The Mongoliad: Book Three

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Cardinal Fieschi stared morosely at the scenery as his carriage trundled back to Rome. He had already sent ahead several riders to alert Orsini. By the time his carriage reached the Vatican, the countryside surrounding Rome would be crawling with horsemen wearing the Bear’s colors. Given his recent spate of foul luck, the Bear’s men would stumble upon an overzealous squad of the Emperor’s men and the resulting fracas would be the start of all-out war between Rome, the Church, and the Holy Roman Empire.

Was that Frederick’s goal? he wondered. For as little as Fieschi missed Gregory IX-the man had been a tyrant to his staff, and Fieschi had tolerated it longer than anyone else-he briefly wished the man were still alive. He had an incredibly deft mind when it came to understanding the myriad layers of the conflict for Christendom. Orsini’s effort to hide the Cardinals in the Septizodium might have won the election for the Church, but what did that matter if Rome was immediately overrun by a mangy bunch of Germans and Sicilians?

He had been Gregory’s right-hand man. He had run the College of Cardinals. He had bent the Senator of Rome to his will. He had dirtied his hands for the Church. But what had any of that gained him?

Gregory had been grooming him; Fieschi had no doubt that the previous Pope had been preparing the way for Sinibaldo Fieschi to become his successor. Perhaps he might even have taken the name of Gregory X. But the Pope had unexpectedly fallen ill during one of the heat waves that perpetually suffocated Rome in late summer. The man had caught a chill-seemingly impossible in the heat-and had died nearly overnight, leaving the Church headless. Between the Mongol threat in the north and the Holy Roman Emperor coming up from the south, it had been nearly impossible to call the Cardinals back to Rome in order to vote.

He had worked so very hard, trying to keep the Church alive. But no matter how hard he tried, matters kept slipping away from him. First, the country priest who had stumbled into the election and wound up being elected Pope. Then, the matter of the girl and the witch network in Rome-he had warned Orsini the trouble they could cause and he had placed too much faith in the Bear’s ability to contain the witches. They had missed one-one tiny girl! — and she had caused so much grief.

He pounded his fist against his wooden seat. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself, wallowing in the doubt that had nipped at him earlier in the day when the question of the second election had come up. He was letting these tiny reversals get the better of him. He was letting Frederick get under his skin-the Emperor’s words continuing to echo in his ear, nursing the doubt in his heart. Like a tiny breath that keeps a weak fire alive.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the Grail.

Had the spirit of God come back? And what were the chances that the Cup of Christ was the only artifact of God’s Grace that had been awakened?

He suddenly recalled the prophecy the mad priest had been carrying. The scrap of parchment he had taken from Father Rodrigo’s satchel was in his chambers and he recoiled at the thought of someone finding it there. He was going to burn it as soon as he got back to Rome. How he wished he could burn those words out of his mind.

A new order rises; if it falls, woe to the Church! Battle will be joined, many times over, and faith will be broken.

Lena found Cardinal Castiglione walking in one of the tiny gardens near the basilica. He was in the company of two other Cardinals: Colonna, the tall missionary who had survived more than one imprisonment; and Capocci, the builder whose shrewd mind was equally at home planning cathedrals as it was putting down insurrections. “Your Eminences,” she said, bowing, as they caught sight of her. “Such a pleasant afternoon for a stroll.”

“Indeed,” Castiglione said, eyeing her with a modicum of caution. “You are the woman who accompanied Cardinal Monferrato from Frederick’s camp, are you not?”

“I am, Your Eminence. I am Lena, a-”

“Binder?” Capocci said.

She inclined her head. “More often I am simply an ambassador.”

“For whom?” Capocci pressed her.

“Does it matter?” she said sweetly.

Colonna chuckled at her verve, while her words only seemed to cause Castiglione more distress.

“Do you have a message for me?” the Cardinal asked.

“No,” Lena said after a moment’s hesitation. “I bear no message for you today.” She cocked her head to one side, studying the three men for a moment. “Do you have one you wish me to carry?”

“Why would I?” Castiglione asked.

Lena shrugged. “I have recently seen Cardinal Fieschi. He was in quite a hurry to visit the Holy Roman Emperor.” She noted their reaction, reading the entire power structure of the Church in their faces. Castiglione’s reaction was the one she found the most interesting. The sort of outrage brought about by a lack of control, she thought. When someone you think is under your command makes their own decisions, forgetting to inform you. Which lead to an interesting question: why did Castiglione think Fieschi reported to him?

“Have you seen the Pope?” she asked innocently, and her question was rewarded with a nervous glance between Colonna and Capocci and further distress from Castiglione.

Now I see the heart of it, she thought, suppressing a smile. It all comes together now.

There was still much to do, and many pieces to still move about, but she felt her heart start to thrill at the idea of seeing a gambit come to fruition.

“I see,” she said in the wake of their awkward silence. She dropped to one knee. “My apologies, Your Holiness.”

“Get up,” Castiglione said gruffly. “Stop this public abasement.”

But you didn’t deny it, Lena thought as she stood.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I thought I had heard that the priest-Father Rodrigo-had been elected, but I must have been mistaken.”

“You were,” Capocci said quickly.

“It is a clever ruse,” she added, “letting everyone think this simple man is Pope-long enough to distract the Holy Roman Emperor-and then announcing yourself as the true Pontiff. If Frederick seizes the priest and attempts to ransom him, it is a simple matter to embarrass the Holy Roman Emperor for inventing a Pope and then trying to ransom him back to the Church. He will lose a great deal of face with the leaders of other nations. Why bother excommunicating him-which we both know has had little effect on his efforts to dominate Christendom-when it is easier to publically shame him?”

“Why indeed?” Capocci noted.

“Well, Your Eminences, Your Holiness,” she bowed to each of them, “I do not wish to trouble you. You appear to have much to discuss. I am simply on my way to see Senator Orsini. There is a little matter he and I need to clear up. A small matter of unjust imprisonment.”

She almost laughed at how readily Castiglione took the bait.

“Unjust imprisonment?” he echoed. A fire sparked in his eye and he stood up a bit straighter. When he spoke to her again, there was a righteous indignation in his words. “Yes, in fact, I do wish you to carry a message for me.”

Lena smiled. “Give me the message,” she said, invoking the sacred trust of the Binders.

“I, Goffredo da Castiglione, send a message to-no, let us do this correctly.” He glanced at the other two Cardinals who gave small nods of encouragement. “I”-he cast about for the proper words-“Pope Celestine IV of the Holy Roman Church, send a message to Matteo Rosso Orsini, Senator of Rome…”

Lena listened the new Pope’s first proclamation, repeating his words back to him at the appropriate intervals. Yes, she thought, this will suffice nicely.