Rodrigo was grateful the young priest had allowed him to descend into the crypt alone. He had approached the high altar in the middle of the church, its towering canopy dwarfed by the almost incomprehensible height of the cathedral’s ceiling. A balustrade descended into the sacred pit below the altar, the walls lit by oil lamps. Those lamps have burned unceasingly since I was last in Rome, he thought, not sure how many days or hours or lifetimes that had been.
He followed the steps into a cavelike chamber, feeling as if Mother Earth herself was preparing to take him into her bosom and relieve him of his burden. At the far end of the lamplit space stood a wall of red and white marble with a low, arching doorway in the middle. On the other side, he knew, lay St. Peter, Christ’s greatest disciple, in a repose more peaceful by far than anything Rodrigo himself had ever, would ever, know. The silence was absolute, as if the world had stopped, paused to breathe in the holy air of such a holy man. Even the lamps burned in ghostly silence—with none of that serpentlike hissing they made in the upper world.
Carefully, worshipfully, Rodrigo walked in callused bare feet toward the archway. He was only half convinced the father of Catholicism would awaken to hear his prophecy... but if he didn’t, if Peter were too close to God to care now what became of the minions left on earth, it would still be restful to spend a moment by the crypt and pray to the saint for guidance.
Rodrigo lowered his head and entered the crypt. This too was lit by an eternal flame, an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling just above the coffin. For a long moment, too long, he tracked a tendril of soot rising from the flame, studied it as he had studied the marble.
That is the reward and the way of sacred repose, the blessed freedom to think such thoughts, make such observations undisturbed, alone, forever and ever.
Resting on top of the coffin was a chalice and paten, as if the tomb itself were an altar and somebody had been in the middle of preparing for mass but was suddenly called away. He walked to the coffin, touched the cool stone and felt reassured by its simplicity amid the glamour that entombed it. He reached toward the paten and chalice, then paused, hand wavering slowly in the still, cool air, and picked up the paten. There were no communion wafers on it, and it was burnished gold, unsmudged by any fingers but his own. The chalice likewise looked freshly polished, pristine. He set the paten down on top of the tomb, and reached with both hands now toward the chalice. He cupped it between his palms, lifted it high, then brought it closer to his body. He looked inside.
It was not empty.
The Cardinals had arrived; Ocyrhoe and Ferenc had been washed and dressed in cleaner clothes that did not quite fit them—especially Ocyrhoe, who was wearing a spare shift and stockings given to her by Léna; both had been shortened and the shift belted like a tunic, but she still seemed to float in it.
They stood now with Léna and Helmuth to the left of the Emperor. Frederick was dressed exactly as he had been the day before, except now he also wore a crown. As lofty as his clothing appeared, he himself did not look regal, nor did he speak at all the way Ocyrhoe thought an Emperor should. The wonder of the world indeed, she thought. It is a wonder he is king of anywhere. Then she chastised herself; Binders must be above such prejudices.
The tent flap opened, and all of them stood at attention, even the Emperor.
“Cardinal Bishop Giacomo da Pecorara,” said a young servant standing by the tent flap. A tall, elegant, obviously irritated older man strode into the tent. He was dressed in a much finer red robe than any of the Cardinals Ocyrhoe had seen in the Septizodium; in all ways he was better kempt than they were too. Head held high, he walked with long, slow strides toward His Majesty. Behind him followed another man, shorter and wide-eyed and a few years younger, dressed just like him. The second Cardinal had tucked a bulky object under each arm and walked with both arms out in front of him: one hand held a burning candle, the other hand cupped protectively in front to keep the flame from spluttering as he walked. Why on earth would anyone waste the wax of a lit candle in broad daylight? Ocyrhoe wondered.
“And Cardinal Oddone de Monferrato,” added the page boy hurriedly, abashedly, as if he had not expected the second Cardinal.