With an explosion of bright light and trumpets, Rodrigo left the crypt of St. Peter far behind. A wind caught him, spun him about, pushed his head back on his neck, as if it might break him in two. He struggled, fighting the grip of the vision but he was held fast in an ecstasy of cracking bone and sacred paralysis. As he feared his flesh would tear, the wind subsided. It puffed lightly against his cheek—a gentle, almost friendly slap—and he found himself on a mountain slope.
His dirty robes were gone, replaced by a thin white gown, and he stood barefoot on the verge of a grove of towering cedars, the aroma of them so thick and strong he could almost swallow it like nectar. He could not see the horizon beyond the trees, but the cedars were swaying wildly, erratically, as if they were trying to warn him of an approaching storm.
As a furious darkness spread like ink across the sky, a whip of lightning snapped the roots of a nearby cedar. The tree let out a groan as the sizzling bolt—like none he had ever seen—solidified into hot, bright silver where it struck the earth, then burrowed into the soil like an auger. The soil blackened and glistened and retreated, then fled from around the cedar’s roots. The tree screamed, it was human, surely it was human—it sounded human—and looking up he could make out in the shadows of the branches a human face, neither male nor female but simply human, very human, and wise, a being who had ancestors and descendants and was being severed from both by the roots. The molten silver bolt, zinging and slicing, grabbed hold of the great tree’s roots like a hand around a baby’s throat, and shook it, shook it right out of the earth until the tree, screeching, horrified and uncomprehending, toppled, and fell with a groan and an earth-shaking thud. Its leaves and branches thrashed just inches from Rodrigo’s head.
He wanted to comfort the tree but he was afraid to touch it lest the lightning sense his presence and likewise fell him.
The remaining trees were wailing, branches flailing, trunks swaying, as if they would all bend over, reach down and touch the fallen cedar. Then the heavens shattered, split open by many streaks of lightning. Each tree was snatched and twisted by its topmost branches, as a hand might grab a woman’s hair, and each began to tremble as if possessed. Shaking and screaming with one voice, all at once they were sucked out of the ground. They rose a few dozen feet into the air, bare roots shivering off the damp dirt that had sustained them, and then immediately, and in total silence—
They leaned over and collapsed on top of Rodrigo. Trunks crushed him, branches thrust out to pin his arms, and twigs descended to poke out his eyes.
Screaming in horror, Rodrigo lay across the tomb, feeling the cold stone beneath his fingers—but also the press of the dying trees, and he could not break free of either the dream—the vision—or the pain.
Cardinal Giovanni Colonna’s family had feuded with the Orisinis for so many years that the genesis of the hatred had been forgotten. But that did not prevent each successive generation from clinging to the long-standing rivalry. Colonna, not a man to hate easily, hated Orsini, and Orsini wanted Bonaventura on St. Peter’s throne; therefore Bonaventura would never receive Colonna’s vote. In all the previous elections, he had voted for Castiglione... but it seemed to him now that all the Cardinals would be so enraged at Orsini that Castiglione would certainly get all their votes, especially after the magnificent way he had stood up to the Senator. So there was no danger that Bonaventura would win the election.
In which case, Colonna decided, he wanted to cast a vote that would remind everyone of the Church’s humble and mystical beginnings. For the Supreme Pontiff, I elect—he wrote on his slip of paper—Father Rodrigo Bendrito. He grinned, stood up, and walked toward the altar.
Ocyrhoe could hardly believe what she was watching. Nothing in her training had prepared her for the petty, irrational tension between secular and holy powers. Raised as she was to be fairly indifferent to the sanctity of either, the intensity with which both Emperor and Cardinal took themselves so very seriously seemed maddeningly bizarre. Surely men of such importance had greater concerns than this affected posturing to one another?
In response to the news of his excommunication, Frederick had simply sighed like a long-suffering parent. Then he smiled tightly at the Cardinal. “Excuse me, Your Eminence, I believe I have made a mistake. You are not the Cardinal I intended to liberate. Sorry for the long overnight journey, but I’m sure you’ll find the trip back to my castle in Tivoli quite a pleasant one on this lovely autumn day.” The Cardinal’s eyes blazed, but he said nothing.
“Cardinal Monferrato,” the Emperor continued, in an indulgent, conversational tone. “Seeing that you had the audacity to accompany your friend here without my permission, please step forward, ahead of your unsporting brother there.”
Monferrato’s eyes, already quite wide, showed full rims of white. He delicately took a step forward and stood beside Pecorara. “Yes, Your Majesty?” he said.