The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  Timoteo’s eyes grew very wide.

  A guard entered the antechamber where the Cardinals were clustered in their confusion, a squirming figure thrown over his shoulder. He dumped his cargo in the middle of the marble floor, and gesturing at it, he offered a terse explanation. “This one ran up to me like he was being pursued by the Devil,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, Fieschi saw da Capua hastily make the sign of the Cross to ward off any truth to the man’s statement. “Name’s Timoteo, he says. He’s seen something. Maybe what you’re looking-”

  “Of course,” Fieschi said, waving the guard away from the boy sprawled on the floor. The boy was still half hysterical, and with little prompting from Fieschi, his story spilled out in frighteningly rapid rush of words. The Cardinals listened to his story, and their expressions changed from incredulity to disbelief to-for more than a few-horror. Especially when he reached the part about…

  Fieschi nearly pounced on him. “Magical priest?” he said, furiously gesturing the others to back away. “This man. Was his name Bendrito? Father Rodrigo Bendrito?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said, trembling even more now that he was being stared at by so many angry, well-dressed men. “I was assigned to go with him into the city.”

  Annibaldi glanced up and signaled to one of the several extraneous guards by the door. “Release Lucio,” he said, “but bring him back here.” Then his eyes, like all the others in the room, went back to the boy.

  “He took me to the marketplace at the Forum,” the boy said. “He was kind, he seemed normal, until we got there, and then… and then…”

  “And then what?” demanded Fieschi. “What happened? Where is he? Why did you leave him there? He could be anywhere now!”

  “Oh, no, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said, gaining courage. “He’ll be very easy to find. You’d have a hard time not finding him, I think.”

  “What does that mean, boy?” Fieschi demanded, as all the Cardinals exchanged confused looks.

  “He began preaching,” said the boy, and stood up, taking a deep breath as if to reassure himself his lungs could still do that. “Like all those crazy preachers in the marketplace. He began prophesying and talking about the Mongol invaders bringing an end to the world, and how to defeat them.”

  There was the slightest collective sigh as all the Cardinals exchanged knowing glances. “So he is still demented,” said Fieschi. “Despite reports to the contrary.”

  “He did not seem demented, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said. “He got a lot of attention right away. Well, not he himself so much, but…” his eyes widened. “Your Eminences, I know you won’t believe this, but he was carrying… he said it was… it did look-”

  “What?” Fieschi demanded.

  The boy seemed on the verge of tears, but his face was caught between despair and such a wild delight that Fieschi could not help but feel a sense of dread creeping over him.

  “It glowed,” the boy said, “When he held it up. It was so bright, and it blinded me. I put up my hand to shield my eyes, but he turned it and it only glowed more brightly. He smiled at me, and… and he said it was-”

  “Damnation, boy!” Fieschi could not contain his impatience. “What was he tossing around out there?”

  “The Cup,” the boy said, staring around at the group. “The Cup of Christ.”

  “What?” demanded most of the voices of the room, followed immediately by Colonna and Capocci breaking into quiet guffaws.

  “I saw it,” the boy insisted.

  Fieschi watched his face closely. At heart, Timoteo seemed a practical young fellow, and the reactions of the Cardinals had made him swallow hard. Perhaps he was wishing he’d never said a word, but Fieschi suspected the boy would defend his story vigorously, now that he had told it. He would elaborate now, adding more details to the story. It was quite wonderful, actually, he reflected, to see how God shaped the world with such subtlety.

  The priest was mad, clearly, and this boy’s testimony was only going to further the Cardinals’ impression of the priest’s insanity. The new Pope would need strict guidance, they would all see that, and it would be so much easier for him to insert himself…

  “I was standing right next to him,” Timoteo said. “It materialized from nowhere, and then suddenly he was holding it in his hands, and the sunlight hit it, and rays spread out from it in all directions-” here Timoteo excitedly and awkwardly tried to demonstrate emanating rays. “It was almost as if the light was reaching out to touch people, people in the crowd, and you could see it, you could see when they were touched, their faces changed, they lit up, they suddenly could not take their eyes away from him. It was the most miraculous thing I have ever seen in my life!”

  The boy had gone quite far enough. Such a story could be dangerous, after all, if it got around. “That’s blasphemy,” said Fieschi sharply. “There is nothing miraculous about it, it was just a trick of the light. Why did you leave him there unattended when you were ordered not to?”

  “But he wasn’t unattended, Your Eminence,” the boy said. “Hundreds and hundreds of people were hanging on his every word-”

  “The child exaggerates,” Fieschi said with contempt, and turned away from him. He gestured to one of the bishops. “Send guards to the Forum to find Father Rodrigo before he disappears again. Tell them to look for the crazy preacher.”

  “There are a lot of crazy preachers in that marketplace,” Capocci pointed out with a smile.

  “He… you will find him, surely,” Timoteo said hurriedly, trying to be helpful. “He is the one that hundreds of people are flocking to. He could have jumped off the ledge where we were standing and been caught and carried away by them, they were so packed together, jostling to come closer, to see this miracle-and more were moving toward him every moment. I was sure we would be separated by the crowd, for there were people climbing up the ruins to get near to him. I thought it was my duty to come back here and inform Your Eminences of what was happening. Of… what I saw.” He blinked at Fieschi, wide-eyed innocence. “Have I done wrong?”

  For a moment, Fieschi was too flabbergasted to speak.

  “It seems our new Pope already has both a calling, and a following,” Colonna announced philosophically. “We really must give him more credit.”

  Ferenc, Ocyrhoe, and the rest of the party from the Emperor’s camp entered the city without incident from the Porta Labicana, and took the left of the broad roads. This led a mile west to the Colosseum, where a turn to the left would lead south to the Septizodium.

  The day was hot and dry, and the streets too noisy for comfortable conversation. Ocyrhoe led the way with Ferenc beside her, the adults abreast behind them. Occasionally Ocyrhoe would glance over her shoulder to make sure they were still close on her heels. Each time, she saw them making assorted faces of displeasure. She took it as a personal insult that they did not like her city.

  When at last they reached the ruined Colosseum-and she exacted some satisfaction from the amazed expression on surly Helmuth’s face-she was surprised to notice that all the foot traffic was suddenly heading only in one direction: westward. People were moving into the market area between the Colosseum and the Forum, but nobody seemed to be leaving.

  Ocyrhoe knew her city well, knew how to read its pulses as if it were a living organism. Beside her, Ferenc was equally distracted, picking up on other clues from his own training: something strange was afoot.

  The two of them stopped at the same moment. Ocyrhoe did not even bother to sign. She simply glanced ahead toward the marketplace, just out of view around the bend of the Colosseum, and then looked back at Ferenc, raising her eyebrows. He raised his too, and nodded.

  From the market, echoing from the walls, boomed a great voice, and around that voice, the murmurs of entranced listeners… like the lowing of contented cows in a field.

  “Father Rodrigo,” Ferenc said.

  Ocyrhoe nodded.

  Without explaining, they turned together toward the market,
ignoring the protests from their companions, who held back for a moment, then ran to keep up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He Never Faltered

  Rutger leaped to his feet as the spear sailed through the air. The collective voices of the audience turned from raucous cheers to screams of panic. The Shield-Brethren in attendance at the arena wore maille and carried weapons under their cloaks and plain robes in preparation for the culmination of Andreas’s plan. But everything had gone horrifically wrong the moment one of Dietrich’s men had walked into the arena instead of one of the Khan’s fighters. The Shield-Brethren had all been waiting for the fight to end, hoping that their brother would be triumphant, but fearing they would be forced to watch him fall. Forced to watch one of theirs die, unable to do anything to prevent it. And their plan would have come to naught, undone by the Livonian Grandmaster’s desire for revenge. Everything undone.

  But Andreas-bold, stupid, heroic Andreas-had refused to give up. He had tried to save them anyway.

  Rutger’s eyes followed the path of the shaft as it vanished between the curtains of the Khan’s box. He stared at the billowing curtains, trying to ascertain if it had hit its target. His lips moved in a silent prayer. Give me some sign.

  A Mongol swathed in silks and drenched in blood, staggered into view, the spear through his midsection. He was thin, dressed like a functionary.

  Andreas had missed his target. The gambit had failed.

  Everything was undone.

  The death of the Khan would have made for much more confusion, which they had planned to use to their advantage. As it was, their enemy was simply aroused and angry, actively seeking the presence of enemies within the crowd. They had to flee the arena before anyone realized they were there. Before anyone thought to look more closely at their bulky clothing. They could not afford to be caught in a riot.

  Hans wanted to scream, but his throat had seized. Wedged as he was between two watchers in the common stands, the cacophony of the crowd would have drowned him out anyway, yet he struggled to make his voice work. As if the sound of his voice might somehow change the gruesome scene before him. He struggled to make a noise as the Livonian’s hand brought the heavy sword down on the Rose Knight’s shoulder. The blade did not bounce off the maille, but sheared through the mesh, cutting deeply into the body underneath. I told him there would be a friend.

  The deafening roar of the crowd overwhelmed him, hurting his ears and making the wood floor tremble and shake. The world is falling apart, he thought, and we will all fall through the cracks.

  Andreas fell, a violent spray of blood all around him-in the air, in the sand. Hans wanted to look away, but his eyes-like his mouth-refused to obey. He could no more look away than he could stop what was happening with his tiny voice. Get up! he silently begged, though he knew Andreas would not. He had seen blood like this, when the Mongols had sacked Legnica, and he knew the wound was fatal. He knew there was nothing God could do to save the Rose Knight. Nothing anyone could do.

  They knew, he realized, staring at the red cross on the other man’s chest. Somehow, the Livonians had known of Andreas and Kim’s plan. And if they had known…

  The others. I have to warn the others. Now it was his legs that wouldn’t move. He had to do something-anything-but he was frozen in place, held captive by the horrible spectacle.

  He did not want to watch, but he couldn’t tear himself away as the Livonian raised his sword again.

  The crowd was shrieking now, no longer cheering the wild battle down below. The Livonian had struck Andreas at the shoulder, and the greatsword had sliced through his maille, splitting Andreas from shoulder to hip. The sand was a filthy pit of red mud, and Andreas-somehow, by the Virgin! — was still alive.

  Rutger forced his way to the rail, trying to ignore what was happening as he looked elsewhere. The gates were open below, and Mongol guards were streaming into the arena. In the stands, panic was already tearing through the crowds as some of the onlookers tried to flee the riot they knew was coming while others surged toward the rail. He spotted several of the Shield-Brethren, confusion and frustration writ over their features. Nearby, Styg was openly weeping, his mouth screwed up into an expression of inescapable horror. As he watched, something died inside the young man and his mouth snapped shut. He surged forward, shoving his way toward the rail.

  “No!” Rutger intercepted him, hauling him back from the wooden barrier. The pain in his hands made him gasp, but he held on, holding the young man back.

  Styg fought him, great sobbing gasps quaking his body. “We can’t let him do this!” Styg shouted at him, and Rutger stole a glance over his shoulder at the killing floor below. “That’s our brother!”

  The Livonian was still cutting, his sword rising and falling like a butcher’s cleaver, even though the body beneath his blade was clearly dead.

  “Aye,” Rutger snarled, hauling the young man around so that he would no longer look upon the bloody spectacle of the field. “And if you go down there, you will join him. Others will follow you, and it will all be for naught. We are done here. Get to the horses!”

  He barked at the other Shield-Brethren within earshot. “Go, now. Get back to the chapter house.”

  He wasn’t sure if they heard him, but they could read his command in the anguish of his face, in the bared ferocity of his teeth, in the wild fury of his gaze. They understood him, and obeyed, fleeing the retribution that was to come.

  To the chapter house, he thought. They would regroup, grieve briefly, and then they would ready themselves. His mind raced, leaping across a dozen different courses of action as his men melted into the teeming chaos of the fleeing crowds. He gave Styg one last shove, ensuring that the young man was moving in the right direction, and then he spared one last glance back at the arena and the Khan’s box.

  A Mongol dignitary, wrapped in bloody silk, the spear jutting out of his body, sprawled against the railing of the Khan’s pavilion. The curtains had been pulled close around the box, and the roof of the pavilion was swarming with the Khan’s archers.

  Andreas, he thought as he let himself fall back in the crowd. It should have been me.

  Roosting crows cawed irritably from the rafters of the barn. Hunern had become a ghostly ruin. The Mongols had withdrawn into their camp, barring their gates and shielding their Khan. The streets were empty but for a few stragglers, too drunk or senseless to seek shelter. Even the birds had gone into hiding.

  Dietrich knew the silence wouldn’t last. The Mongol retreat was a strategic withdrawal so that they could order their ranks. Once they got over the initial shock of the assault, they were going to ride out in full force. While their main focus was going to be on the Shield-Brethren, there was little doubt in his mind that every living soul between them and the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae was going to be counted as an enemy.

  If they survived, there was still the issue of Kristaps’s actions to be dealt with. War had been declared between the two orders.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Dietrich snarled at Kristaps when he found the man. “I didn’t tell you to kill him while his back was turned.”

  Kristaps stood before a water trough in the barn that was serving as a basin, washing Andreas’s blood from his sword. From tip to hilt, the weapon had been coated with the blood of the Shield-Brethren, and no one had dared try to take the blade from Volquin’s Dragon.

  “I’ve likely saved our order, Heermeister,” Kristaps replied with an unnerving calm. The knight looked at Dietrich, and the Heermeister was struck by the utter lack of feeling in the man’s unflinching gaze.

  “By starting a war?” Dietrich snapped. He was in no mood for double-talk, and Kristaps’s implacable stare was unnerving.

  “By making our intent clear to those who truly hold the power here,” Kristaps replied bluntly. “When the knight made his dash to throw his spear, how would it have looked if I’d let him live? Especially given that you bribed my way into the fight. They would h
ave seen two Western orders putting aside their differences to defy the Khan. What vengeance comes next would as likely fall on our heads as theirs. To save us, I had to defend the Khan’s honor.”

  Silence hung between them, filled by the chatter of crows in the rafters. In the distance, a bell started to toll. Dusk was upon the city, and the dolorous tone of the bell made Dietrich shiver involuntarily. Night was coming, and only God knew if any of them would see another sunrise.

  He had ordered his men to start striking their camp. They had to be ready to ride at a moment’s notice. The compound had served as suitable shelter for his order, but it would not protect them at all when the Mongolian wrath was unleashed. Even if Kristaps was correct in his assessment, it would only buy them a little time. The Mongols would turn their attention to the other orders once they finished destroying the Shield-Brethren. He couldn’t overlook what had happened at Mohi. The Mongols did not discriminate.

  There was something else, though. A thought nagged at Dietrich and he stared at the First Sword of Fellin, trying to elucidate his concern. “You made your point when you killed him,” he said, now holding his knight’s gaze. I will not be cowed. I am your Heermeister. “You did not need to mutilate his body.”

  Kristaps said nothing, though whether his silence was due to genuine regret, which Dietrich doubted, or because there was no proper way to excuse his behavior, was not apparent.

  The big knight had already doffed his maille, and he slowly slid the sleeves of his gambeson up to his elbows. He raised his forearms to Dietrich, revealing circular scars on both arms. Old burns, seared deep into the meat of his forearms. In the fading light of the day, they looked like heraldic devices, though smeared and stretched across the skin.

  Kristaps’s blue eyes flashed. “They mutilated me first.”

  But for the evening birds and the distant tolling of a bell in Hunern, the Shield-Brethren toiled in silence. Armor was being donned, swords sharpened, and those horses that were not yet readied were being saddled. Rutger felt the pain in his joints acutely, a grinding heat in the knuckles of his fingers. It had robbed him of his place in the order years ago, and the succeeding years had slowly buried his disappointment until he had come to accept the lesser role of quartermaster. But there was a need to hold a sword again.