The Mongoliad: Book Two

by Neal Stephenson

  Brother Francis laid his hands in his lap and let out a long sigh as he closed his eyes. “God has blessed my life—time and again—and I have not always been able to see or appreciate it,” he said. His fingers twitched, and Raphael saw a dark blossom growing in each of the monk’s palms. “But now, now I understand it.”

  He groaned then, his body twitching under his robe, and then his back straightened. His hands relaxed, his fingers uncurling, and in the center of each palm was an unmistakable sign. He opened his eyes and gazed at Raphael. “You are worthy of forgiveness,” he said reverently. “Your heart is stronger than you know. Never stop loving them. That is the only way you can save them. That is the only way.”

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  In Hünern

  Andreas: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

  Rutger: Shield-Brethren knight master, quartermaster of the Rock

  Styg: Shield-Brethren initiate

  Eilif: Shield-Brethren initiate

  Maks: Shield-Brethren initiate

  Hans: orphan of Legnica, member of the local gang known as the “rats”

  Father Pius: Roman Catholic priest

  Dietrich von Grüningen: Heermeister of the Livonian Order

  Sigeberht: the Heermeister’s bodyguard

  Burchard: the Heermeister’s bodyguard

  Onghwe Khan: Ögedei Khan’s dissolute son

  Tegusgal: captain of Onghwe Khan’s personal guard

  Ashiq-temür: second in command of Onghwe Khan’s personal guard

  Zugaikotsu no Yama: Nipponese ronin

  Kim Alcheon: Korean Flower Knight

  In Rome

  Ferenc: a young Magyar hunter

  Ocyrhoe: orphan of Rome

  Matteo Rosso Orsini: Senator of Rome

  Master Constable Alatrinus: keeper of the Septizodium

  Father Rodrigo Bendrito: a priest of the Roman Catholic Church

  Robert of Somercotes: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Sinibaldo Fieschi: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Rainiero Capocci: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Giovanni Colonna: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Rinaldo de Segni: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Tommaso da Capua: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Romano Bonaventura: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Gil Torres: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Goffredo Castiglione: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Stefano de Normandis dei Conti: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  Riccardo Annibaldi: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

  In the East

  Feronantus: Shield-Brethren knight master, the Old Man of the Rock

  Percival: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

  Raphael: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

  Roger: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

  Finn: Germanic hunter, Shield-Brethren companion

  Yasper: Dutch alchemist, Shield-Brethren companion

  Istvan: Hungarian horse-rider, Shield-Brethren companion

  Cnán: Binder, Shield-Brethren guide

  Eleázar: Matamoros, Shield-Brethren initiate

  Taran: Irish gallowglass, Shield-Brethren knight initiate and oplo

  Rædwulf: English longbowman, Shield-Brethren initiate

  Illarion: Ruthenian noble, Shield-Brethren companion

  Haakon: Shield-Brethren initiate

  Vera: leader of the Shield-Maidens

  Alena: Shield-Maiden

  Benjamin: Jewish Khazar trader

  Kristaps: the First Sword of Fellin, Livonian knight

  Alchiq Graymane: Mongolian jaghun commander

  Ögedei Khan: Khagan of the Mongol Empire

  Yelu Chucai: Kitayan advisor to the Khagan

  Gansukh: Mongolian hunter, emissary of Chagatai Khan

  Munokhoi: Torguud captain

  Lian: Chinese slave and tutor

  Toregene: Ögedei Khan’s First Wife

  Jachin: Ögedei Khan’s Second Wife

  1

  Quod Perierat Requiram

  ROME WAS NOT the first city Ferenc had ever seen. As a child, he had lived in Buda, where the clustered buildings were strewn like squat boulders along the banks of the slow-moving Danube. His memories, though, were but vague shapes in a fog compared to the reality laid out before his eyes.

  Rome lay below them, wrapping itself around the River Tiber like a jealous lover. The light was strange here too. It was brighter and brisker than his memories of Buda, as if the sky over the city had cracked open and scattered celestial sparks upon the peaked rooftops, creating a dazzling spray of illumination.

  Ferenc glanced at the priest slumped on the horse next to him. He was draped over his horse’s neck, his knuckles intertwined in the animal’s mane so tightly they were white. The light from the city was reflected in his eyes, making him look almost blind. A ropy strand of spit quivered in his tangled beard.

  His fever was back. The disease had gone into hiding deep within the priest a week ago, and then he had insisted they ride farther and harder each day. Ferenc had tried to hold him back, knowing this relief from the burning infection was temporary. He had been right: this morning, it had returned. The skin around the wound on the man’s hip was still angry and red, even though the gash was closing. If it closed all the way, it would seal the fever inside, and he would never heal.

  With a groan that made Ferenc shudder, the priest pushed himself upright. His right foot slipped from the stirrup. He grabbed at the horse’s mane to keep from falling, and the animal tossed its neck back, as if protesting his clumsiness. Father Rodrigo shook his head, and the spit flew from his beard. “Rome,” he croaked. “We made it.”

  When he looked at Ferenc, his eyes were still filled with the wild, reflected light from the city below. The young hunter made the sign of the cross on his chest, as the priest had taught him, and whispered the holy words that would protect him from possession. His mother had taught him other charms against evil spirits—the warding eye, the sign of the forest—but he didn’t want to enrage the priest. He didn’t want the madness in the priest to know he was afraid.

  Ferenc had come to realize the strength of the priest’s magic. Father Rodrigo had one sign he used for everything. He didn’t have to remember the prayers to the wind or the rain or the spirits living in the forests. He didn’t have to know the hymns to sing before and after a hunt. He didn’t have to memorize the glyphs and sigils used by mothers to protect their houses and children. The priest had one sign only—such a simple gesture, so easily taught to children, so easily remembered—and one god to call upon. Followers of such magic asked only for strength and guidance; why they needed either was left unspoken. God knows, the priest had assured Ferenc, God knows everything in your soul.

  “Yes,” the priest said, crossing himself as Ferenc did. “Praise His mercy.” He returned his attention to the city. “He has carried us this far, and He will only need to sustain us a short while longer.”

  The last few days had been filled with the same sort of fear that had chased them away from Mohi. An army lay around the hills of Rome, a discordant mass of unorganized men that had none of the terrifying precision of the Mongols but had been foreign occupiers nonetheless. The two companions had fallen into old routines—traveling by night, moving slowly across unmarked terrain, avoiding all contact—and only this morning had they sensed they were through the cordon of soldiers.

  The priest swayed, and Ferenc again feared Father Rodrigo would fall. But he caught himself—somehow—with a hand across the neck of his horse and his head thrown back in a wild, wordless plea to Heaven.

  Father Rodrigo’s horse, used to hours and days of the priest as near deadweight, seemed spooked at his unexpected shifting in the saddle and sidestepped irritably. If his horse grew any more agitated, Father Rodrigo would surely be thrown. The priest claimed his god watched over fools and idiots,
but he’d also said, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God. Ferenc had seen enough men thrown from their horses on the plain near Mohi to know what would happen. He nudged his mount toward the priest’s and leaned over, patting the horse’s flank. Sweaty—and now twitchy. Which made his own exhausted mount suddenly twitchy too. They’d been pushing the horses too hard, and the animals were becoming choleric. It wouldn’t take much for both of them to bolt.

  Me too, Ferenc thought. He settled his weight in his saddle, quieting his own horse with a firm hand on the shoulder and soft words. They had gotten these horses just inland from Venice, in the flat plains of the western Veneto; they were spindly-legged nags, not at all suitable for climbing mountains. They didn’t understand Ferenc’s Magyar, but they understood his voice. They knew his tone. As he spoke to them, they calmed.

  Father Rodrigo hadn’t noticed the moment of unrest. The city held him enraptured. “There,” he said, pointing. “Santa Maria Maggiore. That tall spire there. That is where I received my confirmation.” He expelled a sharp laugh. “Twenty years now, I’ve been gone for twenty years.” He moved his hand slightly, referencing another landmark that Ferenc could not separate out from the forest of towers and domes. “Over there is the Basilica of St. Peter’s. Across the river, Ferenc. Do you see the house of holy light?”

  But the light is shining on all of them, Ferenc thought, although he kept his tongue still. The priest seemed to be shaking off some of the malaise that had bound his bones. For a while now, perhaps as long as it would take them to descend this hill and join the flow of travelers entering the city, Father Rodrigo might remain lucid. Perhaps even long enough for them to reach the river. Perhaps.

  “Come,” the priest said, rapping his heels against his horse. “We have a little farther to travel.” The horse snorted and picked its way downslope, toward the broad, paved track of the road.

  Ferenc remained for a moment, idly rubbing the itching skin on the front of his left shoulder. Most of their nicks and cuts from last spring had healed, nothing more than thin, pink lines of new skin on their sun-darkened faces and arms. The most grievous of his wounds had been an arrow to the shoulder, and it was the last to heal. Fortunately, the enemy archer had been very strong and Ferenc’s gambeson had not been very thick. The arrowhead had gone through, missing the bone; it had been simple to break the shaft and draw the two pieces out. Simple, yes, but taking the arrow out had hurt worse than getting shot. At least the wound had been clean—easily dressed and cared for.

  He’d also cleaned and bound Father Rodrigo’s wounds, and cleaned and rebound them often during their journey from the death fields at Mohi. But the Father’s infection ran too deep for Ferenc’s skill. They needed to reach the sanctuary of which Father Rodrigo spoke so longingly. Here they would find more priests and also, Ferenc assumed, healers—men who could save Father Rodrigo both from his infection and his madness. Ferenc did not quite understand what was in this great basilica of Father Rodrigo’s—this house of holy light—but he imagined it as a gleaming fortress of strength, beauty, and an omnipotent magic born of pure faith.

  Ferenc nudged his horse forward, following Father Rodrigo’s. As they wound their way toward the bottom of the narrow hill, the sounds of civilization rose up to meet his ears: voices calling out, metal ringing against metal, the groan and creak of an old wagon as it rumbled down the dusty track, and in the distance, the steadily growing buzz of the city. They had avoided settled areas for so long that all these noises, the cacophony of city life, created an undifferentiated tumult in Ferenc’s ears. It reminded him not of his childhood memories of Buda but of the sound that had swept across the fields of Mohi shortly before dawn on that ghastly spring morning months ago. That crackling noise of men’s fear. The sound of thousands of men babbling to themselves as they waited for their turn to die.

  Ferenc hunched his shoulders, ignoring the twinge below his clavicle, trying instinctively to protect his head, to shelter his ears from possible screams and wails—sounds he was more likely to hear in his mind.

  This morning, on the open road to Rome, he had heard only the sounds of travelers: children laughing or singing tunelessly, oxen lowing as they pulled carts toward the city, men calling hesitant greetings to one another. While these travelers were aware of the presence of a nearby army, they did not have the same fear. No one fretted whether or not they were going to be the first to die. Of all the people on the roads to Rome, only Ferenc—and Father Rodrigo too, judging by the tension in his jaw and the faraway look in his eye—were haunted by the distant disaster that had befallen Christendom on the banks of the Sajó River.

  The harbingers of the Apocalypse—horse riders from the East—had come to Christendom. Those who survived the horrifying battle at Mohi—who were to bear witness to the rest of the West—were forever marked.

  * * *

  Ferenc’s resolve failed when they reached the market. He had girded himself for the sensory onslaught, but the noise still buffeted him like the winter wind screaming through the rough passes in the Carpathians. He was surrounded by the clucking cries of distraught poultry, the bleating of terrified pigs, the cacophony of vendors shouting and arguing with customers over the prices of their wares, the whistling din of pipes as musicians tried to play loud enough for street performers to dance. And always the smell of unwashed bodies, rotten fruit, pig shit, cow shit. The turgid atmosphere of too many people living in too small a space.

  It was all Ferenc could do to keep his terror in check. He wanted to jerk at his horse’s reins until the animal reared back, then plow through the crowds and flee Rome entirely. The dumb beast already sensed his fear and didn’t know what to do except be frightened as well. Run, Ferenc thought, we’re close enough. He eyed the priest. Someone would find him and take him across the river. Someone else. It didn’t have to be him.

  Whatever lucidity Father Rodrigo had up on the hill was gone now. The priest slumped forward again on the neck of his horse. His eyes were unfocused, and while his lips were moving, what came out of his mouth was nothing but nonsensical syllables. Ferenc had heard enough Latin over the last months—both feverish and liturgical—to learn the shape of the words; what was spilling from Father Rodrigo’s mouth were only fragments, gutturals, fluttering sibilants—as if his tongue were a dragonfly’s wing and couldn’t slow itself enough to alight on a full word.

  The hunter nudged his horse even closer to the priest’s and leaned over to tug at the knotted rope around Father Rodrigo’s waist. Two sharp tugs, enough to get his attention. Father Rodrigo slowly and laboriously hauled his head around as if it were a stone block. He stared at his shorter companion. His eyes were again filled with fever light.

  He’s blind, Ferenc realized. All he can see is the past. “Holy man,” he said, and when Father Rodrigo didn’t react, he said it again, louder. “Can you help me, holy man?”

  After the Mongol army had swept across the plains at Mohi, those who hadn’t been killed outright lay broken on the battlefield, waiting for the scavengers to come and finish them off. It was the rain that had brought Ferenc back, the cold and bitter taste of the water dripping down his face and into his mouth. He lay curled in a heap of dead men, directly under the brute who had tried to crush his skull with a club. The flies were undeterred by the rain, crawling across the Mongol’s bloodstained face and over his one remaining eyeball. Ferenc’s knife stuck out of the man’s other socket. Ferenc couldn’t reach it, nor could he pull himself free from the pile of dead men. He could only lie there, watching the rain sluice off the corpses in streams of pink and red, watching flies crawl in and out of his assailant’s gaping mouth.

  And then the priest had stumbled past, dirty and bloody. Ferenc had filled his chest as best he could under the crush of bodies and called out. Holy man, he had cried. Can you help me, holy man? In that moment their fates became bound.

  His mother had taught him about the endless cycle of the seasons. Every year we start again, she had told him.
Before he was old enough to hunt, she would lead him by his small pink hand into the garden as the frost fled and the ground became soft. There, she taught him how to dig up what was dead. This is what was, she had said, shoving the twisted roots into his hand; this is what will be, as she planted the new crop and had him pat down the soft soil. When he was older, he had asked her why she repeated the same phrase every year. Because that is how we remember, she had told him. That is how we bind ourselves to the world.

  Ferenc repeated his question one last time. He needed Father Rodrigo to remember that moment on the field of Mohi. It was how they were bound together.

  Father Rodrigo blinked, and his mouth slowed, articulating more clearly the words in his throat. “In...intende in adjutorium meaum,” he whispered. “Deus salutis meae...” He lifted his head and appeared to realize where they were. His fingers moving awkwardly, he fumbled with the drawstrings of the satchel tied to his waist. When he got it open, he shoved his hand inside and rooted around for a long time until he found what he sought. He thrust his hand toward Ferenc, nearly falling off his horse in the process; clutched between two fingers was the dull metal shape of a flat-topped ring. “Educe me...” He shook his head and tried again, this time in Ferenc’s native tongue. “Take me to the palace,” he said.

  Ferenc leaned toward him, reaching for the ring. His fingers brushed the cool metal.

  “Caput orbis terrarum—” A fresh bout of shivering overtook the priest, and he let go of the seal so that he could grab the pommel of his saddle. “Go to where St. Peter rests,” Father Rodrigo urged when he could speak again. “Show them. They will know what to do...”

  Ferenc examined the ring in his hands. He had seen it before. The priest had taken it out of his satchel occasionally and peered at it, but he had never explained its significance. The top was flat, inlaid with a cross, and raised letters ran along the outer edge. They meant nothing to Ferenc—other than the now familiar shape of the cross—but Father Rodrigo thought someone at the cathedral would know. Ferenc glanced around the bustling marketplace. Soldiers. The city’s militia. Perhaps the soldiers would know.