Yasper nodded and ran toward one of the wandering Mongol ponies. Eleázar turned toward the valley of the cave bear. Three of the company were going after the Khagan. It fell upon him now to make sure none of the surviving Mongols followed.
He laughed, swinging his two-handed sword as he moved into position.
They weren’t getting past him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Cast Out
Father Rodrigo seemed to hear Ferenc’s desperate plea. The priest relaxed, his hands slackening on Ocyrhoe’s neck. The girl took a huge, loud draw of breath and was about to let it out when a spasm shook Father Rodrigo’s body. His hands tightened again around her throat; she fought at his grip with furious desperation. Ferenc wrenched Rodrigo’s neck more, until he felt it reach its limit.
Father Rodrigo bellowed with pain as he struggled against Ferenc’s grip, but Ferenc’s hands continued to squeeze. Ocyrhoe’s face turned purple, her tongue protruding from her mouth.
“Stop it, Rodrigo. Rodrigo Bendrito!” Ferenc begged. “Father Rodrigo Bendrito! Listen to me!” He felt tears start from his eyes.
It was unfair to have this choice forced upon him. He and the priest had survived Mohi; they had traveled together for so long. He had built fires to warm the man’s body when the warmth of the fevers had fled; he had foraged for tiny streams within rocky clefts in the high mountains for cool water to cool Father Rodrigo’s burning skin. He had brought the priest to Rome so that his message—the last shred of his faith that had kept him alive throughout their journey—could be delivered. Once in Rome, a land as foreign and strange as any he could possibly imagine, he had found someone who could communicate with him. She used the same finger language as his mother, and almost instantly, this tiny girl had become so important to him.
And now he had to choose between them.
This is what was, his mother had told him, showing him the old roots. This is what will be. She patted the soil where she had recently planted the seeds. What grows is what we remember, what we bind ourselves to.
It is the choices we make.
Father Rodrigo continued to strain in Ferenc’s grip, and from some unearthly source of dreadful strength, he began lifting Ocyrhoe’s thin body off the ground.
“Stop it!” Ferenc was screaming now, his lips against the priest’s ear. “You saved my life at Mohi; let me save yours now! Put her down! Let her go! Rodrigo!”
Father Rodrigo shouted, his voice an octave lower than his normal speaking voice; Ferenc almost expected a demon to slink out of his mouth. Ocyrhoe’s eyes began to roll up.
“Stop it! You are killing her!” Ferenc screamed. “Take the Grail and go!”
“She is the Devil; she must die, or she will follow me forever!” Rodrigo shouted, again in a demonically thundering bass.
Ferenc’s body convulsed with sobs. There was no time, no time to think this through, no time to try some other way. Muttering rapid prayers for forgiveness, he made his choice. Closing his eyes as if that somehow made a difference, he shot his left arm forward and snapped his right arm back, twisting Rodrigo’s head at an impossible angle over his right shoulder. Immediately the priest gasped and shuddered, releasing Ocyrhoe. When Ferenc relaxed his arms, Father Rodrigo made a tiny sound, almost like a sigh of relief, and collapsed at Ferenc’s feet.
Ocyrhoe’s terrified coughs and gasps were so loud and painful that Ferenc did not realize for a moment he was gasping too; he turned away and vomited into the grass, then fell to his knees beside Father Rodrigo’s now lifeless body, sobbing like an orphaned child.
A unruly mob swarmed the streets of Rome. As far as Cardinal Fieschi could tell, the mob was leaderless—agitated citizens with no clear purpose or direction. By the time his carriage reached the Vatican, he was certain the swarm of citizenry milling about the streets was simply there to delay his return. Yet another obstacle he had to endure.
His first stop had been the Orsini estate where he learned that the Senator had been summoned to the Vatican—an unwelcome piece of news for who, other than himself, would summon the Senator? The interminable ride through the crowded streets of Rome did little to dispel his apprehension.
He dismounted quickly from the carriage, angrily rejecting the ostiarius’s offer of a helpful hand. “Senator Orsini,” he snapped. “Is he still here?”
“I believe so,” the porter replied. “He asked to be taken to the main receiving chamber.”
“And the other Cardinals?”
“They are preparing to announce the new Pope,” the ostiarius said.
“And who is the new Pope?” Fieschi asked, secretly fearing that some other reversal had occurred in the time he had been absent.
“Celestine IV,” a woman’s voice provided.
Léna, the Binder from Frederick’s camp, stood on the broad steps. She descended to his level and offered him a respectful bow. “Cardinal Fieschi,” she said. “I had hoped to meet you before I departed.”