Frederick pursed his lips together, struggling to find a rational explanation for the priest’s presence and story. It beggared comprehension, but... he couldn’t ignore what Léna had told him prior to her departure from his camp. Opportunities will present themselves. Take care that you recognize them.
He signaled to the boy for his wine cup. “I will ask you about your mission in a moment,” he said, “But first let us return to my first question: tell me about your supporters. Besides the English Cardinal, who befriended you?”
Father Rodrigo smiled as if nostalgic. “Most of the Cardinals were very pleasant to me. Two fellows named Colonna and Capocci especially took me under their wings, so to speak—”
“Indeed?” So we have the same friends, Frederick thought. Or at least, your friends are not my enemies.
“Yes, and there is Cardinal Fieschi. He is most attentive,” Father Rodrigo concluded carefully.
That made no sense at all. Fieschi and Colonna would never be on the same side of any issue. Frederick frowned, and dismissed the boy offering wine.
“Fieschi? Sinibaldo Fieschi? You are sure of that?” Frederick said. “If both Fieschi and Colonna are your allies, I’m pretty damn sure that one of them is not actually your ally, but wants you to think he is.”
“Which do you think is not my ally?” Father Rodrigo asked, a curious cunning in his eyes.
What am I supposed to read in his face? Frederick found himself wondering. The priest continued to surprise him with these alternating moods. He appeared harmless, a simple priest struck daft by some beatific vision he thought he had had; but at other moments, there were these flashes of a deep intelligence and passion.
“The fire in the Septizodium,” he said carefully. “You said it was unexpected. Unexpected for you, perhaps, but not for everyone.”
“Ignis succensus est in furore meo,” Father Rodrigo said.
Frederick couldn’t help himself and rolled his eyes. “God, you priests and your Scripture. Yes, I get it. The fire was born out of someone’s anger, but whose?” He stared at the priest. “Somercotes died in the Septizodium,” he mused. “Who benefited from that accident? Orsini, for one. Somercotes was English, hardly an advocate for a Roman Pope. Did he have men set that fire to cover up some other nefarious deed? Or did he have a man inside?”
“Et ardebit usque ad inferni novissima,” Father Rodrigo said quietly.
The fire that burns in the lowest pit of Hell, Frederick thought, still considering whether to believe what the priest was suggesting. He held his hand out. “I’ll take the wine now, boy.” The page immediately held out the chalice. Frederick drank it off in one gulp and handed back the cup. “Have some wine,” he said, gesturing to the other two cups. He looked directly at Ferenc and repeated the gesture.
As the two visitors rose and crossed to the table, Frederick carefully considered what the priest was suggesting. The fire in the Septizodium had been set on purpose, mostly likely to hide the suspicious death of Cardinal Somercotes. Did he know who committed the heinous crime? he wondered, and of what use was that knowledge—to the priest, to him?
He had his doubts about the man’s claim to being the Pontiff-elect, but he also knew to keep an open mind for such a possibility. The machinations of kings and caliphs and popes affected all of Christendom, and a vast portion of his duties as Holy Roman Emperor were to understand these games better than anyone else. He had learned, long ago, to keep an eye out for the chaotic oddity that might change the rules. In the case of Father Rodrigo—madman or Pope—what was he supposed to do? The priest wanted to engage in this foolhardy business of all-out war? He doubted the man could actually accomplish the goal he sought, but what he thought meant little. What mattered more was the Church’s reaction, and Frederick strongly suspected the Church—if any of what the man said was true—would want to lock him up somewhere, against his will, to keep him from discrediting the Church with his public declarations.
When they finished their wine, Ferenc and Father Rodrigo returned to their stools. Frederick noticed that the boy had left his cup beside the decanter, while the priest still held on to his. His fingers tapped against its rim, and he was unaware of the noise he was making.
“Two more questions for you,” Frederick asked. “First, this foreign boy that’s with you—”
“Ferenc,” Father Rodrigo said affectionately; Ferenc turned nervously toward him. Father Rodrigo made a soothing gesture and murmured something in Ferenc’s language. “He was with me at Mohi, and he accomp—”
“Jesus Christ, you were at Mohi? Having seen that, you still want to call a crusade?” Frederick asked, eyes widening. “That settles it, you’re definitely mad.”
“I believe I was, Your Majesty, but I have been healed by God’s grace,” Father Rodrigo replied evenly.
“So you came from Mohi with this feral creature,” Frederick prompted. “You were thrown into the Septizodium—”
“Yes, and he tried to rescue me with the assistance of a waif of a girl, Osie... Osie-someone.”