He still had not delivered the message and he found it sulking in the back of his head, waiting for attention. He did not want to give it attention. But he could feel the message he was to deliver to the Pope, he could feel it dancing in his skull, around his brain, stamping its feet and now demanding, no longer waiting for, his attention. Distracted and almost distressed, he dragged his eyes from the vein of marble and looked around him. He was in the transept of a church, a huge and magnificent cathedral that seemed familiar but distant, as if from another lifetime.
A young priest, even younger than he himself, and so innocent looking, was walking down the center aisle.
“Where am I?” Rodrigo asked plaintively.
The priest approached him, hand held up in smiling assurance. “You are in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” the priest said. “Saint Peter’s Basilica. I have been asked to assist you… if you need anything.”
“Saint Peter?” Rodrigo cried out. “May I see him?”
The young man hesitated, then smiled again. “Certainly, Father. His tomb is directly below the altar. Follow me, please.”
“I want to go alone,” said Rodrigo. The young man looked innocent enough, but there were spies everywhere, and he needed to speak to the Pontiff in absolutely secrecy.
“I will show you where to descend,” the young man said and held out his hand toward the altar.
Ferenc was relieved and grateful that they had found somebody to speak Magyar with him. The soldier-Helmuth-was not a native speaker, and his accent was very thick, but to have any kind of conversation at all nourished Ferenc’s heart-even Father Rodrigo had been nearly silent through most of their harrowing journey from Mohi to Rome.
They were breaking their fast together, the soldier speaking and Ferenc listening. Perhaps it was an accident of birth, but Helmuth had a permanent sneer on his face; he radiated disdain toward the young hunter. It was clear to Ferenc that the man was judging him critically, and finding him unworthy-but of what he had no idea. He was so grateful to hear his native language spoken that he would have smiled to have abuses hurled at him.
Ocyrhoe and the other Binder woman were huddled together near them, talking quickly in words Ferenc could not follow. This bothered Ferenc, who felt protective toward Ocyrhoe, but unable to protect her. Several times during her long conversation with the woman the afternoon before, Ocyrhoe had been reduced nearly to tears, and he blamed Lena for this.
“When do we go back to the city?” Ferenc asked the man.
“We are waiting for the Cardinals,” Helmuth responded sullenly.
This made no sense. “But the Cardinals are in the city! We are going back to the Cardinals,” he protested.
Helmuth shook his head. “Not all the Cardinals. Some of them are being held as guests by His Majesty, the Emperor. They are his guests in Tivoli.”
Ferenc found this even more confusing. “He is here; why are his guests not with him?”
Helmuth grinned in a superior way. “They are in Tivoli. They are guests of the empire, not of the Emperor personally.”
Ferenc shook his head. “What does that mean, guests of the empire?”
Helmuth’s grin faded. “It means they are prisoners,” he said.
The young hunter would have given anything at that moment to turn back time, and to prevent Father Rodrigo from coming to Rome. This was a land of madness. “So all of the church’s Cardinals are being held prisoner somewhere,” he said. “Either in the Septizodium or in Tivoli. Then doesn’t your Emperor sin as much as whoever holds the Cardinals hostage in Rome?”
“It’s not that simple,” said Helmuth impatiently. “Anyhow, the Emperor is now releasing a Cardinal, who will go into Rome with you.”
“There are already plenty of Cardinals in Rome,” protested Ferenc. “What good will another Cardinal do us?”
“The Cardinals in Rome are being held hostage until they vote for a new Pope. They cannot make a choice. His Majesty hopes that if a Cardinal is allowed to join them now, that Cardinal might swing the vote one way or another.”
“And then they will be released?”
“And then they will be released.”
Ferenc mused on this. As a hunter he appreciated the use of strategy over brute force, but he had been very pleased with the notion of leading an army into the city to liberate Father Rodrigo.
“Where is Tivoli?” he asked at last.
“It is half a day’s march away,” said the soldier. “It is a well-traveled road and a carriage was sent for the Cardinal overnight, so I imagine he will arrive here soon. In the meantime, you may bathe and have fresh clothes.”
What a strange offer. “Is there something wrong with my clothes?” Ferenc asked.
Helmuth smiled condescendingly. “You are filthy, and so are your clothes. We make the offer to be hospitable and considerate. I have no time to educate you about basic human decency, so either take the offer or leave it-it is all one to me.”
Ferenc wanted to speak to Ocyrhoe, but then realized she would be even less educated on these issues than himself. It was exhausting, being the eternally ignorant outsider. “I appreciate your hospitality,” he said, restraining his true emotions, “and humbly accept your offer.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was customary for Tegusgal-as captain of Onghwe Khan’s guards-to attend the fights in the Circus. Many of the guards went as well, both to attend to the safety of the Khan but also to participate in the furious betting. Without Tegusgal around, the guards who remained at the Mongol compound had a tendency to let their displeasure at being left behind turn to laziness, which presented an opportunity for Kim and Zug to plan somewhat openly. The Mongols were typically loath to allow any group of fighters to enjoy true seclusion in numbers greater than two, but this afternoon they-and some of the men who they had approached previously-were allowed to gather in the training yard, where the relative absence of supervision permitted them to stand about and speak. So long as they periodically made a show of moving through patterns or drills, the bored guards would not be overly suspicious.
They made for a strange assortment of mismatched and dangerous individuals, a patchwork of potential violence that would alarm Tegusgal if he were ever to see them assembled. Will it be enough? That was the worry that gnawed at Kim as he surveyed his motley band.
Madhukar’s shoulders rippled as he uttered a sound of dissatisfaction. The wrestler’s grasp of the Mongol tongue was not exceptional, but Siyavash, a Persian with a face that looked like it had been carved from marble, understood some of the big man’s native tongue. Enough to offer better translations.
“Too much waiting, Madhukar says,” Siyavash murmured. “And standing around talking like this is dangerous.”
“A little longer,” Zug murmured where he stood, leaning against a stave of white wood. The bushi was already sharper than Kim had ever seen him, his focus honed like the edge of his skull-maker and set inexorably upon the task at hand. And yet, he exuded such patience. “Unless the Rose Knight has been killed by Lakshaman.” The cheers from the arena had occasionally reached them, and judging by the ebb and flow of the noise, the fight was finished.
“We don’t know to which of the fighting orders Lakshaman’s opponent belonged,” Kim said. “’Tis better to concern ourselves with what we know, and what we can accomplish.”
“With or without him, what is your plan, Kim?” Siyavash intoned. The man’s eyes held him steadily, hungry for freedom, suspicious of hope. These men had all entertained dreams of escape once upon a time, but the relentless yoke of their imprisonment had destroyed most of those ambitions. They were prisoners, surely, but they were not broken men, not like some of the others who were so filled with bitterness and resentment that the very idea of rebellion was violently loathsome. But they were wary of being hopeful. It was a dangerous emotion, the kind that could get them killed.