Elisha Mancer

by E. C. Ambrose

  Thomas gave that regal nod once more and stepped away. “Fare you well, Elisha.” Alfleda hugged her arms about Elisha’s middle, then moved to her father’s side.

  Elisha took out the relics Margaret had given him. The bone chips might be part of the mancer network, but he could not be sure they led to Rome, so he focused on the vial of the True Cross, working free the lead seal to make contact with the shard of wood. Some pilgrims, he knew, had taken bites of the cross as they leaned to kiss it, but the emperor had boldly taken a knife to it.

  At his touch, the wood chilled so sharply it stung his fingers, and the shade of a tortured man vented his pain. He deflected his own presence with every talisman he carried, praying he could deflect the warden himself. This passage must be swift and direct, as careful as he could make it, stealthy, to slide in under the very notice of the warden who served as the master of Rome.

  Elisha took a deep breath and opened the Valley, taking the time to still the maelstrom and soothe the howling. Sensing the pull of the Cross—shards of the same wood here and there that pulsed to his call—he stepped inside, drawn toward the largest, as if he could hear the man dying. Leaving the familiar grief and the steadfast friendship of his home, Elisha stepped a thousand miles away, to Rome.

  Chapter 31

  Elisha crouched, holding his deflection in case of prying eyes, dank air filling his nose and throat. A single thick candle burned nearby, with the rank odor of animal fat, but the space pulsed with shades and shivered with the echoes of the dead. The dirt beneath his feet felt strangely familiar though he had never been here before; it resonated with layers of history like the earth of Jerusalem. The thick beam stood behind him, looming in the shadows, reminding him of Simeon, but he did not know who had died here. Steeling himself for what he must feel, Elisha opened his awareness fully to the relic and placed his hand upon the beam. It stung with cold, but it lacked the fresh horror of the recently dead. Unlikely the mancers had forged this one.

  Elisha drew back his hand, unsure how to feel about that: it was a comfort that they had not crucified this stranger, but someone had, years ago, a legacy of brutality linking present to past. In a niche carved in the wall hung a nail as long as his hand, rusty with old blood. Just for a moment, Elisha thought he could serve with mercy as an executioner, drawing death with a touch, swift and painless. Even a criminal deserved better than this.

  Weak light revealed a stone staircase that rose before him. He stepped over the low wall that surrounded the beam. Beyond the enclosure, the ground felt foreign again, and Elisha realized the earth itself was a relic, carried from Jerusalem and spread beneath the cross.

  If the mancers could use only the relics of those they killed, they must be placing dozens of their own fragments. The ones Empress Margaret gave him could serve as a beginning, but if he used one of those relics to cross the Valley within the city, that would draw the attention of any mancer who shared in the kill, including the dangerous warden of the Valley itself—Conrad’s father—and startle anyone who worshipped at the tainted altars, thus drawing the notice of the desolati authorities as well. Stalking up the stairs, Elisha entered the dim space of a church with few windows, and those high up in the rafters. Ranks of columns rose out of the murk. At the end of the nave, a small door stood open, shedding some light on the plain granite. Elisha walked toward the door, still expecting to see priests or penitents. The place echoed with emptiness, except for the shades that stained the crosses.

  Elisha emerged into a crumbling courtyard surrounded by a brick wall. Browning grasses protruded between the stones here, though a smooth trail marked the line between the church and the gate to the outside world. A campanile rose overhead, its growing shadow indicating late afternoon. Here, at last, he heard voices, a group of men muttering among themselves in a rapid, unfamiliar tongue. On the other side, a huge curved structure interrupted the wall, partially built into the church enclosure, but the rest tumbling into ruin beyond, like a great round of bread that had been chewed by a thousand rats. Shades roamed thick upon the ground here: shades of people clad in nothing but leather, shades of soldiers in jagged skirts with round shields, shades of women, children, ordinary men. If the mancers ruled, how many fresh shades would join them? Elisha blinked the vision away.

  At the far end, another courtyard opened. That must be where the Bath of Constantine would be found, and the tribune with it, taking his daily bath. Should he approach directly, or trail after?

  A trumpet blast froze Elisha where he stood, his muscles instantly taut. He pivoted slowly, expecting arrest or command. Instead, the party of men he had been hearing stood to attention in two rows fronting a low octagonal building. The man at the end of each row held a short brass trumpet, but their clothing lacked the arms and ornament of royalty, and even the trumpets looked small and battered.

  Into this array stepped a dark-haired man of about his own age, a wreath of leaves upon his head and a swath of white fabric draped over one shoulder atop a coat of armor. Thomas’s garden held a statue that looked like this, a sculpture of some ruler a thousand years dead. One of the guards waved toward Elisha, beckoning. Direct approach it was, then. The guard who hailed him chattered in his rapid tongue, and Elisha focused his awareness, trying to glean some meaning from the fellow’s words. He looked pleased enough, if a bit confused as Elisha failed to respond to what was evidently a question.

  Elisha pointed to the church. “I went to visit the Holy Cross,” he replied in English, then crossed himself. “I am looking for the tribune of Rome, to pay my respects.”

  The man in the laurel wreath pushed through his guards, flapping his hand to hush Elisha’s interrogator. In quiet, distinct Latin, he asked, “Are you a pilgrim?”

  Relieved to hear a language more familiar, thanks to Mordecai’s teaching, Elisha said, “I am.”

  The man’s wreathed hair glistened with water, and it dripped a little over his eye as he studied Elisha. “I could see you are not a Roman. Where are you from?”

  Evidently, they had not recognized his language. Good. “Bavaria,” Elisha answered warily.

  Breaking into a grin, the man repeated, “Bavaria!” and switched into German. “You have come from the emperor? Excellent! I am Cola de Rienzi, the tribune of Rome.”

  Elisha bowed, hoping that was the appropriate honor for a man of such dubious station. As he rose, Cola reached out, fingering the fur that edged his cloak, then snatching Elisha’s hand. He ran his thick fingers over Elisha’s palm, but lingered on his calluses, rather than his scars.

  Elisha twitched at his touch, but did not pull away—as Cola muttered in Italian, the contact enabled Elisha to understand his words. “A working man. The Emperor sends me an envoy like myself, only recently cloaked in majesty.” He grinned again, more fiercely. Elisha smiled back, uncertainly.

  Cola wrapped his arm through Elisha’s and said carefully in German, “Come to my home, honored guest.”

  “Thank you,” Elisha replied, letting himself be towed along. The tribune’s favor could well allow him entry to places otherwise locked, and the tribune’s recent rise to power suggested mancers at work, though he did not sense any among this group. The men of the guard showed the usual faint shades of fighting men with blooded swords and battles to their honor, though some, including Cola himself, lacked even those.

  When they reached their tethered mounts, Cola ordered one of his men to walk so that Elisha could ride. They crossed a landscape of tight buildings interspersed with broken ruins, some ancient like that oval building by the Church of the Holy Cross, and others with scorch marks still recent and mounds of rubble pushed aside from the narrow streets. Everywhere he looked, new buildings incorporated bits of the past: columns, carved stones and the occasional stone coffin lid constructed into houses and shops. And everywhere he looked stood the churches. They passed at least twenty close up, and glimpses down the tangled ways showed doze
ns more towers and crosses in the distance. Elisha’s heart fell.

  No wonder Gilles wished to come here: the city must be stacked full of relics—more saints than citizens, given the emptiness of the streets. Clusters of people gave half-hearted cheers and waves as the soldiers rode by, and Cola waved back, clearly delighted, only to fall to brooding as they passed a huge round ruin fortified with new walls. He smiled at Elisha, transforming his worries into an expression bright and open. “Does the Bavarian follow after?” he asked in his studied German.

  Elisha hesitated. “His wife hopes to make the journey, for the Jubilee, at least.”

  “But this remains two years away! As you can see, we strive daily to prepare for that glorious time, but the beneficence of your emperor would encourage so many lesser kings to recognize what we have already achieved.”

  A city of ruins and rats. The tribune needed more than an emperor’s recognition to make this place ready for thousands of pilgrims. “I fear I bring sad tidings, Tribune. Ludwig the Bavarian is dead.”

  “È morto!” Cola crossed himself, his brow furrowing as he looked away. “But the Holy Father is close with this Charles, who is named emperor, and the Holy Father is one of our supporters. It shall be well. Simply, we shall make an embassy to Charles instead.” He glanced sidelong at Elisha. “But you have still come.”

  “Ludwig’s widow still wishes to make her pilgrimage, but she fears for her safety. I have come to be sure that she may travel here freely and unharmed.” Margaret and all the others coming for the Jubilee would be safer if Elisha could root out the mancers before they knew what he was doing.

  “Since the tribune has come, we are all safe!” cried one of the guards, twisting in his saddle, his German sharp and clear. “He has expelled the wicked barons and brought peace at last.”

  Cola raised his fist. “Many are firm in their support of the great Republic. Imagine what shall be the greatness of Rome when all the world acknowledges us!”

  They turned a corner beneath a huge palace, and the breeze carried a familiar putrid scent that curdled Elisha’s stomach. Alongside a set of broad, stone steps, three corpses hung from a scaffold, one nearly rotted to bone, the others more recent. To Elisha’s left eye, unnatural shadows edged their decaying flesh, remnants of their humanity, and his awareness hummed with the dread strength of the dead. The wind pushed their dangling feet and the hair that mercifully covered their faces, dark liquid dripping to the wooden platform below. Like the rest of the city, this fresh stain overlaid the old, along the shadow of the scaffold, broad enough to carry six men. The local mancers must hunger for this place.

  “Come, honored guest. Let us show you the hospitality of Rome.” The tribune tossed his reins to a waiting boy and slid down from his mount, smiling again, waiting for Elisha in the lee of the scaffold. “Tell me, how many of the seven have you seen so far?”

  “Sorry?” Elisha tore his gaze from the dead men.

  “The seven great churches of Rome which the Holy Father has decreed necessary to complete the pilgrimage. No doubt your queen shall wish to visit each. You shall help me to draft my condolences for the queen, and I shall have the maps and guides brought to you. Captain Rinaldo shall accompany you! As you see, he has the ease of language.” He pointed to the young man who spoke German. Rinaldo gave a short bow, but his presence chilled, his dark eyes focused on Elisha. A more partisan chaperon would be hard to find.

  Switching to his native tongue, Cola said, “Rinaldo, this man is a liar. I need to know why he’s really here. Don’t leave him alone.” He smiled, his tone light and cheerful, though the contact of his hand upon Elisha’s shoulder carried his suspicion along with his meaning.

  “Sì, Tribuna.” Rinaldo bowed sharply, also smiling.

  Then to Elisha, the tribune said, “If you rout any bandits or barons from the churches, we shall hang them on the steps.” He gestured toward the scaffold and grinned. “In the meantime, we eat!” Cola marched up the steps, his trumpeters once again sounding, his servants hurrying forward to see to his needs, his white drape slithering through the shadows of the dead.

  • • •

  Over a meal of marinated olives, dry cheese and local bread, the tribune regaled Elisha with stories of his army’s victories—signs that God approved of his cause. Cola reverted to the local dialect while Rinaldo translated, allowing Elisha to connect the unfamiliar Roman language with one he knew. He listened to the narrative, searching for evidence of mancer intervention, but finding none. In conclusion, Cola pointed to the emblem of a dove painted on the wall of the high chamber. “See, this dove is the sign of God’s pleasure in all that we do.”

  A door swung open to admit a tall man in a clerical robe. Elisha flinched as the man turned, for taut skin permanently sealed his right eye socket. The one-eyed priest glanced at the dove, then back to Cola. He moved carefully, as if he feared to fall, or simply to fall apart. “Have you enjoyed your bath, Tribune?” he inquired in sonorous Latin.

  “Indeed I have. It is refreshing to the body and brings clarity of thought.”

  “Certes,” the priest drawled, “but a bath may do the same without despoiling a holy place.”

  “Despoiling, Father Uccello?” Cola braced his hands upon the table. “I draw my inspiration from the empire, and what better inspiration than Constantine himself, who brought the light of truth to his pagan realm? They name you ‘the Silent One.’ I suggest you live up to it.”

  For a moment, Father Uccello froze, then made a visible effort to soften. “He bathes in the baptismal font of the Emperor Constantine,” the priest explained, echoing Lady Agnes’s breathless gossip. “An old argument.” His lips smiled, but his single hazel eye did not. It flicked from side to side, matching Elisha’s gaze in one eye then the other, taking in the difference between them.

  Elisha offered his hand in greeting—and for the chance to make contact.

  Father Uccello’s smile crimped as if he held it by force of will alone. Finally, he put out his hand, and Elisha held his breath. The man seemed, at first, to have no presence at all—but it was a deliberate self-effacement, not the hollow feel of a mancer cloaked in the power of death. “Well met, Father Uccello.”

  “Not long a student of Latin, I see, but you have come to the best place to practice.” Breaking the contact, he folded his hands carefully into his sleeves. “You are the man who would survey the seven churches? It is not possible. Half of the seven have no archpriest to oversee them—they are in haphazard condition at best. Of the others, two are in the hands of the Colonna. Until the wise tribune ceases to hang their kin, I doubt they shall be allowing visitors. I suggest you go home and tell your queen to stay in Bavaria—or perhaps she wishes to travel to the Holy Land and try her luck with the Saracens; they may be more accommodating.”

  Cola burst to his feet, shooting out his finger to jab the priest’s chest. “You, Father, are a coward.” He spoke in Italian, but his fury projected his meaning for any magus to receive. “Your family cannot supplant the Colonna, despite decades of trying, and so you speak as if they cannot be bested. I have beaten them before, and I shall do so again, even without your aid. Tell the Holy Father to come to Rome! Tell him to send us the funds for repairs and for battles, and we shall be ready for the pilgrims. It was I who suggested the Jubilee to begin with—myself and Petrarch—and the Holy Father agreed. Why now am I no longer supported?”

  Elisha thought the hanging corpses by the steps and the worried faces of the citizens suggested a few reasons, but he seized upon the fact that the Jubilee had been Cola’s idea, the event the mancers planned to use to draw their victims to the city. “Pardon me, Father, Tribune,” Elisha said, sending his words with a suggestion of calm. “Perhaps I can begin with the churches that are open.”

  “You should begin your pilgrimage at Saint Peter’s Basilica, Dottore,” said the priest. “My family, the Orsini”—a p
ointed look at Cola—“maintain it well, and I think that your safety can be assured on the route to get there. I shall obtain permission for such a visit. The churches of the apostles are vital to obtaining the indulgence for yourself.”

  “That had not been my intention,” Elisha said carefully.

  The priest made a soft sound of interest. “Have you no sins worthy of pilgrimage, Dottore?”

  “Father, if I tried to lift all of my sins, the queen would be a long time in waiting,” Elisha replied lightly.

  “Most men are reticent to admit to any sin. Your humility does you credit.” The priest’s smile widened. “There is no easy path to absolution, but the Church of San Lorenzo is not fortified, perhaps we may begin there.” The priest at last pinched up his robe a little and settled onto a chair. While older than Elisha, the priest seemed too young to have developed the problems of the joints that all of his movements suggested. The meal resumed, but each stab of a knife to spike an olive or slice a wedge of cheese seemed to heighten the tensions. When the Romans showed Elisha to a chamber where he might rest—along with the avid Rinaldo and a couple of other guards—they expressed indignance, if not surprise, at his tale that his belongings had been stolen on the road.

  Cola muttered in his own tongue that even a Colonna thief would have taken the rich fur-lined cloak and Elisha’s gold ring, and Rinaldo merely nodded, trying to look sympathetic for Elisha’s benefit. In spite of their suspicions, they found him bedding and expressed enthusiasm for his project. Their conversation shaped a landscape of Rome in Elisha’s mind, the palaces of Orsini and Colonna barons and all the minor nobles who divided between their two wary camps. Their struggle to claim the city since the Pope’s departure had battered Rome almost beyond recognition, with the brave citizens caught between. Until Cola rose up ready to lead them to victory. Or, he would be, if he had the money and supplies he needed. To which camp did the mysterious warden of the Valley belong? Did he hold power both worldly and magical, at the head of one of these warring households?