“Why have you summoned me hither, my son?” asked Pecorara in a voice as cold as winter stone. The tall man named Helmuth began to murmur quietly to Ferenc, who nodded, his eyes glued to the Cardinals. Ocyrhoe was glad her friend was finally able to understand what was going on around him, in full, while it was actually happening. She had never met anyone with so much patience.
Frederick’s eyes glanced toward Monferrato and the candle. He let out a disgusted sigh, rolled his eyes, and cursed. “I’m setting you free, Your Eminence,” he said tartly to Pecorara. Pecorara must have already known this was the cause of the summons; his face showed no surprise or even pleasure. “You are no longer required to remain a guest of the empire. You are at liberty to go into Rome immediately and take part in the election. In fact, I would be most obliged if you would do just that, so we can get the fucking charade over with and I can return home. If, God forbid, the goddamned Mongols get as far as my empire, and I cannot protect my people because the Church insists on squabbling with me, then the Church is sin made manifest. So thank you for not trying to escape—well, not trying too hard, at least—and you are now free to go. These folk to my left”—and here he gestured to Ocyrhoe, Ferenc, and Léna—“will take you straight to the palace.”
The Cardinal looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he pursed his lips. “I appreciate my liberty, but I am not the only one of God’s chosen whom you have imprisoned. You have interfered with the smooth functioning of the Church at a time when it is needed most. For such a sacrilege, there is but one response.” He looked over his right shoulder toward Monferrato. “Cardinal, if you please?” He held his hand out toward the junior Cardinal.
“Oh for the love of Christ,” Frederick said, annoyed. “Not this again.”
Imperturbable and solemn, Pecorara received from Monferrato a small handbell. He took the handle, turned back toward the Emperor, and with a flick of his wrist, rang the bell twice, sharply. “You have spread division and confusion among the faithful,” said the Cardinal severely. “By your own willful acts, you have separated yourself from the Church and may no longer receive the sacraments. You are not a person to be followed.”
Helmuth blanched. Ferenc tugged his sleeve politely for a translation but the German soldier seemed too spooked to even notice.
Pecorara handed the bell back to Monferrato, who clumsily attempted to receive the bell, hand Pecorara the other object under his arm, and still hold the candle upright. The transfer accomplished, Pecorara returned his attention to the Emperor, and Ocyrhoe saw he held an enormous book. She guessed it was a Bible, since she could imagine no other modern book requiring so many words. The Cardinal opened the book, held it out in the direction of the scowling Emperor, and then portentously slapped the left-hand side closed over the right-hand side, as if he had just captured an insect with it. Helmuth looked very uncomfortable, but Frederick himself only shook his head as if in derisive amusement.
Pecorara now returned the book to Monferrato, and received the candle. Again turning toward the Emperor, he very gravely raised the candle level with his face, and blew out the flame. Helmuth shifted nervously; Ferenc was frowning in confusion; Léna’s face was unreadable; King Frederick looked, more than anything, peeved.
“Frederick Hohenstaufen, you are hereby excommunicated,” Pecorara declared. “It has been signified by bell, book, and candle.”
For Cardinal Rinaldo de Segni, the world was an uncomplicated place. That is not to say that God’s creation was not incredibly complex; he knew his role, which was to devote his life to the message offered by God. Other men, like the Holy Roman Emperor, sought physical rewards: power, money, prestige. The Emperor, for all his learnedness, was nothing more than a greedy man who wanted to exert his dominion over the entire Italian peninsula. De Segni loved his Church and he would not suffer a Pontiff who was willing to submit the Church to the Emperor’s power; clearly, it should be the other way around.
Which made writing Bonaventura on a slip of paper very easy.
He folded the paper, rose, and walked to the altar. The paten was lying atop the chalice. According to ritual tradition, he set his piece of paper on the paten and then lifted one side of it, drawing it aside so that the paper tumbled down into the chalice. He replaced the paten on top of the chalice. The first of ten votes had been cast.