“You play the part of a poor priest well.” The man wrapped his hands around Father Rodrigo’s. Rodrigo tried to extricate himself and supplicate himself in some way, but the taller man resisted his attempts. “But there is no need to continue your charade. You need not hide here.”
Part of Robert of Somercotes’s conversation came back to him. Cardinals—the cardinals were all imprisoned in this place, until they could elect a new Pope. An irrational terror, born of this memory, swept over him: they thought he was a cardinal too. What if, in the slaughter and apocalyptic insanity of the Mongols destroying what had once been Hungary, his beloved superior—and confessor—had fallen and Rodrigo had been appointed his successor? Had Chancellor Báncsa been secretly elevated to one of the cardinal bishoprics, and through some machinations that he, in his feverish state, had forgotten, had that title been accorded to him—not because he deserved it but because there had been nobody left? Or—no less likely—had some agent of the Devil disguised Rodrigo to appear to these good men here as the Provost of Vacz?
He forced himself to breathe calmly. “Of course,” he replied. Hiding his dismay, he extricated his fingers from the other man’s grip and more properly grasped the man’s hand. “I am Rodrigo,” he said, divesting himself of any title—real or imagined. “Rodrigo Bendrito.”
He should tell this man that he was nothing more than a simple parish priest, but he held his tongue. Deep in his mind, he felt the spark of the fever and it frightened him, but what frightened him more was the thought his message would go unheard. Would God forgive him if he pretended to be someone other than he was in order to save the Church? Was this deception part of the test put to him by God? Was he supposed to participate in the election of the new Pope in order to ensure that the man who received his message would be strong enough to take on the burden?
“Yes,” the other priest said. “And I am Giovanni Colonna.” He smiled again, and Rodrigo’s confusion was eased by the reassuring expression. “Come,” Colonna said, laying a hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder, “let me guide you.”
Rodrigo let himself be led. “Where are we?” he asked. “Robert—our mutual friend, evidently—said we were in the...Septizodium.”
Colonna chuckled. “In? No. It’s up there somewhere.” He reached up and tapped the low ceiling. “The Septizodium is near the base of the Palatine, and if it was ever a real temple, that building has vanished. All that remains is a facade, dedicated to ancient and forgotten gods. Behind that facade is a hollow shell—four walls that have managed to remain standing over the last few hundred years.”
He walked slowly, matching Rodrigo’s pace, and Rodrigo was thankful for the taller man’s patience. He seemed like the sort of man for whom a walk from Rome to Paris would not be a hardship—his stride long enough the miles would vanish effortlessly.
“We are being hidden, you see,” Colonna continued. “Even if the enemies of the Church discovered our location, they would not be able to reach us, because there is no way out of the Septizodium—out of that box of stone—other than climbing the walls, and the Bear is guarding those walls.”
“The Bear?”
“Matteo Rosso Orsini, the Senator of Rome. We are under his care.”
“But if we cannot get out, then how did I get in?” Rodrigo asked. “Where did the food I ate earlier come from?”
“Angels,” Colonna laughed. “You were brought by angels.”
They reached an open chamber and were closer to the source of the light. Rodrigo looked up as they exited the tunnel. Another ladder led out of this pit, and crouching beside the upper end of the ladder was another priest. He was outlined by the light—real daylight—and his long and twisted beard was so illuminated that his face appeared to be floating above a white cloud.
Colonna let him go first, and Rodrigo climbed the ladder, accepting the hand of the other man as he reached the top. Up close, the beard lost some of its mysterious luster, though it was no less strange and exotic. Not only was the beard so long that it nearly reached his waist, but it curled and corkscrewed as well. Strands of white hair were twisted into braids and then fed back into the central mass, and the whole arrangement looked like a tangle of ghostly vines descending from the man’s face. His eyes were chips of slate in his face, and his simple cap was pulled low enough on his head that whatever hair he had on his crown was hidden by the black cloth.
“Ah, Rainiero,” Colonna said as he stepped off the ladder behind Rodrigo. “God has graced us with another day of sun. I predict today will be the day that you decide to offer that monstrous beard of yours up as an offering to Him.”
The man named Rainiero clasped Colonna’s offered hand. When he smiled, his beard parted to reveal a pink mouth. “I take comfort that your faith in my weakness, Giovanni, is not nearly as strong as my faith in the reward awaiting me for enduring the trials offered by God’s heat.” He laid his hands on Rodrigo’s shoulders and looked intently into his face. “God bless you, my son. I hope a night of rest has rejuvenated you.”
“Rainiero Capocci,” Colonna said, introducing the bearded man. “Governor of Viterbo, when he is not busy laying stone and raising walls. Or electing a Pope. Rainiero, this is Rodrigo Bendrito.”
Rodrigo nodded and allowed Capocci to clasp one of his hands. His palm was rough and calloused, though warm; his grip was surprisingly gentle for the strength that lay coiled within the man’s thick forearms. “God bless you,” Rodrigo said somewhat awkwardly. How was he supposed to address these men who insisted on such intense familiarity and who thought he was a peer?
“You’ve been away for a while, haven’t you?” Capocci asked, releasing Rodrigo’s hand.
“Yes,” Rodrigo admitted, flustered.
Capocci touched his ear. “Yes, you speak like a man who has recently awakened from a long nap. Still not quite sure where you are.”