Colonna shrugged. “I’m an old man, and I’m tired of being here,” he said. “If this fellow is accepted, then I can finally go home and change my clothes and start acting like a Cardinal again.”
“So sloth is a primary motivator,” Fieschi said, attempting dry humor but sounding instead as accusatory as he felt.
“Absolutely,” said Colonna. He clapped his right hand down on his friend’s knee. “Capocci, my dear fellow, tell the nice villain why you are taking such a perverse position on this topic.”
“My position is the most honorable one in this room!” protested Capocci, waving his bandaged hand dismissively at everyone else. “We’ve made our bed and now we must lie in it, simple as that. Those of us responsible for leading the masses of Christendom, we have fallen to such a state that we would allow such a man to be elected, and having done so, we have to live with the circumstances. We have only ourselves to blame.”
“That’s a much better response than mine,” said Colonna. He turned to Fieschi. “I want to change my answer to make it more like his.”
Fieschi rolled his eyes. When he returned his attention to the other two Cardinals, he found them staring at him with accusing malice. “And may we dare ask why the great and honorable Fieschi has betrayed his preferred candidate?” asked Colonna.
“You may ask,” Fieschi said. “I am not bound to answer you.”
The other two looked at each other. “Well, that proves it, then,” said Capocci.
“Indeed,” said Colonna, and the two turned to face him together. “You’re definitely up to something nefarious,” he informed Fieschi pleasantly. “Which means we’re going to have to stop you.”
“And hold you accountable,” Capocci added ominously.
Fieschi turned his head away from them, refusing to be baited. Capocci could prove nothing. And Rodrigo would be his man, his puppet, he had no fear of that at all-but it was annoying that he would have to brush off these two gadflies along the way. I will make sure the new Pope excommunicates them, he decided. That will get rid of them nicely.
Rodrigo had tried to excuse himself and break away from the young priest, but the young man was strangely reluctant to be dismissed. He begged Rodrigo’s pardon and followed him through the great church, toward the door, politely asking Rodrigo where he was planning to go, suggesting that perhaps he would be more comfortable resting in the deacon’s office.
“Have you been assigned to keep an eye on me?” Rodrigo asked with a knowing smile. They had stopped at the grand western entrance to the basilica. Rodrigo was eager to be gone from these staid halls of ancient power. The days when such magnificence signified sanctified holiness had long since passed; he understood what must come next, and nobody else in the Vatican compound did.
The young priest blushed. “Yes, Father,” he said, glancing down.
“There is no shame in your task,” Rodrigo said. “When I first arrived in Rome, I was a raving madman. I was mistakenly placed in seclusion with the Cardinals. When we were all brought here, the Cardinals-very good men-were concerned that I might harm myself if left to my own devices. I understand. Previously, there was just cause for such concern. But my son,” he said, with a reassuring smile, “I am now a changed man.”
The younger priest frowned in polite confusion. “Father…?” he murmured.
“I cannot explain what happened in Saint Peter’s tomb, but it was a gift, a blessing-a blessed event,” Rodrigo said, and rested his hand paternally on the youth’s shoulder. “My madness was taken from me-and so were my physical wounds! I am well again, and in no need of chaperoning.”
The young man looked at him, troubled, and blinked several times. “The Holy Sepulchre is known to have miraculous healing properties,” he said at last. “And I am very glad to hear of their effect on you. However, Father, I must stand by my oath, and that is to keep you in my sight at all times until I turn that responsibility over to one of my fellows.”
Rodrigo sighed patiently. “So be it. I commend you for your dedication to your office. Will you, in that case, accompany me on a constitutional? I am a native of this city, and it has been a very long time since I have freely walked its streets. I have a yearning for that, and I hope your duty does not prevent me from it.”
The younger priest considered this. “Father, perhaps we can make an arrangement that is to your liking, but allows me to fulfill my obligation.” He glanced down again, unwilling to gaze upon Rodrigo as he continued. “As it happens, I… have other duties to which I will be called. I would have to turn your care over to another anyhow. Let me see if I may do that now.”
Rodrigo smiled benignly. “You are thinking that a new chaperone, meeting me as I am now, clearly rational and well recovered, would not feel the burden of sticking to me like a burr, as you perhaps do because you saw me before I was healed.”
The young man reddened. “Really, Father, I simply have other duties. I am scheduled to receive confessions until dinner.”
“Very well,” said Rodrigo, gesturing back into the church. “Lead me to my next keeper. Rome is not going anywhere.”
The junior priest looked relieved. “Very well, Father. Just this way, if you please.” He turned and began to cross through the nave of the church, trusting Rodrigo to follow.
Which Rodrigo did. The communion cup within his satchel bumped against his hip as he walked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The pale-haired warrior, Haakon, knew some of the Mongol tongue. His accent was very bad, but he could make himself understood, and Gansukh suspected his comprehension was much better than his pronunciation. No wonder he watches us so closely, Gansukh mused as he wandered through the sprawling camp. He’s listening and learning.
A tiny smile flickered across his face. He would keep this tiny nugget of information to himself. Using the pale-haired youth to rile Munokhoi was a dangerous proposition, but an entertaining one. Given the pace at which the journey to Burqan-qaldun was progressing, he would need distractions. He couldn’t keep shadowing Munokhoi; sooner or later, the Torguud captain would catch sight of him and take umbrage at the attention.
He didn’t need to start a fight with Munokhoi. He just needed to be sure the other man’s attention was directed somewhere other than at himself or Lian.
Gansukh wandered toward the eastern edge of the caravan where the Imperial Guards had set up a makeshift archery range. He walked over to the line scratched in the bare ground where the archers stood.
Behind him he heard the guards’ conversation fragment, and he waited patiently. Finally, one of the them heaved himself to his feet and approached.
“Brother Gansukh.”
Gansukh turned his head and regarded the one singled by the others. “Are you from the mountain clans?” he asked, noticing the colored threads braided into the man’s hair.
The other man nodded.
“The days are long out here on the plain, aren’t they, brother?”
“Tarbagatai,” the man supplied. He wiped a hand across his face. “No longer than the nights, I suppose,” he said with a shrug.
Gansukh offered a bark of laughter. “That is true.” He waved a hand at the targets. “It has been a long time since I hunted in the mountains. I found the light to be different there. Night came swiftly, and if you were tracking prey, you had to be quick about making your kill. Otherwise, the sun would vanish and so would your target. Out here, though, the day seems to last forever.”
Tarbagatai squinted at the targets, his tongue working at the inside of his lower lip. He seemed to be wondering if Gansukh was making sport of him, and Gansukh made no effort to guide the younger man’s thinking. After his encounter with Namkhai and the Imperial Guard the other night, he had realized how few friends he had among the Khan’s elite guard. Lian’s schooling and his mission had kept him aloof from the men of the arban, a dangerous situation for a front-line warrior such as himself. If the caravan came under attack again, he needed some confidence that his fellow Mongols wouldn’t see him as an adversary.