The Mongoliad: Book Two

23

The guard outside Orsini’s palazzo held up his hand as Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi approached. “Good day, Father. Please state your business with the Senator.” Fieschi, lost in the turmoil of his thoughts, stopped abruptly and stared at the man’s hand. He had been thinking about the gates of Rome, about which one the pair of ragged messengers would probably use to escape the city, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to his surroundings. Walking through Rome during the day, dressed as a priest-even a simple one, without any of the usual finery he or the other cardinals wore-was much less dangerous than the hurried and somewhat stealthy pace he typically adopted during his nocturnal visits.

“Servus Dei, bringing urgent news to Senator Orsini,” he growled at the guard. “Let me pass.”

The guard blinked but did not move aside. Fieschi, on the other hand, did not blink, pinning the man with a stony glare that worked so often on the weak willed. “The Senator wants to see me immediately.”

The guard shrugged and sucked on the inside of his cheek. “The Senator is a busy man, Father. Why don’t you tell me what’s so important and I’ll have someone inform the Senator?”

The man didn’t recognize him. The nighttime guards knew him, having been informed that he would occasionally show up unannounced; after a few visits, they had simply turned a blind eye when he arrived at the palazzo’s gates, indifferent veterans to the secret machinations in which their master was involved. The daytime guards, though, were another matter; their purview was less complicated: keep the palazzo safe; don’t let anyone disturb the Senator.

Fieschi stepped close. “Listen to me very carefully, you son of a poxy bitch,” he said. The guard jerked to attention, surprised by such language coming from a priest’s mouth. “The news I carry is of vital importance to the Senator and to the safety of Rome itself. If your stubborn ignorance causes harm to befall the Senator, he will-I am certain-have you flayed alive with less ceremony than he would take in picking his crusty, noble nose. You will-immediately-escort me, Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi of the Holy Church, to the Senator’s chambers, or not only will your skin be ripped from your body and thrown to the dogs but the hands of your wife, your mistress, your daughter-if you have managed to breed-will be nailed to the head-board of your favorite whore’s bed.”

The guard had more spine than Fieschi credited him for, and he held his ground until Fieschi raised his left hand as if he were going to deliver a backhanded slap. The guard caught sight of the large ring on the cardinal’s hand, and the blood drained from his tawny face.

He fled, running for the palazzo, and Fieschi allowed himself a tiny smile before he followed.

“Threatening my staff now, are you, Sinibaldo?” Orsini asked as Fieschi entered the Senator’s sitting room.

“He did not recognize me,” Fieschi said with sullen irritation. “He mistook me for a common parish priest-”

“I thought humility was one of the traits holy men sought to embrace. A reminder of one’s insignificance before God, no?” Orsini observed with a trace of a smile. “Besides, do you really expect my entire domestic staff to know you on sight? That would suggest both of us are atrocious at keeping secrets.” He drew back his smile and his face turned cold. “Why have you come in the middle of the day? What has happened? Did someone die?”

“Not yet,” said Fieschi and repeated with emphasis, “not yet. There is a more alarming crisis that you must address. At this very moment, a messenger is heading to alert Frederick of the cardinals’ imprisonment.”

Orsini’s face darkened. “What messenger?”

“That’s the worst of it. A Binder.” Fieschi threw him an accusing stare. “So much for your successful eradication of that witch network.”

“How do you know this?” Orsini demanded.

“Oh, my friend, my friend,” Fieschi clucked. “You would not believe the excitement we’ve had in our little prison. I will tell you all that has happened, but first, you must immediately lock the gates; the guards must be on full alert, not only at the gates but the rooftops of any building within jumping distance of the walls.”

“Are you serious?”

“Have you ever heard of a Binder-carried message not being delivered?”

Orsini frowned. “What you are proposing is costly and difficult; I want to know that this is a genuine threat.”

With visible effort, Fieschi controlled his temper. It was no wonder the palazzo guards were so disrespectful and arrogant-they took their cues from their master. While it would be satisfying to wash his hands of this disaster and let Orsini discover the danger of doubting his words, the messenger could disrupt everything. “I heard-with these very ears,” he said with some forced patience, “I heard Somercotes give the message to the Binder girl. Simply, it asks for Frederick to assault the Septizodium and tells him that she knows of the secret passages.”

“And you let her go?” Orsini snorted.

“Someone half my size who has been trained in the arts of concealment and stealth just might be able to slip past me in a pitch-black tunnel,” Fieschi shot back. “However, she will have a harder time evading your guards in broad daylight-that is, if you could be bothered to actually alert them to that necessity.” He gestured ferociously at the door behind him. “For every second you sit there, staring at me like a clod, she gets closer to one of the gates. Why would I dare leaving the Septizodium during the day if it were not for a crisis such as this? Damn your indolence, man. I am certain of this. If she is fleet, she could already have reached the Porta Appia or the Porta Latina. We have no time. You must act now!”

Orsini narrowed his eyes. “Very well, Sinibaldo. I will send out an alert,” he said, rising to his feet and striding toward the door, “but then you must tell me exactly what you know and what has happened.”

“Of course,” Fieschi replied. He stared at the door after the Bear had left the room, his mind tumbling over the possibilities. If Orsini was too late, and the girl managed to slip out of the city, how long would it take for her to reach Frederick’s pickets? How long would Frederick ponder her message before responding?

The election of the next Pope had to happen soon. He couldn’t wait. He had to force the cardinals to vote. He had to find a way to break their deadlock. Appealing to their avarice and their self-serving natures hadn’t worked so far. He recalled the look on the guard’s face when he threatened the man’s family. Perhaps, he thought, it is time to find a different incentive.

Blinking even in the shaded sunlight of the alley, Ocyrhoe helped Ferenc pivot the stone back into place. It slid with remarkable ease, and she was amazed at how invisible the crack was, how solid the wall, when the door was properly closed. She would never have found it without Ferenc.

He was blinking in the shade too. With his eyes, he gestured behind her, back out toward the main street. He held out his forearm with a questioning expression. When she did not take it, he grabbed her wrist and played his fingers across her skin. “What way?”

Ocyrhoe had been thinking about their route out of Rome since they had left the company of cardinals deep inside the tunnels. Porta Appia and Porta Latina were closest, but since Fieschi knew they were here, she worried their presence would become known-perhaps it was already known-and Orsini would be alerted. The Bear’s men would be watching for them, both around the Septizodium and, quite possibly, at the gates.

If they moved quickly, they might be able to get to the gate before the guards had it closed. But if they were too late, all would be lost. It would take too long to cross the city to a different gate. By that time, the city would be crawling with the Bear’s men, much like it had been when her sisters were first taken, and it would be difficult to escape.

No, one of the other gates was a smarter plan. Even with the guidance of the other two cardinals-Capocci and Colonna-they had stumbled through the tunnels for some time, and since they had met no resistance, she could assume Fieschi had gone to Orsini. How long will it take him to reach the Bear? she wondered, trying to remember the night she had followed the cardinal to the palazzo. Orsini would have to send messengers to close the gates-if that was his first reaction-and so the best gate would be one which it would take his messengers a long time to reach; they would have more time to reach it themselves before an edict arrived to close the city. It might be possible…

She traced the route in her head: north, to the Coliseum and past the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore; east along the Via Tiburtina, all the way to the gate. The same one Ferenc and Father Rodrigo came through when they arrived in Rome. She shivered slightly as a chill touched the back of her neck. Even if Fieschi ran to the Porta Appia himself and dispatched messengers from there, the Porta Tiburtina was far enough away to be a good choice. That was what she told herself. There was no other reason to choose that gate…

“Follow me,” she signed back. “Hand-holding.”

They interlaced fingers, grimy palm against grimy palm, and walked quickly toward the main street.

Walking was always a pleasure for Ocyrhoe, no matter where she was going, and it was so even now when there was so much to worry about. Ferenc might be more acute of hearing and of vision, but she apprehended the patterns of life in a holistic, intuitive way, and even a brisk walk-almost a run, if they could sustain it-would reveal much to her about the mood and temperament of her city.

As they walked, she wondered about this Robert of Somercotes who had known the name of her sisterhood’s secret language; she wondered too about Ferenc. How could a male come to know a language that had only ever been used by Binders-who were, as far as she knew, always female? If only I had had more training, she lamented, perhaps these mysteries would not be mysteries. If only she’d had more of an interest in history and philosophy before the Bear’s men had come for her sisters.

They stopped at a small turn in the road, just around the corner from the marketplace that sprawled in the shadow of the Coliseum. Ferenc pulled up short next to a wagon maker’s shop, not to avoid a slow-moving cart trundling by but for some other reason entirely.

Ocyrhoe gave him a questioning look, and he released her hand to tap on her arm: “Listen.”

Embarrassed that this stranger to her native city had better ears than she did, Ocyrhoe took a deep breath and held it, willing her senses to move beyond their immediate surroundings. Ahead of them-on the far side of the marketplace-there was some commotion. Through the general roar, men’s voices shouted in anger; women wailed beseechingly.

A riot. There were any number of explanations why the beleaguered people of Rome might flare into anger, but the tight knot in Ocyrhoe’s stomach warned her it was for the reason she feared most.

Her fingers danced rapidly along his arm. “The guards have been alerted,” Ocyrhoe signed.

He was startled. “They are looking for us,” he signed, looking for her confirmation that he read the situation correctly-that they were the cause of the riot up ahead. “The angry tunnel priest did this.” He punctuated his statement with a quizzical look.

She shrugged, then nodded and tapped his wrist twice with two fingers-total agreement. “I will tell you more later,” she fingered. “Angry tunnel priest is F-i-e-s-c-h-i.” Then, aloud, she said, “Fieschi.”

“Fieschi,” Ferenc repeated. His quizzical expression remained.

Ocyrhoe realized that he didn’t understand how a priest could command the city guard. He wouldn’t understand the word Senator, and to explain what a Senator was would take too long. “He works for a Rome leader named Orsini.” As an afterthought, she added, “Orsini imprisons priests.”

Ferenc’s mouth dropped open, and he touched her upper forearm in the simple Rankalba gesture: “Why?”

“Too long to tell now,” she signed again. “Later. Must move quickly now. Must hurry to gate.”

Before it was too late.