Staring at the mob of Imperial Guard lined up behind the three ger, Chucai understood the need. Three jaghun of mounted soldiers, Munokhoi’s elite troop, and two companies of a hundred men each. Their supply train stretched out of the palace gates—cooks, doctors, livestock drivers, wagon masters. A small group of acrobatic entertainers caught Chucai’s eye as they performed up and down the supply line. Mukha had shrieked for half a day when she had been told they couldn’t come along; Chucai had relented finally, only to get her to shut up, and he secretly hoped a Chinese raiding party would confuse them for an unguarded supply caravan.
There was no sign of Gansukh or Lian. He was not concerned yet, but he kept an eye out for them.
13
Signa Hodie Lumen Vultus Tui Super Me
GREGORY IS DEAD.
The three words staggered Rodrigo. From this simple statement spun a maelstrom of confusion. The Pope—dead. To whom would he deliver his message? Why had God sent him here when there was no way for him to be relieved of his burden? The Church would be consumed with discord as the factions vied for dominance, and he couldn’t wait until a new Pope was elected. Christendom was under attack. A vast threat was coming out of the East, and he had been sent to warn the Church.
Robert of Somercotes tried to continue their conversation—speaking of cardinals, their duty to the Church, and of the sede vacante—but Rodrigo could grasp nothing of what the other man was trying to tell him. The news of the Pope’s death was too overwhelming. Not even food and water could completely lift the burden of his exhaustion—the burden of his duty. The weight crushed him, and he lay back on the pallet. Sobbing gently, he collapsed into a dreamless stupor—not sleep but a complete senselessness of both mind and spirit. His body demanded rest. His journey was not done yet, and if he was going to survive, he needed strength, both in body and spirit.
When he woke, the three words still churned in his head—Gregory is dead—but somewhere in his senseless slumber, he had located a hidden reserve of strength. God would not abandon him, not as long as he continued to believe his burden was just. Not as long as he had faith.
By the warm tint of the light in the tiny, high-ceilinged room, he knew it was day—by the relative cool, still morning. Rodrigo felt his stomach rumble and almost chuckled at it, as if it were some sickly child that had finally grown healthy enough to complain.
Gingerly, sore all over and still feverish, the priest staggered to his feet and took a few uncertain steps toward the open door. He could walk, perhaps even for some distance. Praise God. He shuffled carefully down a stone hallway. Doors at irregular intervals opened on either side into other rooms like his, although several, at a glance, had more furnishings, or at least boasted places to hang clothing—cloaks and robes, the vestments of religious men.
As he approached the end of the corridor, he realized it was a ruinous mass of stone and masonry, the result of the upper floor having collapsed. Leaning against the wall, he cast his eyes back on the series of doors he had passed. One of the rooms must have another exit, a door that would let him out of this corridor. There must be another way.
Unless his recent visitor was a figment of his feverish imagination, much like the young man he knew to be part of his dream. Had he imagined the visit from the older version, along with the meager meal he had been given? Such thought troubled him, for it meant he was still in the grips of his nightmare. Even the sensation of food in his belly was part of his fever dream.
A dark corner of the collapsed hallway—which he had assumed to be nothing more than a niche of shadows—turned out to be a narrow opening. Keeping one hand on the wall, he lurched toward the gap, frantic for the possibility of finding a way out—a way of verifying that he was awake, that he no longer dreamed. He had to turn sideways to fit, putting both hands on the wall now, and he sidled past the fallen rock. He pressed close to the heavy stones, and he focused on his hands: on moving his right to touch his left; on moving his left away, drawing his recalcitrant body forward.
The walls on the other side of the collapse were a different color, the stone more pink than gray, and the general condition of the ceiling was much better—no gaps through which sunlight could peer. Nor were there any doors in this hall; it ran for several dozen paces and then terminated at a large hole in the floor. A wooden ladder—protruding up from the hole by several feet—was lashed to the wall by a combination of thick rope and iron spikes.
Puzzled, Rodrigo climbed down, descending past one other floor and then into the earth itself. At the bottom, a large chamber had been carved into the bedrock, with a single tunnel running—as near as he could tell—in the same direction as he had been traveling.
With no other route available to him, Rodrigo wandered into the tunnel. To turn back would be to give up hope. To admit he was not strong enough to carry God’s message.
*
“There you are. Praise God.”
The tunnel had not remained straight, and but for a decided lack of other obvious egresses, Rodrigo might have wandered forever. As it was, he discovered a source of light, and as he approached it, he was met by another man.
The newcomer was taller than Father Rodrigo, forced to stoop by the low ceiling of the tunnel. His face had been weathered by wind and sun—indicating he was no more a permanent resident of this subterranean place than Rodrigo—and his nose had been proud once, but it now canted to the side, and scar tissue knotted the bridge. His white beard was heavy enough that it nearly obscured the larger scar running down his left cheek. His smile, a mouth full of strong teeth, was as welcome as a fire might be to a freezing man.
“Robert said you were awake,” the man said.
“Yes,” Father Rodrigo replied. “Praise God,” he added, bringing his hands up into the traditional prayer position—not knowing what else to add.