“Weeks ago, I had a vision,” Percival announced, “that we should set our course for Kiev, where we would find something of inestimable value, without which our quest was doomed.”
Benjamin shifted and threw Raphael an irritable look. His instincts were clearly telling him to run away. The packhorses were neighing restlessly in the stable yard. Yet here they were, trapped in a conversation with a Frank who suffered from supernatural visions.
Feronantus had little choice but to play the role of the dignified leader and see this through as if he had expected it all along.
All unaware of this prickly dynamic, Percival continued. “I assumed, at first, that this benison would be some sort of holy relic. And when Vera told us of the tunnels and catacombs below the city, filled with treasures, I naturally assumed that what I sought would be found there. Instead, we uncovered nothing but a few odds and ends, and I lost my best friend in battle.”
Percival’s face darkened-literally. The effulgence took on a grayish hue, which Raphael observed with both alarm and deep curiosity. He threw a glance at Benjamin, who had cocked his head to one side, mouth open a little, eyes searching. Their gazes met. Raphael gave the merest shrug.
“In the weeks since,” Percival said, “I have prayed and meditated upon these events, imploring God to send me understanding. This morning, God answered my prayers. The object of our quest to Kiev was not some artifact but the Shield-Maidens themselves. Vera’s return to our group is confirmation of God’s will. She was destined all along to join us and ride with us into the East.”
Benjamin seemed embarrassed. “You have too many quests for me to keep track of,” he muttered.
Percival shook his head forbearingly. “For us, there is only one,” he said.
“The one that takes you into the East, following the caravan trails?”
“The same.”
“And what, pray tell, might be the object of that quest?”
“Don’t!” Feronantus sat forward and stretched out an arm toward Percival. But it was too late.
“We will ride into the heartland of the Mongols’ empire. We will find the Great Khan, and we will slay him.”
Feronantus burst out with a long oath in his native Gothic, not at all becoming of a monk. Raphael was able to make out the names of at least two pagan gods.
The little meeting had become a Tower of Babel. Benjamin spoke to the nonplussed rabbi in Khazar Turkic, presumably translating Percival’s words, and they went on to conduct an agonizingly long discussion in that tongue, perfectly opaque to Raphael.
Finally, as Feronantus buried his head in his hands and sank back in gloom, Benjamin looked at Raphael. His cloudy scowl faded, he lifted his shoulders, held out his hands-and smiled.
“Why not just tell us that in the first place? I cannot speak on behalf of my cousins who dwell in this little village, of course. But as far as I’m concerned, anyone as determined as you seem to be to kill the Great Khan, and throw his empire into disarray, is brethren to us all in this terrible time foretold by the Nevi’im, and there is almost nothing I won’t do to help further your quest.”
The rabbi ran his fingers through his beard, as was his habit when deep in thought.
“I felt confident you’d see it that way,” Percival said, breaking into an amazed silence.
“This all came to you in a vision?” Benjamin asked.
Percival looked up and smiled. The light on his face was again apparent. Raphael was almost certain the others saw it as well. There were so many reasons for living, breathing, sinful men to feel uncomfortable around Percival.
“You are indeed a holy fool,” said Benjamin, “for I am a strange man, and not one merchant in a thousand would respond as I have.” Benjamin now turned to address Raphael in Hebrew. “Please say to the others that I commend you all for your bravery and wish you the best of luck on your quest. But we who must remain here are in grave danger. We can only assume that the Mongols will search tirelessly for the surviving Shield-Maidens.” Raphael quickly translated.
Feronantus’s response was immediate and simple. “We will draw them away from you,” he said, “and destroy them.”
21
“Why did you let him go, you idiot?” Fieschi snarled, whirling away from de Segni in frustration. “He was right there, he was standing next to you, you were befriending him…and then what? I looked away for one moment, and suddenly, Robert of Somercotes is practically embracing him!”
Fieschi seldom lost his temper; when he did, months of controlled, pent-up anger erupted from him at once. And in this moment, when he could not raise his voice as he wanted to, the fury came hissing out of him like scalding steam. Rinaldo Conti de Segni winced. Although they were standing in his bedchamber, it was clear he wanted to flee; Fieschi owned the space entirely with his wrath. “At least I made an opening gambit,” de Segni said, trying to look disdainful rather than chastened. “I approached him. You have not done that much. Consider that before you accuse me of not taking sufficient action.”
Fieschi made a disgusted sound and turned back toward de Segni. “I approached him when he was delirious. I took his satchel from him. What little we know about the man we know because of me. If I had walked across the courtyard to get close to him today, it would have been obvious, even to him, that I was up to something. Somercotes and I would have gotten into a veritable tug-of-war and torn his arms off. Whereas you had managed to approach him as if in innocent greeting, welcoming him to our special little hell, offering assistance and introduction. And then you handed him over to the enemy!” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I ever considered putting you forward as a candidate.”
De Segni stiffened. “I would have made a better choice than your precious Bonaventura.”
Fieschi’s nostrils flared, and the whites of his eyes flashed in the torchlight. “I swear, if you waver in your support of Bonaventura, you will find a scorpion in your bed.”
De Segni held up his hands as if warding off a blow. “Of course he’ll get my vote, Fieschi. That doesn’t mean I approve of him.” More bitterly, and softer, he added, “At least it isn’t you I have to vote for.”
Fieschi’s face, which had been florid with anger until that moment, was suddenly unreadable. Incompetency distressed him; insults did not touch him. “You have just demonstrated why you would have made a poor candidate for Pontiff,” he said, almost triumphantly. “It takes a selfish, petty man to choose a Bishop of Rome according to the candidate’s personality. There are important issues at stake, and we cannot afford to indulge our egos or our personal preferences. I am not fond of Bonaventura myself-”
“You’re not fond of anyone, Fieschi,” de Segni interrupted, in full control of his disdain now, “except yourself.”
Fieschi shook his head slightly, slowly. “This is precisely the petty bickering that Frederick’s men want us to devolve to. Rise above it, Rinaldo. Now.”
He turned on his heel and stalked out of de Segni’s room.
As much as he despised Robert of Somercotes, he respected him, as an able enemy ought to be respected. Somercotes had snatched a quick and easy victory away from Bonaventura; the Englishman had quickly mustered the necessary voices to put Castiglione forward as a challenging candidate, and now the two factions were deadlocked. It enraged Fieschi that so many cardinals would consider voting for a man whose will would bend not to the Church but to the Holy Roman Emperor-somehow Somercotes had intellectually seduced them into it. One candidate or the other would need a two-thirds majority to become the next leader of the Catholic Church. That meant eight votes, now that this mysterious priest brought their number to an even dozen. The new arrival was the fulcrum upon which to rest the necessary lever to pry loose the undecided cardinals. But damned Robert of Somercotes knew that as well and had clung to the priest like a leech, seldom out of his company and never out of his sight.