Ocyrhoe had seen many prophesiers in many marketplaces, but never before had she seen one of them attract this kind of attention. And his words! She shook her head, still unwilling to believe what she was hearing. He was preaching violence.
Ferenc shook his head and exclaimed out loud, “It is Father Rodrigo!” Around them, outliers glared in disapproval and lifted hushing fingers. Oblivious, Ferenc spoke to Helmuth, the one man who could understand his native tongue. “That is the man we have come to Rome to save!”
Helmuth frowned. “We did not come to Rome to save anyone,” he said. “We came to bring Cardinal Monferrato to vote for the Pope.”
Ignoring him, Ferenc turned back to Ocyrhoe. Tell me what Father Rodrigo’s saying, he signed.
Ask Helmuth, she begged off. Too many words. She couldn’t tell Ferenc what the priest was saying.
The Cardinal was staring open-mouthed at the man on the rubble pile. “Who is that?” he demanded. “How is it this boy knows him?”
Ocyrhoe wondered how best to explain. After a deep breath, she began. “It is Father Rodrigo Bendrito, a Roman priest who once lived near Ferenc’s home. Ferenc and Father Rodrigo traveled together to Rome, and then Father Rodrigo was put into seclusion with the Cardinals in the Septizodium. As he is not in the Septizodium, that could mean the others are no longer imprisoned there, either.”
Monferrato closed his eyes a moment, as if hoping to open them to a different, saner reality. “He is preaching a Crusade. He is telling these people to rise up and defend Christendom against the Mongols.”
“I hear what he’s saying as well as you,” Ocyrhoe said. The man’s face pinked. He puffed and looked outraged that she had dared to address him so abruptly. Out of the corner of her eye, Ocyrhoe saw Léna frown. “He was very ill when they arrived here, both physically and mentally,” Ocyrhoe said quickly, trying to find some explanation that the Cardinal would find suitable.
Monferrato blinked owlishly at her, and she shrugged, not sure what else to tell him. She had no idea why the priest was exhorting the crowd to launch a Crusade against the Mongols. It seemed so unlike the kindly—albeit somewhat dazed man—she had met in the Septizodium.
Beside them, Helmuth was translating Rodrigo’s rant to Ferenc, who looked as if he were watching eels do circus tricks. Ocyrhoe felt somewhat mollified; Ferenc couldn’t believe what Father Rodrigo was saying either. He replied to Helmuth in a tone that Ocyrhoe took to be a defense of the priest, and used the word Mohi several times.
Léna started upon hearing the name. She snapped her fingers in front of Ferenc’s face to get his attention and repeated, “Mohi?”
When Ferenc nodded, she turned her attention to Helmuth. “What was he saying?” she demanded.
The Emperor’s guard shuffled nervously, his face pale. “He talks of the battle at Mohi, as if he and the priest were there.” He said something to Ferenc in Magyar, and Ferenc nodded tersely in reply. “They didn’t just witness it,” Helmuth continued. “They were on the battlefield.”
“You poor boy,” Léna said softly. She touched his arm, her fingers dancing lightly across his skin, and Ocyrhoe was surprised when Ferenc pulled away from Léna’s touch.
Léna hesitated for a moment, and then she turned to the others. “The priest and this young man were present at one of the most atrocious battles Christendom has ever witnessed. It was a battle no one should have had to witness—least of all a man of God—and what the priest saw must have driven him mad.” She indicated Ferenc. “With what sanity he had left, he must have asked this boy to bring him back to Rome, perhaps to seek redemption—or whatever peace might be left for him. But now it would appear that his madness has consumed him, and he is infecting the rest of the city.”
She listened intently to Father Rodrigo’s sermon, as if hearing him differently now. She had the same expression on her face that Ocyrhoe had seen previously—her attention both intent and distant.
Privately, Ocyrhoe thought Father Rodrigo looked much healthier than she had ever seen him. And he spoke with a great deal of verve. His words were clear and direct. He spoke without hesitation or confusion, as if the message he was delivering to his rapt audience was one that he knew quite well.