“But is it safe for him to be wandering about the basilica on his own?” asked Annibaldi reasonably.
“It is the holiest spot outside of Jerusalem,” Fieschi said impatiently. “And there are priests, clerics, and guards everywhere. He made quite a spectacle of himself yesterday; people will keep an eye on him.” He paused, casting a glance toward da Capua. “I thought it best to keep one of God’s chosen ones close to Him.”
“Amen,” da Capua said eagerly.
Colonna glanced at Capocci, who was staring at Fieschi quietly, chewing on a strand of his long beard. “Amen,” the bearded Cardinal echoed, his voice muffled by the thick strand of beard in his mouth.
Was that not your plan? Fieschi wondered, staring back at the Cardinal. Why else would you have kept those maimed scorpions?
“Let us take a moment to pray,” said Torres, rising and walking to the altar. He held up the papers, and then with ceremonial dourness, he began to walk around the circle, and offered a wide slip of the paper to each of his fellow Cardinals. “And once we have reached our fill of prayer, let us begin.”
The church was calm and cool and everything was made of marble. The marble was beautiful, and echoed the sounds of things happening nearby, and this was comforting, for it kept the other sounds, the sounds inside his head, at bay. Rodrigo had slept poorly the previous night, the memory of the men screaming in the wagon with him haunting his nocturnal thoughts. The screaming reminded him of the horrible battle, the horrible war, the horrible soldiers, both foreign and familiar, and he did not want to be reminded of any of that. He was a poor simple priest and he wanted to be left alone to worship. He could not keep track of where he was, or in what company. But they were all gone now, locked in the smaller chapel, leaving him alone. At last.
He still had not delivered the message and he found it sulking in the back of his head, waiting for attention. He did not want to give it attention. But he could feel the message he was to deliver to the Pope, he could feel it dancing in his skull, around his brain, stamping its feet and now demanding, no longer waiting for, his attention. Distracted and almost distressed, he dragged his eyes from the vein of marble and looked around him. He was in the transept of a church, a huge and magnificent cathedral that seemed familiar but distant, as if from another lifetime.
A young priest, even younger than he himself, and so innocent looking, was walking down the center aisle.
“Where am I?” Rodrigo asked plaintively.
The priest approached him, hand held up in smiling assurance. “You are in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” the priest said. “Saint Peter’s Basilica. I have been asked to assist you... if you need anything.”
“Saint Peter?” Rodrigo cried out. “May I see him?”
The young man hesitated, then smiled again. “Certainly, Father. His tomb is directly below the altar. Follow me, please.”
“I want to go alone,” said Rodrigo. The young man looked innocent enough, but there were spies everywhere, and he needed to speak to the Pontiff in absolutely secrecy.
“I will show you where to descend,” the young man said and held out his hand toward the altar.
Ferenc was relieved and grateful that they had found somebody to speak Magyar with him. The soldier—Helmuth—was not a native speaker, and his accent was very thick, but to have any kind of conversation at all nourished Ferenc’s heart—even Father Rodrigo had been nearly silent through most of their harrowing journey from Mohi to Rome.
They were breaking their fast together, the soldier speaking and Ferenc listening. Perhaps it was an accident of birth, but Helmuth had a permanent sneer on his face; he radiated disdain toward the young hunter. It was clear to Ferenc that the man was judging him critically, and finding him unworthy—but of what he had no idea. He was so grateful to hear his native language spoken that he would have smiled to have abuses hurled at him.
Ocyrhoe and the other Binder woman were huddled together near them, talking quickly in words Ferenc could not follow. This bothered Ferenc, who felt protective toward Ocyrhoe, but unable to protect her. Several times during her long conversation with the woman the afternoon before, Ocyrhoe had been reduced nearly to tears, and he blamed Léna for this.
“When do we go back to the city?” Ferenc asked the man.
“We are waiting for the Cardinals,” Helmuth responded sullenly.
This made no sense. “But the Cardinals are in the city! We are going back to the Cardinals,” he protested.
Helmuth shook his head. “Not all the Cardinals. Some of them are being held as guests by His Majesty, the Emperor. They are his guests in Tivoli.”
Ferenc found this even more confusing. “He is here; why are his guests not with him?”
Helmuth grinned in a superior way. “They are in Tivoli. They are guests of the empire, not of the Emperor personally.”