The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  “I understand why they want me,” Ocyrhoe said after listening awhile to the distant sound of guards stomping around in the hallways. “I abetted fugitives. But you had nothing to do with it. You should be allowed to go back to Frederick.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I learn what has happened to the Binders of Rome,” Lena said. “That requires me to spend some time with Senator Orsini.”

  “You aren’t safe with him,” Ocyrhoe pointed out with a note of alarm.

  Lena smiled at her. “Our sisters have gone missing. The Senator knows what has happened to them. How could I not try to learn the truth?”

  Ocyrhoe shuddered. “I do not want to be alone with him.”

  “You’re a child; you’re not even fully trained,” Lena said. “That you survived the Senator’s efforts to this point is almost miraculous. Fear is natural, Ocyrhoe; it is guilt which you must not succumb to.”

  “I could have done more,” Ocyrhoe mumbled, embarrassed that Lena had so clearly seen the source of her fear.

  “In any crisis, survivors will always berate themselves that they could have done more,” Lena said, almost to herself. She blinked and then her sharp focus returned to Ocyrhoe. “I should get you out of Rome,” she said, almost as if to herself.

  “Where would I go?” Ocyrhoe demanded, alarmed. “The farthest I’ve ever gone outside the city walls was the Emperor’s camp two days ago! I’d rather stay here with you and face Orsini.”

  “Do not take offense at this, child, but you would only be a hindrance to me,” Lena said. “If you want to be of assistance to me, put yourself as far away from here as possible,” she said with a firm but reassuring tone.

  “Why?” Ocyrhoe asked.

  “As long as you stay here, you can be used against me,” Lena said. “In much the same way that I can be used to bind you. Do you not see how Orsini has kept you here? You fear you cannot leave because of your missing sisters, but what have you done to rescue them? Can you do anything? How does this inaction serve them, or you, or me?”

  “But I’m their prisoner here, I can’t just leave,” Ocyrhoe said. “And I have nowhere to go outside the city, I have no experience in the wilderness, I don’t know how to get food, I’ll have nowhere to sleep…” A terrifying vulnerability brought her to the brink of panic and made it hard for her to think straight enough even to form words. “What do I do? How can I survive, let alone as a Binder? Is there someone you can send me to? Is there someplace I should go to? Will Frederick take me back with him to some other city where they still have Binders who can teach me? What about-”

  “Calm yourself!” Lena said, raising her voice.

  Ocyrhoe pressed her lips shut and looked up at her with frightened eyes.

  “Thank you.” The elder Binder crossed the room with the energy of a captive tiger running out of patience with its captors. “I cannot answer any of those questions. You may certainly go back to Frederick’s camp, since it is easy to find, but I would not suggest you stay there long.”

  “Can’t you come back with me?” Ocyrhoe nearly begged. “Isn’t he expecting you? Aren’t you bound to serve him?”

  “Not constantly,” Lena retorted. “I am not his Binder, I am a Binder who works with him. I have, in fact, worked with the Church too. The previous Pope, Gregory IX, found me useful from time to time. If I do not return to Frederick’s camp by the time they return to Germany, he will simply leave without me. He knows I will wend my way back toward his court as opportunity arises.”

  “Well then…” Ocyrhoe was trying very hard not to sound like a frightened child, but that was difficult as she felt, at that moment, exactly like a frightened child. “Could you not go back to the camp with me, just long enough to ask him to take me with him, and then you could come back here to face off with the Bear?”

  Lena looked at her. Just looked. Said nothing. Did not send her any mental images or feelings. Ocyrhoe met the gaze, hoping at first that something promising would come of it. Nothing did. Ocyrhoe was left with her own fear and longing, and she understood what Lena was telling her: “It is up to me alone to find my place in the world now,” she said, very much hating this truth.

  Lena’s expression softened. “You have been learning how to do that for awhile now, and you have done very well.”

  “I have had my city to protect me. Outside those walls I will be as exposed as a black fly on a white wall.”

  Lena gave her a sympathetic smile. “Have greater faith in your ability.”

  “It is a moot point anyhow, since I have no means of leaving,” Ocyrhoe pointed out. Suddenly, captivity seemed comforting.

  “You will find, in your life as a Binder,” Lena assured her, “that what you need will be offered to you, in unexpected ways and times. I do not know how you will come to leave the city, but I am confident you will. And soon.”

  Orsini had gone back to his palace in disgust. He had made it very clear what he thought of Fieschi’s comportment during the recent events. It had taken every atom of restraint Fieschi had to remain composed throughout the diatribe.

  The entire Vatican compound was in hysterics over the absence of the unanointed Pope. Liberated from the Bear’s oppressive blustering, Fieschi now found himself saddled with the equally irritating presence of his fellow Cardinals. They had collected together in the round chapel where the vote had first been cast. After agreeing upon this as a meeting place, they seemed unable to agree on anything else at all.

  “I’m relieved for the fellow Bendrito,” Annibaldi said.

  “I would do the same thing in his position,” Capocci said in agreement. “We gave him a dreadful job, and he did not want it. He has abandoned the throne of Saint Peter.”

  Fieschi regarded Capocci warily, trying to ascertain the bearded Cardinal’s mind-set. His allegiances can be as tangled as his beard, he thought.

  “Perhaps, the word you mean to use is abdicated,” Colonna provided.

  Capocci shrugged, idly chewing on a strand of his beard, as if he couldn’t be bothered with the minutia of language.

  “Regardless,” Bonaventura added, sensing an opportunity, “we should thank him for having made such a difficult decision so quickly and with such firmness of purpose.”

  “We are without a Pope once again?” de Segni asked, sounding weary.

  “Must we go through another round of voting?” Gil Torres nearly wailed.

  “I am here,” Monferrato offered, eyes wide as always. “I was sent to break the tie.”

  “We cannot vote for another Pope while we currently have a living one,” Fieschi argued, with less vehemence than he was feeling. While he had doubts about his ability to control Father Rodrigo-even if they could find the fellow-Fieschi was also doubtful he could control the outcome of a new vote. At best, Father Rodrigo was still his best chance of keeping the Church on the right path. The confusion of the election, the fire in the Septizodium, what he had done for God in those subterranean halls: all of these things were feeding a growing insecurity, a bleakness born of all these doubts. A bleakness he could not afford to let control him.

  “We don’t know that he is living,” Colonna said. “There is no way to prove that.”

  “We also don’t know that he is dead,” Fieschi retorted. “Nor is there any way to prove that.”

  Capocci’s eyes shifted back and forth a moment, and Fieschi found himself dreading what crazy idea was about to sprout from that man’s head. “Yes there is!” Capocci suddenly shouted. The various muttered arguments and conversations in the room hushed, and his ten fellows turned to him.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “We can engineer a solution. That there is a new Pope is known by all of Rome-we have burned the straw, they have seen the white smoke, and news travels fast. Every baron in Christendom has some spy or messenger in the city, waiting to hear the news so that they may return home. We cannot pretend we do not have a Pope. However, nobody has any idea what he looks like. Nobody outside the Vatican compound
even knows his name. Now, couple that with the following observation: if we disregard Father Rodrigo’s existence, and take another vote right now, we’ll have a stalemate, even with our eminent new brother joining us”-and here he gestured toward Monferrato-“we would have a stalemate now, and a week from now, and probably a month from now. And during that day or week or month, the whole world thinks we have a Pope, and wants to hear from him. So we must give them a Pope-immediately.” He looked around the room with anticipation, as if he were seeking somebody who could guess what his next words would be and shout them out like an eager student. Nobody did. Not even Colonna. “Therefore,” he prompted. “We present them with a Pope, so that we do not look like a group of incompetent idiots, we anoint this Pope as if he were the one we voted in, we enthrone him-and then, right away, we kill him.”

  With a flourishing gesture, he leaned back on his heels and smiled at them all.

  “What?” Bonaventura demanded, horrified, into the stunned silence that followed.

  Capocci stared at them as if he could not imagine why they were all so shocked. Then his face lit up. “Ah!” he said, still buoyant. “My mind was working faster than my mouth. What I mean is: we pretend that somebody in this room has been elected Pope. We go through all the motions of crowning that man, with the understanding-shared by all of us, but not to be told to another living soul, not even our most faithful servants-that within a fortnight, the pseudo-Pope disappears forever, and we claim that he has died.”

  The shocked silence remained, but now the Cardinals were all exchanging glances rather than staring slack-jawed at Capocci. Even Fieschi held his tongue, waiting to see how his peers would react. The idea was ludicrous, but in its insanity was a very narrow path out of the current disaster.

  “We’d need to have a body,” Colonna said at length, an implicit acknowledgment that he was willing to entertain the plan.

  “There are bodies enough in Roman morgues,” Capocci said.

  “What happens to the man who volunteers to do this thing?” da Capua asked. He too seemed cautiously interested now.

  “I think that’s up to him,” Capocci said. “It is an enormous service he will be performing, saving the appearance of our integrity. We have no actual integrity-I think we have demonstrated that quite thoroughly by now-but the appearance of it will be deeply comforting to our flocks. It is almost a kind of martyrdom. If I were such a man, I would ask for a bucket of gold and a nice quiet hermitage in which to spend my days in happy anonymity.”

  “Nobody in this room would consider such an absurdity,” de Segni snorted. “Every man here is brimful of ambition or he would not have become a Cardinal.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Gil Torres. “But as the senior-most Cardinal alive, I can tell you that ambition wanes as surely as it waxes. I would not put myself forward for the sacrifice, but I can imagine it might be attractive-to the right man.”

  “What about the priest?” Torres asked. “The one who is already Pope?”

  “Ah,” Capocci said, “this is the clever bit. If we do this quickly enough and we all swear that it be true, then Father Rodrigo’s claim simply becomes the spurious ravings of a country fool. He’s just a pretender to the position, and if he’s insane enough to insist that a conspiracy has been perpetrated…”

  Fieschi had to admit there was a certain elegance to the solution. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of controlling the next Pope, but simply leaving the position vacant. He had been able to accomplish quite a bit during the sede vacante-including turning the bullheaded Senator to his side. The Cardinals would scatter soon after a successful vote, leaving Rome to him. During the time it took to recall all the Cardinals-including the ones that Frederick had managed to intercept-he would have ample time to fully dominate Rome.

  And after Rome, what next? Sicily?

  Fieschi smiled. The doubts would fall away, readily enough.

  “Would my fellow Cardinals be willing to consider this?” Capocci asked. “Shall we at least entertain it for discussion?”

  “How about a show of hands?” Colonna suggested.

  “Wait a moment,” Castiglione said. “Seven of us voted for Father Rodrigo. We caused this strange catastrophe, and so it should fall to one of the seven to make this sacrifice.” The dei Conti cousins and Bonaventura-the only three who did not vote for Father Rodrigo-all visibly relaxed, while the half dozen others eyed each other nervously. “But of all those seven,” Castiglione continued, “The one who bears the greatest shame for writing down Father Rodrigo’s name is me. I wrote his name because I did not want to be elected. The stress of these past few months, and most of all these past few days, forced me to look honestly at my own ambition, to use Cardinal de Segni’s term. The rest who voted for Father Rodrigo did so for reasons of their own, but I am sure they were sound ones. I, however, voted for him to shirk my own duty, and so the burden of guilt for all of this falls upon my shoulders more than on any other’s. I volunteer to be the Pope who dies.”

  There were gasps of amazement from around the room. “This is a feint!” Bonaventura shouted above the din. “You will take power and threaten us all with blackmail if we try to remove you!”

  “Of course I won’t,” said Castiglione. “If I had that kind of ambition, Cardinal Bonaventura, I would not have voted for Father Rodrigo, and then we would not be in this ridiculous position. Furthermore, if I volunteer to do this and then seize the office for real, I am sure Orsini will dispatch me very quickly.”

  The Senator could certainly be called upon to do what was necessary, Fieschi thought, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips. “Well,” he said dryly. “That sounds very convincing. How about the rest of you?”

  The narrow path lay open before him. Yes, let them choose this man, he thought, that will work out just fine.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Mongol-a-Mongol

  Shortly after the hunting party left the confines of the valley, it ascended a narrow ridge, and Ogedei reined in his horse to admire the view. The valley was a long indentation that ran east to west, as if Tengri himself had reached down and dug a trough through the verdant forests that blanketed the lower slopes of Burqan-qaldun. The air was clear and crisp, and Ogedei could see the tiny shapes of his subjects moving among the colorful mushroom shapes of the ger.

  I will build a palace, he decided, caught up in the crystalline clarity of the moment. I will have all the materials brought here. No trees will be cut down. No rocks moved. It will stay pristine-just the way it is today. He stared at his ger and fixed its position in his mind. The palace would be built in the exact same spot.

  “My Khan?” Namkhai’s broad face was impassive, but there was the barest hint of a question in his voice.

  “I am admiring the view, Namkhai,” Ogedei said. “Is it not a magnificent day?”

  “It is, my Khan.”

  “A man could accomplish anything he desired on a day like today, could he not?”

  “He could, my Khan.” Namkhai’s stony mien cracked slightly, allowing a brief smile to escape.

  “And there would be no reason to rush, would there? A man’s destiny will wait for him, yes?”

  “It never arrives before he does, my Khan.”

  Ogedei laughed. “A wrestler and a philosopher. You are filled with surprises, Namkhai. Once I have slain the bear, will you compose a song in my honor?”

  “I regret not, my Khan.”

  He is fearless, Ogedei thought. He does not shirk from telling me the truth, even though it might displease me. He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the rest of the hunting party, and his gaze lingered on Alchiq and Gansukh. Would that I had a tumen of men like him, there would be no stopping the Mongol Empire. He casually laid his hand on the shaft of the Spirit Banner, the tall pole stuck into a leather boot attached to his saddle. In his mind, he saw a sea of horses spanning from horizon to horizon, their manes flowing like waves. His hand tightened on the banner as the horsehair tassels whispered gently
in the slight breeze.

  By midafternoon, the hunting party had ascended into the forest that lay heavily about the shoulders of the mountain. Sunlight trickled in solid streams through the branches of the trees, and swarms of golden motes danced in the radiance. The hunting master and his dogs ranged in front of the main party, keeping company with the trio of Darkhat scouts. Chucai and Namkhai flanked Ogedei, and the remainder of the Torguud followed them in a clump. The other scouts were arranged in wide arcs on either side. There had been no sign of the bear yet, but Ogedei wasn’t terribly concerned.

  His mount’s steady gait echoed throughout his body, knocking loose memories that had lain covered for many years. He had forgotten the pleasure of the hunt-his senses awake and marveling at the proliferation of details that his mind, taut like a bowstring, was readily processing. He was ready, quivering like one of the hunting master’s hounds, waiting for some sign of his quarry.

  “It has been too long,” Ogedei remarked to Chucai. “I should hunt like this more often. Too much time has passed, and this,” he poked his stout belly, “has grown too large.”

  “You are still a better hunter than most,” said Chucai, perfectly composed upon his black steed. “I, for one, have not hunted since before your father elevated me to my position at court.”

  “Father!” Ogedei laughed jovially. “No one could match my father. I remember a time when he provided for the entire army. A buck, each and every night. He hunted alone and always brought one back.”

  “Bashkiria, my Khan,” Chucai said. “Yes, I recall that campaign. There was more food than we could possibly eat. I gorged myself on venison on more than one occasion.”

  “Life was simpler then, wasn’t it?” Ogedei said. “When we got hungry, we would hunt; when we were tired, we slept; when we wanted something…” He sighed and his hand idly patted his belly again.