a boy called Hans who passes messages back and forth between myself and the Flower Knight,” Andreas said after a moment. Normally, he wouldn’t pass this on, as there was no need for anyone but himself to know. “Whatever happens here, I want him taken to Petraathen when this is over by whoever amongst us survives.” It was a grim thought, but he wanted the boy to have the chance, if that was what he wanted.