Monsignor Sanual was drinking again. He came out to watch them ride away, and called out to the cardinal that he was following a loser, that the false Pope would never enter New Rome, and that grief for the whole Church would follow.
“Thanks for your blessings, Messér,” the cardinal answered.
Hultor Bråm was not yet prepared to be a friend to a friend of his rival, but he had suffered a bad Friday night in the pit, and he knew that his report to the Bear Spirit council afterward had not been well received. Plainly, the Weejus had already made up their minds. He conceded to his warriors that unless Holy Madness experienced an even worse Saturday night in the Navel of the World, the office of Qæsach dri Vørdar would fall to the Wilddog sharf. At least the ancient office would be restored, reuniting the Three Hordes.
He noticed that Cardinal Brownpony had heard his remarks, and he gruffly asked the cardinal about his experience with the Mare. “Were you accepted as her stallion the other night?” he wanted to know. “Did you see her at all?”
The cardinal hesitated. “I’m not sure what I saw. You spend hours staring at patches of darkness, you begin to see, but it isn’t there.”
“What is it that wasn’t there?”
“There seemed to be a woman between me and the patch of dim light. I can’t describe her. She faced me, and her arms were raised. Then she disappeared.”
“Like the Buzzard of Battle?”
“They told you that’s what I saw. I never said it.”
Bråm nodded. “If I had seen it, I would be Qæsach dri Vørdar now. But I am going to die soon.”
“Are you ill?”
“You saw the Buzzard of Battle. That is your future. They say I saw mine.” Bråm laughed and rode away. Later one of the warriors told the cardinal that the Weejus had decided that the Grasshopper sharf had met the Night Hag in the pit, although, the man said, the Weejus had prejudged the contest in favor of Holy Madness, provided he survived the pit, and that he personally did not believe that Bråm would die as a result of the pit.
The warriors were feeling playful. Bråm had promised them they would be well paid by the Church for performing this escort duty. Brownpony grew more uneasy about the promise each time it was mentioned. He had not spoken of money to the Grasshopper sharf. Perhaps someone else in the Curia had made the offer, or even Papa Specklebird.
He watched the warriors gamboling on the grasslands under the September sun. A man stood up on horseback. Another stood up, and chased the first rider so closely that he had to sit down fast or fall. There was whooping laughter. One warrior could slide down his stallion’s flank and crawl under his belly and up the other side. After he had done this three times, the horse began to have an erection. He crawled down a fourth time, took a look, and crawled back up. Somebody yelled a merry insult at him, and in a moment both were on the ground in a knife fight. Hultor Bråm came riding back, watched the deadly dance for a moment, then adjusted his tall leather helmet with his grandmother’s crest and the badge of a war sharf.
There was a splatter of blood, not a deep cut, but it brought an order to drop the weapons. “Finish it with your hands and feet,” Sharf Hultor barked, “or stop it right now. Hear me well! No killing! Not among ourselves. If you have a grudge against a comrade, save it until this war party gets back home.”
“Why does he call it a war party?” Brownpony asked the man who rode beside him. “It was meant to be an honor guard.”
“The Grasshopper is always at war,” declared the rider, and spurred his horse to distance himself from this farmer and red-hat Christian.
CHAPTER 16
The beds, moreover, are to be examined frequently by the Abbot, to see if any private property be found in them. If anyone should be found to have something that he did not receive from the Abbot, let him undergo the most severe discipline.
—Saint Benedict’s Rule, Chapter 55
T WAS A TROOP OF FOOLS, THOUGHT THE commander of the police guard. Thirty-seven cardinals rode horseback along with the Pope while another twenty-four bounced along in the beds of wagons dragged across the roadless grasslands by mules. Thirty Denver mounted police and thirty Wilddog warriors escorted the party, although this force would turn back when the party reached Grasshopper country and met the riders of Sharf Bråm.
When they reached the boundary, they pitched camp and waited for the warriors of the Grasshopper.
Amen Specklebird had waited more patiently than the others. The tents provided by their Wilddog escorts were comfortable enough, and the Pope insisted that the cardinals join him each day in singing Lauds, the Mass, and Vespers, and to pray the other canonical prayers in common. Most of them were accustomed to muttering the first few lines of each psalm; they called it reciting the breviary.
The camp of the itinerant Curia was surrounded by curious women and children of both Wilddog and Grasshopper families whose herds or breeding pits were located nearby, but the escorting warriors kept them at a distance to prevent thievery. Everyone was relieved, except perhaps the warriors themselves, when the Grasshopper riders appeared on the crest of the hill, not gamboling or quarreling now, but riding in a typical Grasshopper battle formation, a line of advance that surged alternately here and fell back there, making the order of battle difficult for the enemy to portray. The Wilddog scouts, outnumbered, grabbed their lances and sidearms and moved to mount their stallions, but Hultor Bråm called a halt and cried out, “Peace! In the name of the Fujæ Go.”
The Curia watched as Cardinal Brownpony left their fierce ranks and rode forward. Amen Specklebird advanced to meet him, and raised him up when he fell to the ground to kiss the fisherman’s ring.
“We have heard, Elia, that Jarad is with Christ, not yet risen.”
That was a curious way of putting it, but the cardinal answered, “I knew that would be the first thing you mentioned, Holy Father. If you will excuse me from your presence, I should like to travel now to Leibowitz Abbey and join their mourning.”
The old black panther seemed surprised. “I thought you would be going on south of the Nady Ann to visit your Churches in the Province.”
“That too, Holy Father. But the Texark forces will be expecting me to cross the Nady Ann, not the Bay Ghost. If I come in from the west, I may not be arrested. And it should only take a day or two to pay my respects at the abbey.”
“We shall excommunicate anyone who dares lay a finger on you in the Province. I’ll put that in writing. You are ordered to go to Leibowitz Abbey, and then east to Jackrabbit country.”
“Thank you. I wish to go on to Hannegan City afterward, Holy Father.”
“Then you go as my legate. The wax on your orders will be sealed by my ring. I’ll send the papers by messenger to the abbey.”
“Forgive me, but that may not impress the Archbishop or his nephew.”
“You do not have my permission to be a martyr, Elia.”
“Do I need it?”
Amen smiled and changed the subject. “How are our friends among the Weejus and the Bear Spirit? And how was that cave of theirs? You were in it one night?”
“Breeding pit, Holy Father. To be frank, I think its reputation is highly exaggerated by myth and storytelling. It must have been a dangerous place centuries ago, but unless some ill befell Holy Madness, I believe its devil has lost her cunning.” He spoke these words three weeks before an attack of nausea and lethargy came over him at Leibowitz Abbey.
When he parted from the Pope and the Curia, he went to thank Hultor Bråm for his courtesy. Bråm complained that no money was forthcoming. The cardinal merely denied any knowledge of the problem, and left it in the hands of the weary prelates of the Pope’s company.
Pope Amen’s last words to him were “See about Leibowitz Abbey, Elia. Tell them to elect their new abbot, and you impart to him my confirmation. Cardinal Onyo here will be a witness that I so instructed you, if there is any later question.”
A quick embrace ended it. He looked back at the Grasshopper escor
t. The Wilddog warriors and the Valana police gave them wide berth. The Wilddog mounted, and rode west-northwest, while the policemen lingered for a time.
Later historians were to suggest that the war which destroyed the papacy began when Amen Specklebird accepted the ninety-nine Grasshopper warriors who had been recruited by Hultor Bråm, separated from their families by Hultor Bråm, trained, drilled, and indoctrinated by Hultor Bråm, but not paid by Hultor Bråm, because the Grasshopper sharf was angry with Cardinal Brownpony, and extended his anger to Brownpony’s master. After the comptroller with the Pope’s party told him there was no gold with the train, the commander of the police guard explained the situation to the Pope.
The papacy in Valana had signed a contract with certain Wilddog and Grasshopper families to furnish for hire fresh horses to Church messengers at relay stations so that crossing the Plains from the Denver Republic to the marginal farmlands of the East could be accomplished in less than ten days. One enterprising Wilddog family and one Grasshopper undertook to carry mail across the Plains, competing with Church messenger service, but not with Hannegan’s telegraph. These families were given certain immunities in both written and horde law. It was too early to say that a new class of Nomad entrepreneur was immediately coming into being, but certain grandmothers were accumulating an embarrassment of riches from providing services to the enemy: to civilization. Nomad society had always followed the wild, unfenced cattle, and a wealth of possessions made one’s village less portable. But it was under the terms of this contract, as construed by Bråm, that payment was expected.
“Promise to pay them later” was all Pope Amen could say.
After a promise was made to Bråm, the Pope and the Curia proceeded east with these tutelary demons on horseback. Because of the weariness of old men, the journey took four days instead of two. The Pope was fond of chatting with ordinary people, and he spoke frequently to members of the Grasshopper escort along the way, whenever an opportunity arose.
“Our tribes are angry,” one of them told him. “We are angry because the Wilddog has allowed Churchmen to be guests at the sacred meeting of the hordes. Not only is Cardinal Brownpony there, but so is an emissary from Archbishop Benefez. And Brownpony favors Ösle Høngan Chür over Hultor Bråm.”
The Pope took note of the warrior’s polite reversal of Holy Madness’ name. Angry or not, he accepted the grandmothers’ political will, their favoritism for the Wilddog sharf, as legitimately governing the electoral situation on the Plains. But his resentment of Brownpony was extended to Brownpony’s master, the Pope, and thus wages had been requested in advance.
Amen tried to reassure him that the men would be paid, but the list of complaints was not ended.
“Furthermore, the Wilddog offered Monsignor Sanual food and shelter.”
“I would have thought Benefez’s man would stay with the Jackrabbit delegates,” Specklebird remarked.
“Oh, yes, he wanted to. There are Christian priests among the Jackrabbit Bear Spirit delegates. The Jackrabbit delegates are in danger of seeming to be puppets of the Texark Church.”
“There is only one Church, my son.”
And so went the journey.
According to the Treaty of the Sacred Mare, any farmer or soldier of the Empire who entered Grasshopper territory while bearing arms could expect attack, and any armed Nomad within musket range of the Empire’s frontier could be fired upon. Thus, when the Pope’s party crossed the hill overlooking the frontier checkpoint, Hultor Bråm and his men halted. The warriors were still grumbling to their sharf about not being paid, but the sharf was watching the confrontation at the border crossing.
“One way or another, you’ll all be paid,” he insisted, “maybe sooner than you think.”
As the procession of prelates approached the gate, Amen Specklebird descended from his coach and brushed the dust of the Plains from his white cassock. He approached the officer who stood with folded arms in the center of the road. Flanking him were two soldiers with double-barreled weapons, probably loaded with buckshot.
“By orders of the Hannegan, you cannot pass,” the officer announced. “If you try, you will be arrested.”
“Do not bar the way, my son. Bow to God’s will.”
“Show me God’s will.”
“Pick up your right foot, and look.”
The officer obeyed, and reddened.
“I see my right foot’s shadow,” he said, ignoring the horseshit with his footprint in it.
“His will is already done,” said Specklebird. “Too bad.”
“Such a smartass! They call it your ‘wisdom,’ don’t they? Forgive me, but it is a pain in the butt to me, Your, uh, Holiness. I don’t think the Lord Mayor will find it a pleasure, either. Why don’t you say something new, in plain Ol’zark?”
Amen grinned at him and pointed to the sun while squinting. The colonel’s eyes may have flickered, but he resisted looking and said, “Nice try, old man. There are good frauds and bad frauds, I guess. You’re pretty good, aren’t you?”
“I never thought of it that way, my son, but my office requires it of me, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know whether to spit on you or kneel to you, old fool. But make it easy for yourself and go home.”
“Colonel, why trap yourself in dualism that way?”
“What are you calling dualism?”
“Spitting God or kneeling God.”
“I have my orders from the Hannegan himself. Get back in your coach, turn around, and go back to Valana, or you will find yourself in Hannegan City, facing a heresy trial. Say another word, and I’ll testify to everything you say here.”
“Bless you, my son, and thank you.”
The colonel snorted, spoke in an aside to a captain, then mounted and rode away in a huff. The captain pointed a cavalry pistol at the Pope’s thin black face. Two cardinals caught the Pope’s arms and a third pushed him back toward the train.
Thus was the road to New Rome closed to New Rome’s bishop.
The Grasshopper warriors parted to allow them to pass, but made no move to escort them back, even when Golopez Cardinal Onyo beckoned to Bråm. Bråm frowned and shook his head. His warriors stood there watching until they became a patch of dust in the west. Wearily, Amen’s party (a good part of the Sacred College) turned to remake the long journey. From far behind came the faint sound of shouting and gunfire, but there was nothing the prelates could do about it, and Pope Amen was a little hard of hearing. From the patches of forest at the east, through scrub and tall grass, through open grassland, through blistering days and chilly nights in the near-desert, some of it irrigated at last, and finally to the mountains they passed. Along the way, they accepted Nomad charity, and they were intercepted at one point by a delegation from the breeding pit.
Chür Ösle Høngan had married the Fujæ Go. The new Qæsach dri Vørdar, Lord of the Three Hordes, whose wife was the Day Maiden, knelt to kiss the Pope’s ring and swore allegiance to His Holiness forever, in the name of God and His Virgin.
Before they parted, Golopez Cardinal Onyo called Holy Madness aside and told him about the behavior of Sharf Hultor Bråm after they had been turned back by the border guard. “They did not return with us, and I heard gunfire and shouting. I cannot be sure, but I think there was fighting.”
The Lord of the Three Hordes sat astride his stallion and gathered a slow frown. “If he did what I’m afraid he did, I’ll have his head.”
“The Pope knows nothing,” Onyo told him.
“I’ll send to find something out immediately.” He grunted an order to a subordinate, then rode away with his party back toward the breeding pit. The subordinate rode east.
There was something to find out. At the border that day, the Grasshopper escort, standing half a mile distant from all events at the gate, began to move. As soon as the dust of the Pope’s party had dwindled beyond the hills, War Sharf Hultor Bråm ordered his ninety-nine elite fighters to take the road to Rome by a feat of arms. They cir
cled south, and cut the road to Hannegan City toward which the colonel who had defied the Pope was riding homeward. He was among the first of many troops to die that day.
They turned north again. The road to Rome was swiftly taken, but only on a very temporary basis. These born-in-the-saddle man-animals cut through the Texark Light Horse, leaving other men and animals full of arrows and spear wounds on the ground. Slow firearms fell back before rapid and accurate bows. Many Grasshoppers used captured sidearms, but only as backup weapons. The Nomad horses were faster and better, and together with their fighters they became for the unseasoned troopers truly the riders of the Apocalypse, ninety-nine of them and a leader with a demonic attitude. They had not been paid, for nobody had brought the papal treasury. They cut the troopers to pieces, killed 146 farmers, raped their wives, daughters, sisters, mothers, sons, and then cut their way back to the frontier through fresh but green reinforcements—cut their way back, yes, all thirty-three of them, adrenaline-drunk, exhausted, including a leader with a brooding attitude and a bad leg. But their saddlebags bulged, and once on the Plains again, they made travois to carry some of the loot. Now they had been paid.
The foray had been just a hell of a good party for the survivors, who came back to their grateful and waiting wives, some of whose hearts and crotches quivered with anxiety and hope, with mostly overworked and limp male members! It took amatory ingenuity on a warrior’s part that night to convince a wife that he came home from battle with a real lust for her sexual candy, but most pleaded combat fatigue and went to bed alone.
Saint Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman Page 25