“Perhaps he is headed for the Septizodium,” he suggested. “We should send guards there at once.”
“Yes,” said Capocci in a meaningful voice, rubbing his bandaged hand gingerly. “I’ll wager he is looking for his friend Cardinal Somercotes.”
“Perhaps he is seeking his childhood haunts,” Castiglione suggested. “Are there any records of his background? Do we know where he was ordained or who he studied under?”
As much as Fieschi did not want to admit it, this was a sound idea. He looked around the room irritably for someone else to order around. There were now a dozen priests and two bishops standing with them, all equally unable to do anything about the situation.
“You,” Fieschi said, randomly pointing to one of the older priests. “Discover where this Father Rodrigo studied, and where he served before he went to Hungary. There must be some particular church he has affiliations with in the city, and he may be headed in that direction.”
The man bowed hurriedly and left. The other priests looked torn between relief at not being given the assignment, and forlornness at being stuck with the glowering Cardinals until further notice.
The boy, Timoteo, ran up beside Rodrigo, panting and wide-eyed.
“I thought I’d lost you!” the boy cried.
“I am here, no harm. I have been walking and thinking.”
“They will be looking for us. We have been gone too long!”
“Then let them find us.”
They passed by the dumping ground that a thousand years earlier had been the Forum, the center of Roman government and religion. There were many markets in the city of Rome, but one of the largest was in the open space between the Forum and the Colosseum. The cemented combination of debris and ruined buildings had raised the height of the ancient Forum so that it seemed to peer and hover awkwardly over the western edge of this market.
He remembered climbing those rubbish-strewn ruins as a child, and he even remembered a section—if it were still intact—where part of a wall of the Temple of Vesta had fallen, without breaking, onto its side, creating a flat area not unlike a dais. The accidental acoustics of half-fallen columns around it had made it an effective place to shout from, if, as a child, one wanted to get the attention of several hundred market-goers and market-sellers at once. He had done that when he was younger than the lad who followed him—Timoteo. He even remembered how to get there.
Rodrigo approached the awkward, angular bulge on the earth that was the ruins of the Forum. The boy stumbled up after him.
“This way, my son,” Rodrigo said with a smile. “I am going to show you a secret way into the marketplace, and then you are going to witness something that people will talk about for generations to come.”
He led the boy up a wobbly crest of boulders and broken walls that formed an uneven series of steps and stairs. They moved sideways across what had once been the upper portico of some great administrative building. The stone was warm and reflected the bright afternoon sunlight. It felt wonderful, so wonderful, to feel the sun shine upon him in his native city. Rodrigo watched the familiar pathways of years gone by unfold before him, unchanged but by the smallest degree. When they reached the edge of the portico, he gestured to the boy to look.
Below them by some dozen feet spread the western edge of the enormous market. It was mostly a fruit and vegetable market, but to the north there were several horse traders, and farther east the mercers’ stalls began.
Timoteo took in an awe-filled breath at this unusual perspective. “It’s beautiful,” he said. Then, pointing to a small crowd gathered together and facing a single point, he asked, “What is that?”
Rodrigo looked and huffed dismissively. “Nothing has changed since my early days here. That, my son, is a false prophet, preaching some heresy to gullible innocents whose souls he may well damn for all eternity. Such men as he are popular in gathering spots like this. Look, there is another one,” he said, and pointed to the south where a smaller band of women with market baskets stared slack-jawed at a man in a bright blue robe who stood on a cart, gesticulating madly. “And there too.” A bowshot to the east of him there was another man, this one dressed in sack cloth, shouting abusively into a growing crowd made up mostly of young men.
“Where do they come from?” Timoteo asked, genuinely alarmed at seeing souls led astray. “Why does anybody listen to them?”
“That,” said Rodrigo, “is an excellent question. Let us attempt to find the answer to it. Will you come with me?” He gestured forward. The portico ended but abutted the fallen temple wall that Rodrigo had anticipated. He had to take one unnerving jump across a gap the breadth of an arm; the gap was deep and he could see the jagged stubs of ruined columns below. For the boy’s sake, he acted as if it did not bother him.