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And yet, here they were. Gathered in the training yard, holding wooden weapons. Listening to the impossible plan as if it were an idea with the slightest possibility of success.

“Kill the Khan,” Zug said with a jarring, blunt sobriety. “How, we are not certain. When? When the moment is right. How? That is part of why we are here.”

“We are closest to him when we fight in the arena.” Kim said, spinning a stave as though he were at his drills. “All we need to is put one of our own in the ring with one of theirs, and there will be an opportunity. If the Khan is killed, the Circus will crumble around him. Even Tegusgal cannot keep order at such a time.”

Silence hung palpably on the field between them, broken only by the rise and fall of the wind. The cheers from the arena had died down, as a wave recedes from the pounded sand. Madhukar’s face had been stoic as he listened, but now the wide mouth cracked into a broad grin that Kim suspected would have sent every child of Hunern running in terror.

“Good plan,” he said in his halting grasp of the Mongol tongue. He thumped his wooden cudgel against the ground. Kim could easily imagine a skull bursting apart beneath it.

“That is not a plan,” Siyavash said. “It is madness.” Nevertheless, Madhukar’s smile was contagious, and as much as the Persian wanted to keep himself free of the infectious gleam of hope, he couldn’t help himself. “But I agree with Madhukar,” he said finally.

“We will have to get word to the Rose Knight,” Zug said. “Using the boys.”

“Agreed,” Kim said.

“A simple plan it is, then.” Zug said with an air of finality. “Often, those are the best. The less we must argue about information, and the more we can act with weapons in hand, the better. A word is all that will be needed, and the understanding that those who stand in the arena will not live long after they make the kill.”

There was the wild look in Zug’s eyes once more as he spoke, and Kim was reminded again that a part of his friend longed for death. Given what Zug had been through, it was difficult for Kim to begrudge him his wish. He simply hoped that the burning desire did not kill them all. One by one, the others nodded their agreement.

And like that, the planning was done. They stood in silence awhile, listening to the wind of voices that blew over their heads from the distant structure of the arena that controlled all their destinies.

“Are there many flowers today?” A nervous young voice asked. Kim turned sharply, lowering his eyes to find one of the very boys they had been speaking of looking up nervously at him. So many children came and went from the camp, conscripted to bring everything from wine to drugs, that the Mongols seldom paid attention. These children had a courage that any man worth his strength could admire.

“I would hear of the fighting first,” Kim said, kneeling down to bring himself eye level with the youth. Behind him, he could feel the attention of the others. “Who has won in the arena?”

“The red-cross knight is dead,” the boy said simply.

Kim breathed a tangible sigh of relief. It had not been Andreas in the ring, as he had feared. He looked behind him, catching Zug’s eye. “The one with the knives was wounded,” the boy continued. “But he will live.”

“The task falls to one of us then,” Zug laughed.

Kim couldn’t help but smile, and to quell the boy’s confusion at their words, he rested a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Lakshaman-the man with the knives-will not fight again so soon,” he said. “Therefore it will be one of us who goes to the arena. To fight the Rose Knight.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder gently and leaned forward. “There are no more flowers to be picked here,” he said quietly. “This is the message I want you to carry. We are done picking flowers, but two will bloom in the bloody sand. Can you remember that? The two will bloom together.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Paten and the Chalice

Rodrigo was grateful the young priest had allowed him to descend into the crypt alone. He had approached the high altar in the middle of the church, its towering canopy dwarfed by the almost incomprehensible height of the cathedral’s ceiling. A balustrade descended into the sacred pit below the altar, the walls lit by oil lamps. Those lamps have burned unceasingly since I was last in Rome, he thought, not sure how many days or hours or lifetimes that had been.

He followed the steps into a cavelike chamber, feeling as if Mother Earth herself was preparing to take him into her bosom and relieve him of his burden. At the far end of the lamplit space stood a wall of red and white marble with a low, arching doorway in the middle. On the other side, he knew, lay St. Peter, Christ’s greatest disciple, in a repose more peaceful by far than anything Rodrigo himself had ever, would ever, know. The silence was absolute, as if the world had stopped, paused to breathe in the holy air of such a holy man. Even the lamps burned in ghostly silence-with none of that serpentlike hissing they made in the upper world.

Carefully, worshipfully, Rodrigo walked in callused bare feet toward the archway. He was only half convinced the father of Catholicism would awaken to hear his prophecy… but if he didn’t, if Peter were too close to God to care now what became of the minions left on earth, it would still be restful to spend a moment by the crypt and pray to the saint for guidance.

Rodrigo lowered his head and entered the crypt. This too was lit by an eternal flame, an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling just above the coffin. For a long moment, too long, he tracked a tendril of soot rising from the flame, studied it as he had studied the marble.

That is the reward and the way of sacred repose, the blessed freedom to think such thoughts, make such observations undisturbed, alone, forever and ever.

Resting on top of the coffin was a chalice and paten, as if the tomb itself were an altar and somebody had been in the middle of preparing for mass but was suddenly called away. He walked to the coffin, touched the cool stone and felt reassured by its simplicity amid the glamour that entombed it. He reached toward the paten and chalice, then paused, hand wavering slowly in the still, cool air, and picked up the paten. There were no communion wafers on it, and it was burnished gold, unsmudged by any fingers but his own. The chalice likewise looked freshly polished, pristine. He set the paten down on top of the tomb, and reached with both hands now toward the chalice. He cupped it between his palms, lifted it high, then brought it closer to his body. He looked inside.

It was not empty.

The Cardinals had arrived; Ocyrhoe and Ferenc had been washed and dressed in cleaner clothes that did not quite fit them-especially Ocyrhoe, who was wearing a spare shift and stockings given to her by Lena; both had been shortened and the shift belted like a tunic, but she still seemed to float in it.

They stood now with Lena and Helmuth to the left of the Emperor. Frederick was dressed exactly as he had been the day before, except now he also wore a crown. As lofty as his clothing appeared, he himself did not look regal, nor did he speak at all the way Ocyrhoe thought an Emperor should. The wonder of the world indeed, she thought. It is a wonder he is king of anywhere. Then she chastised herself; Binders must be above such prejudices.

The tent flap opened, and all of them stood at attention, even the Emperor.