The Mongoliad: Book Two

by Neal Stephenson

  Six hundred and nine, actually, if one were to count the prisoners from Onghwe, but the Khagan, in a moment of lucidity a few days ago, had reminded him that these men would not be traveling any farther than Burqan-qaldun.

  At the center of this activity was the Khagan’s wheeled ger. The hides stretched tightly over its wooden frame had been painted white, and the morning light made them glow. A team of eight oxen shifted impatiently, and behind the ger, six supply carts were being frantically readied.

  Late the day before, Chucai had given the order that all preparations be completed by sunrise. Though he doubted Ögedei would emerge from his quarters until late morning, he wanted the caravan ready to depart the instant the Khagan climbed onto the platform of his movable tent. The caravan masters knew they would be left behind were they not ready, and none of them wanted to face the shame of having to chase the Khagan across the steppes.

  In a rough line to the north of Ögedei’s ger and supply carts were three smaller wheeled ger: two for Ögedei’s wives, followed by one to be utilized by Chucai and a few other important advisors.

  Ögedei had casually mentioned that he expected Gansukh to be given space in this tent, and Chucai had simply nodded. He had no intention of allowing Gansukh and Lian to sleep in the same ger. For a while, he had been incensed at the idea, more so when he realized his reaction was that of a protective father more than the Khagan’s senior advisor. Fortunately, Ögedei had mentioned the same expectation to Gansukh, and the young man had come to him to ask the best way to decline the Khagan’s suggestion. I need some...space, Gansukh had said. I would prefer my own ger.

  Staring at the mob of Imperial Guard lined up behind the three ger, Chucai understood the need. Three jaghun of mounted soldiers, Munokhoi’s elite troop, and two companies of a hundred men each. Their supply train stretched out of the palace gates—cooks, doctors, livestock drivers, wagon masters. A small group of acrobatic entertainers caught Chucai’s eye as they performed up and down the supply line. Mukha had shrieked for half a day when she had been told they couldn’t come along; Chucai had relented finally, only to get her to shut up, and he secretly hoped a Chinese raiding party would confuse them for an unguarded supply caravan.

  There was no sign of Gansukh or Lian. He was not concerned yet, but he kept an eye out for them.

  13

  Signa Hodie Lumen Vultus Tui Super Me

  GREGORY IS DEAD.

  The three words staggered Rodrigo. From this simple statement spun a maelstrom of confusion. The Pope—dead. To whom would he deliver his message? Why had God sent him here when there was no way for him to be relieved of his burden? The Church would be consumed with discord as the factions vied for dominance, and he couldn’t wait until a new Pope was elected. Christendom was under attack. A vast threat was coming out of the East, and he had been sent to warn the Church.

  Robert of Somercotes tried to continue their conversation—speaking of cardinals, their duty to the Church, and of the sede vacante—but Rodrigo could grasp nothing of what the other man was trying to tell him. The news of the Pope’s death was too overwhelming. Not even food and water could completely lift the burden of his exhaustion—the burden of his duty. The weight crushed him, and he lay back on the pallet. Sobbing gently, he collapsed into a dreamless stupor—not sleep but a complete senselessness of both mind and spirit. His body demanded rest. His journey was not done yet, and if he was going to survive, he needed strength, both in body and spirit.

  When he woke, the three words still churned in his head—Gregory is dead—but somewhere in his senseless slumber, he had located a hidden reserve of strength. God would not abandon him, not as long as he continued to believe his burden was just. Not as long as he had faith.

  By the warm tint of the light in the tiny, high-ceilinged room, he knew it was day—by the relative cool, still morning. Rodrigo felt his stomach rumble and almost chuckled at it, as if it were some sickly child that had finally grown healthy enough to complain.

  Gingerly, sore all over and still feverish, the priest staggered to his feet and took a few uncertain steps toward the open door. He could walk, perhaps even for some distance. Praise God. He shuffled carefully down a stone hallway. Doors at irregular intervals opened on either side into other rooms like his, although several, at a glance, had more furnishings, or at least boasted places to hang clothing—cloaks and robes, the vestments of religious men.

  As he approached the end of the corridor, he realized it was a ruinous mass of stone and masonry, the result of the upper floor having collapsed. Leaning against the wall, he cast his eyes back on the series of doors he had passed. One of the rooms must have another exit, a door that would let him out of this corridor. There must be another way.

  Unless his recent visitor was a figment of his feverish imagination, much like the young man he knew to be part of his dream. Had he imagined the visit from the older version, along with the meager meal he had been given? Such thought troubled him, for it meant he was still in the grips of his nightmare. Even the sensation of food in his belly was part of his fever dream.

  A dark corner of the collapsed hallway—which he had assumed to be nothing more than a niche of shadows—turned out to be a narrow opening. Keeping one hand on the wall, he lurched toward the gap, frantic for the possibility of finding a way out—a way of verifying that he was awake, that he no longer dreamed. He had to turn sideways to fit, putting both hands on the wall now, and he sidled past the fallen rock. He pressed close to the heavy stones, and he focused on his hands: on moving his right to touch his left; on moving his left away, drawing his recalcitrant body forward.

  The walls on the other side of the collapse were a different color, the stone more pink than gray, and the general condition of the ceiling was much better—no gaps through which sunlight could peer. Nor were there any doors in this hall; it ran for several dozen paces and then terminated at a large hole in the floor. A wooden ladder—protruding up from the hole by several feet—was lashed to the wall by a combination of thick rope and iron spikes.

  Puzzled, Rodrigo climbed down, descending past one other floor and then into the earth itself. At the bottom, a large chamber had been carved into the bedrock, with a single tunnel running—as near as he could tell—in the same direction as he had been traveling.

  With no other route available to him, Rodrigo wandered into the tunnel. To turn back would be to give up hope. To admit he was not strong enough to carry God’s message.

  * * *

  “There you are. Praise God.”

  The tunnel had not remained straight, and but for a decided lack of other obvious egresses, Rodrigo might have wandered forever. As it was, he discovered a source of light, and as he approached it, he was met by another man.

  The newcomer was taller than Father Rodrigo, forced to stoop by the low ceiling of the tunnel. His face had been weathered by wind and sun—indicating he was no more a permanent resident of this subterranean place than Rodrigo—and his nose had been proud once, but it now canted to the side, and scar tissue knotted the bridge. His white beard was heavy enough that it nearly obscured the larger scar running down his left cheek. His smile, a mouth full of strong teeth, was as welcome as a fire might be to a freezing man.

  “Robert said you were awake,” the man said.

  “Yes,” Father Rodrigo replied. “Praise God,” he added, bringing his hands up into the traditional prayer position—not knowing what else to add.

  “You play the part of a poor priest well.” The man wrapped his hands around Father Rodrigo’s. Rodrigo tried to extricate himself and supplicate himself in some way, but the taller man resisted his attempts. “But there is no need to continue your charade. You need not hide here.”

  Part of Robert of Somercotes’s conversation came back to him. Cardinals—the cardinals were all imprisoned in this place, until they could elect a new Pope. An irrational terror, born of this memory, swept over him: they thought he was a cardinal too. What if, in the s
laughter and apocalyptic insanity of the Mongols destroying what had once been Hungary, his beloved superior—and confessor—had fallen and Rodrigo had been appointed his successor? Had Chancellor Báncsa been secretly elevated to one of the cardinal bishoprics, and through some machinations that he, in his feverish state, had forgotten, had that title been accorded to him—not because he deserved it but because there had been nobody left? Or—no less likely—had some agent of the Devil disguised Rodrigo to appear to these good men here as the Provost of Vâcz?

  He forced himself to breathe calmly. “Of course,” he replied. Hiding his dismay, he extricated his fingers from the other man’s grip and more properly grasped the man’s hand. “I am Rodrigo,” he said, divesting himself of any title—real or imagined. “Rodrigo Bendrito.”

  He should tell this man that he was nothing more than a simple parish priest, but he held his tongue. Deep in his mind, he felt the spark of the fever and it frightened him, but what frightened him more was the thought his message would go unheard. Would God forgive him if he pretended to be someone other than he was in order to save the Church? Was this deception part of the test put to him by God? Was he supposed to participate in the election of the new Pope in order to ensure that the man who received his message would be strong enough to take on the burden?

  “Yes,” the other priest said. “And I am Giovanni Colonna.” He smiled again, and Rodrigo’s confusion was eased by the reassuring expression. “Come,” Colonna said, laying a hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder, “let me guide you.”

  Rodrigo let himself be led. “Where are we?” he asked. “Robert—our mutual friend, evidently—said we were in the...Septizodium.”

  Colonna chuckled. “In? No. It’s up there somewhere.” He reached up and tapped the low ceiling. “The Septizodium is near the base of the Palatine, and if it was ever a real temple, that building has vanished. All that remains is a facade, dedicated to ancient and forgotten gods. Behind that facade is a hollow shell—four walls that have managed to remain standing over the last few hundred years.”

  He walked slowly, matching Rodrigo’s pace, and Rodrigo was thankful for the taller man’s patience. He seemed like the sort of man for whom a walk from Rome to Paris would not be a hardship—his stride long enough the miles would vanish effortlessly.

  “We are being hidden, you see,” Colonna continued. “Even if the enemies of the Church discovered our location, they would not be able to reach us, because there is no way out of the Septizodium—out of that box of stone—other than climbing the walls, and the Bear is guarding those walls.”

  “The Bear?”

  “Matteo Rosso Orsini, the Senator of Rome. We are under his care.”

  “But if we cannot get out, then how did I get in?” Rodrigo asked. “Where did the food I ate earlier come from?”

  “Angels,” Colonna laughed. “You were brought by angels.”

  They reached an open chamber and were closer to the source of the light. Rodrigo looked up as they exited the tunnel. Another ladder led out of this pit, and crouching beside the upper end of the ladder was another priest. He was outlined by the light—real daylight—and his long and twisted beard was so illuminated that his face appeared to be floating above a white cloud.

  Colonna let him go first, and Rodrigo climbed the ladder, accepting the hand of the other man as he reached the top. Up close, the beard lost some of its mysterious luster, though it was no less strange and exotic. Not only was the beard so long that it nearly reached his waist, but it curled and corkscrewed as well. Strands of white hair were twisted into braids and then fed back into the central mass, and the whole arrangement looked like a tangle of ghostly vines descending from the man’s face. His eyes were chips of slate in his face, and his simple cap was pulled low enough on his head that whatever hair he had on his crown was hidden by the black cloth.

  “Ah, Rainiero,” Colonna said as he stepped off the ladder behind Rodrigo. “God has graced us with another day of sun. I predict today will be the day that you decide to offer that monstrous beard of yours up as an offering to Him.”

  The man named Rainiero clasped Colonna’s offered hand. When he smiled, his beard parted to reveal a pink mouth. “I take comfort that your faith in my weakness, Giovanni, is not nearly as strong as my faith in the reward awaiting me for enduring the trials offered by God’s heat.” He laid his hands on Rodrigo’s shoulders and looked intently into his face. “God bless you, my son. I hope a night of rest has rejuvenated you.”

  “Rainiero Capocci,” Colonna said, introducing the bearded man. “Governor of Viterbo, when he is not busy laying stone and raising walls. Or electing a Pope. Rainiero, this is Rodrigo Bendrito.”

  Rodrigo nodded and allowed Capocci to clasp one of his hands. His palm was rough and calloused, though warm; his grip was surprisingly gentle for the strength that lay coiled within the man’s thick forearms. “God bless you,” Rodrigo said somewhat awkwardly. How was he supposed to address these men who insisted on such intense familiarity and who thought he was a peer?

  “You’ve been away for a while, haven’t you?” Capocci asked, releasing Rodrigo’s hand.

  “Yes,” Rodrigo admitted, flustered.

  Capocci touched his ear. “Yes, you speak like a man who has recently awakened from a long nap. Still not quite sure where you are.”

  “I’m not,” Rodrigo admitted and then actually bit his tongue to keep from speaking further, despite the questions, fear, and confusion whirling within.

  A new voice brought a welcome distraction. “Good morning, my fellow brothers in Christ!” The hall, beyond Capocci, which Rodrigo had barely noticed, led to a sunlit opening, a neat and rectangular portal. Approaching them was a tall and lanky priest with a head of thick black hair. As he neared them, Rodrigo examined his face and immediately thought of a fox. His eyes, darting from face to face to Capocci’s hand on Rodrigo’s arm, missed nothing. “What sort of debate engages you so resolutely this morning?” he asked with a canted, obviously false smile.

  Colonna let loose a sharp laugh, like a dog’s bark, and quickly interposed himself between Rodrigo and the fox-faced man. “Debate?” he snorted. “Rainiero examines our new friend like he inspects his horses. In a moment, I am sure, he’ll pry open his mouth to peer at his teeth.”

  Capocci jerked Rodrigo closer, and the younger priest stumbled into the bearded man’s arms. “Indeed,” Capocci said, “the best measure of a man is in the muscles of his jaw.” He put a hand under Rodrigo’s chin and lifted his head. “Is he a talker or an eater?”

  From the corner of his eye—Capocci’s extremely firm grip prevented him from actually turning his head—Rodrigo could see the fox-faced man trying to step around the imposing bulk of Colonna. “What have you learned?” the new cardinal asked Capocci, finally relenting to the game the others were playing.

  Capocci’s fingers dug into Rodrigo’s cheeks near the jaw-line, forcing the priest’s mouth open; Capocci put his face close, his whiskers tickling Rodrigo’s nose. “It’s very dark in there,” Capocci announced. He twisted Rodrigo around, ostensibly so that the morning light would better illuminate the back of the priest’s throat, but the change in position meant that Capocci now stood with his back to the sharp-faced cardinal. “Whose man are you?” Capocci demanded in a ferocious whisper, right into Rodrigo’s ear. “Here all is discord and intrigue. Your vote may well decide the election, so do not make it rashly.”

  Rodrigo’s eyes widened in shock, and a strangled noise rose in his throat. Capocci released his grip and delivered an open-handed slap across the priest’s face. Rodrigo staggered, more from surprise than pain.

  Colonna, head turned to better watch the antics of his friend, laughed. “He’s a talker, that one.”

  Capocci turned toward the other two men. “Useless as a horse. He’d spend all day trying to convince me that he was no good at the plow, that he couldn’t walk in a straight line.” He gestured toward Rodrigo. “Listen to him now. Whining already.�
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  Rodrigo hadn’t said a word. Holding his hand to his stinging cheek, he was still trying to process what Capocci had whispered. The questions buzzed around in his head, making him dizzy, and when he took a step back, Capocci grabbed his arm and pulled him farther away from the open pit. Shrugging off the bearded man’s aid, he wandered forward until he could lean against the wall.

  His face was warm. He feared the fever was back.

  The fox-faced man stepped around Colonna and approached Rodrigo; he laid one hand on the priest’s shoulder, almost sycophantically. “Are you all right? These two are buffoons, unworthy of the robes they wear, and they cannot help themselves. Nothing more than degenerates who play with their own filth.”

  Behind the fox-faced man’s back, Colonna made eye contact with Rodrigo and wagged a finger in caution. The cardinal saw something in Rodrigo’s face and spun to look; Colonna immediately shoved the finger up his nose, digging for something hidden in his nasal cavity. Capocci leaned against the opposite wall, twirling the end of his mustache, studying Colonna’s exertions with exaggerated gravity.

  “It is best to ignore them,” the dark-haired cardinal said. As Colonna withdrew the finger and began examining the results of his exploration, the cardinal shook his head and turned Rodrigo toward the brightly lit doorway. “Come, let us find the others and engage in more civil discourse.”

  “Yes,” Rodrigo managed, allowing himself to be led again. “Some civility would be a pleasant change.”

  “I am Rinaldo,” the fox-faced man said as they walked away from the pair. “Conti de Segni. Perhaps you know my family?” The civility of noble families, of castes where children did not perform like monkeys in front of their parents, said his tone.

  Rodrigo shook his head, more concerned with keeping track of the names of these strange new men. After several months of only Ferenc as his constant companion, he found this sudden deluge of new faces—new names, new voices, new factions—overwhelming.