He had fallen to his knees—surrounded by intersecting wheels of sparks, flames, and embers circling on the edges of vision—when hands roughly grabbed him. He had fought at first—valiantly, but foolishly—thinking he had been grabbed again by the skeleton, but when the fleshy hands roughly shook him and a voice called his name, he realized he was no longer dreaming.
He was wide-awake. The corridor was filled with smoke from a fire that had been started in one of the narrow rooms used by the cardinals. Rodrigo stared at the black billows, agape with horror and wonder.
He knew in which room the fire burned.
Somercotes.
“Do not struggle so,” a voice growled in his ear, and he twisted his head to see Colonna, the tall one. “There is nothing more we can do.”
No! What about Somercotes? He struggled in the cardinal’s grip, trying to break free so that he could run to the aid of the warm-hearted old man. He can’t be dead.
A shape eclipsed the orange-shot gloom in the corridor, and for a second, through a break in the stinking wave of smoke flowing along the ceiling of the hall, he caught sight of Capocci, in the doorway of the burning room, his white beard spread out around his face like a splash of white sea foam.
Rodrigo broke free of Colonna and fell, banging his knees against the hard floor. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled toward the door. He had to help Capocci. He had to help save Somercotes.
In his mind, he saw the younger version of Somercotes—the one from his dream—pointing toward the door of the hut. The doorway was filled with light. It was happening again...
Save us, the angel whispered, and Rodrigo began to scream and gibber and beg as Colonna grabbed his leg and hauled him away from the glowing portal.
*
Ferenc and Ocyrhoe rested in the shadow of the niche, further obscured from the road by the thick trunk of the tree that had forced itself, obstinately and resolutely, between several of the large foundation stones of the nymphaeum. The ten-sided building, like many of the older temples built far from the center of Rome, had lost its luster and allure, though its marble facing was mostly intact. No one worshipped there now—a fact she had verified while Ferenc dozed—though, in her heart, Ocyrhoe suspected rites and ceremonies dedicated to Minerva had taken place beneath its rounded dome.
She felt safe here, her back against the sun-warmed stones. The goddess had resided here once, and much as a child instinctively knows—and remembers—its mother’s embrace, Ocyrhoe drew courage from the faded memory of that divine presence.
They had walked as quickly as Ferenc’s ankle had allowed; though she feared their pace would draw attention, she had been surprised and relieved to discover how easy it had been for them to slip along the edges of the restless crowds. The Bear’s guards were watching for runners, and as the citizens of Rome became more frantic, there became too many targets to watch effectively. Made invisible by their more temperate pace, they trailed in the wake of the crowds, letting the mob pull them along, until she spotted the rounded dome of the nymphaeum.
Ferenc was propped up in the corner of the niche, eyes closed, head against the wall. He was worn out—as was she—and as they had walked, she could tell his ankle pained him. Ocyrhoe had insisted on taking a rest—ignoring his persistent protests that he could keep going—and shortly after they had found this hiding place, he had wedged himself into the corner and dozed off.
Such a stupid thing, that jump! At first, she had wanted to scream at him; he had thrown away their one chance to slip out of the city undetected. Instead, he had foolishly injured himself while saving her, without even considering the possibility that she hadn’t needed saving. She could have out-climbed that guard. She was smaller and faster; he would not have been able to keep up. And then they would have both made it to the top of the wall.
But what then? Where would they have gone from there?
She was still angry, and not just because he had doubted her plan but also because he had been right to question it. What stung most had been the embarrassment of his clumsily signed question: Have you ever been out?
She hadn’t even considered how they would have descended from the wall. She was a child of the city; it was all she had ever known and all she ever wanted to master. She had wanted to be a part of the city the way the other kin-sisters were: both slave and master of the temples, the plazas, the roads, the aqueducts, the gardens, the walls. She had wanted to learn every bump and rock of the seven hills, to know them well enough to walk across them barefoot and know where she was by the texture of the ground beneath her feet. Her world was Rome, and what made her heart ache was the realization of how small and insignificant her dream was. She could walk across the entirety of Rome in a day; outside the walls, she could walk for days—weeks, years, her whole life, even—and not reach the edge of the world.
Her fingers touched and affectionately scraped at the warm stone of the nymphaeum. She was an ant, dreaming the tiny dream of an ant, in a world erected by and for giants. I am frightened, she thought, praying to a goddess she did not know how to summon. I am just one small girl, and I am not very strong.
Ferenc stirred, his eyelids fluttering. As his senses returned, he sat up sharply. Ocyrhoe laid a hand on his arm, and he calmed at once. Her fingers began to tap and squeeze. “We are safe for now,” she signed. “No one is paying attention. They are looking for people who are fleeing.”
He nodded as he looked at the wall behind and above them. “Where are we?” he queried.