The boy, perhaps for Rodrigo’s sake, acted likewise, and jumped right after him.
Now they stood in clear view of hundreds of people. Rodrigo glanced down at the boy. “Et in semitis quas ignoraverunt ambulare eos faciam. Ponam tenebras coram eis in lucem, et prava in recta,” he said, and seeing the boy’s confusion, he offered him a genial smile. “It is my time,” he explained, “I have something to show them.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out the communion cup he had brought with him from the tomb of Saint Peter.
Timoteo’s eyes grew very wide.
A guard entered the antechamber where the Cardinals were clustered in their confusion, a squirming figure thrown over his shoulder. He dumped his cargo in the middle of the marble floor, and gesturing at it, he offered a terse explanation. “This one ran up to me like he was being pursued by the Devil,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, Fieschi saw da Capua hastily make the sign of the Cross to ward off any truth to the man’s statement. “Name’s Timoteo, he says. He’s seen something. Maybe what you’re looking—”
“Of course,” Fieschi said, waving the guard away from the boy sprawled on the floor. The boy was still half hysterical, and with little prompting from Fieschi, his story spilled out in frighteningly rapid rush of words. The Cardinals listened to his story, and their expressions changed from incredulity to disbelief to—for more than a few—horror. Especially when he reached the part about...
Fieschi nearly pounced on him. “Magical priest?” he said, furiously gesturing the others to back away. “This man. Was his name Bendrito? Father Rodrigo Bendrito?”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said, trembling even more now that he was being stared at by so many angry, well-dressed men. “I was assigned to go with him into the city.”
Annibaldi glanced up and signaled to one of the several extraneous guards by the door. “Release Lucio,” he said, “but bring him back here.” Then his eyes, like all the others in the room, went back to the boy.
“He took me to the marketplace at the Forum,” the boy said. “He was kind, he seemed normal, until we got there, and then... and then...”
“And then what?” demanded Fieschi. “What happened? Where is he? Why did you leave him there? He could be anywhere now!”
“Oh, no, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said, gaining courage. “He’ll be very easy to find. You’d have a hard time not finding him, I think.”
“What does that mean, boy?” Fieschi demanded, as all the Cardinals exchanged confused looks.
“He began preaching,” said the boy, and stood up, taking a deep breath as if to reassure himself his lungs could still do that. “Like all those crazy preachers in the marketplace. He began prophesying and talking about the Mongol invaders bringing an end to the world, and how to defeat them.”
There was the slightest collective sigh as all the Cardinals exchanged knowing glances. “So he is still demented,” said Fieschi. “Despite reports to the contrary.”
“He did not seem demented, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said. “He got a lot of attention right away. Well, not he himself so much, but...” his eyes widened. “Your Eminences, I know you won’t believe this, but he was carrying... he said it was... it did look—”
“What?” Fieschi demanded.
The boy seemed on the verge of tears, but his face was caught between despair and such a wild delight that Fieschi could not help but feel a sense of dread creeping over him.
“It glowed,” the boy said, “When he held it up. It was so bright, and it blinded me. I put up my hand to shield my eyes, but he turned it and it only glowed more brightly. He smiled at me, and... and he said it was—”
“Damnation, boy!” Fieschi could not contain his impatience. “What was he tossing around out there?”
“The Cup,” the boy said, staring around at the group. “The Cup of Christ.”
“What?” demanded most of the voices of the room, followed immediately by Colonna and Capocci breaking into quiet guffaws.
“I saw it,” the boy insisted.
Fieschi watched his face closely. At heart, Timoteo seemed a practical young fellow, and the reactions of the Cardinals had made him swallow hard. Perhaps he was wishing he’d never said a word, but Fieschi suspected the boy would defend his story vigorously, now that he had told it. He would elaborate now, adding more details to the story. It was quite wonderful, actually, he reflected, to see how God shaped the world with such subtlety.