“Very good, Master Constable Alatrinus.” De Segni made the sign of the cross for the commanding officer. “May God bless you and your men on this day.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” the master constable shouted. He spotted Rodrigo and threw the young priest a salute. “Your Eminence,” he said, “I trust you have been provided with a chamber and a bed.”
“Yes,” Rodrigo answered, after assuring himself that the soldier was not speaking to anyone else. “I have been made”—he glanced at de Segni—“most welcome.”
The soldier laughed and then caught himself. “It will be another hot day,” he called to de Segni, “until this afternoon, we fear. Not that you can tell yet, but the weather is about to change.” He pointed. “Clouds are building in the east. The soothsayers tell us it will rain heavily.” He put up his hands. “I suppose they can look east as well as anybody. I’ve had the men provide extra portions this morning in case we are prevented from returning this afternoon. Has there been progress?” He let the word hang in the air, with tentative hopefulness.
De Segni shook his head. “We are no closer to a decision than yesterday, my son.” The cardinal chuckled. “Believe me, you will know when we have decided.”
“I hope it happens soon, Your Eminence,” the soldier said. “For all of our sakes.”
“Of course,” de Segni replied, and though his tone was silky and smooth, it contained a note of rebuke.
The master constable, realizing he had spoken too familiarly, bowed with a grandiose wave and retired—more expediently than necessary, Rodrigo thought. Several of the soldiers retired with him, their buckets lowered. The rest stood around aimlessly, waiting for the cardinals to finish their morning meal.
De Segni strode to the wall where the buckets had been lowered, and examined their contents. “Come,” he said, satisfied by what he found. He spread his arms to encompass all of them. “Let us pray before we enjoy this bountiful meal.” He bowed his head, brought his hands together, and began to speak a Latin prayer of thanks.
Rodrigo noticed that neither Fieschi nor Somercotes lowered their heads during the prayer. He flushed under their stares, and he quickly bowed his head, but his neck itched during de Segni’s benediction. He peeked twice. Neither man had looked away. “Amen,” he said—too loudly, perhaps—when de Segni finished, and he dropped his hands and scurried toward the cornucopia contained in the buckets, trying to avoid looking at either of the two cardinals again.
I am one of the squirrels, Rodrigo thought as he bumped against the other men around the buckets. Nervous and fidgety, hyperaware of the possibilities of predators nearby. Scurrying to get food and then rushing back to the sanctuary of a bush or a tree branch to hurriedly eat his snatched meal.
Who was an enemy here, and who a friend? What a ridiculous idea that was—thinking of some of these men as enemies. And all of them, with the exception of Annibaldi the “free thinker,” appeared to be very invested in not trusting each other.
Fieschi, he saw, made no move toward the buckets, remaining just inside the doorway. Watching, like a hawk.
*
Fieschi watched the cardinals mill about the courtyard, his eyes straying more often than not to the newcomer. The man still looked very weak, possibly still feverish, but his delirium had clearly eased, and he was able to walk. Able to be exposed to the wild ideas of the others.
Or they to his.
There was nothing about him that gave any indication of his identity, and based on the way Somercotes and his lackeys were watching him too, they did not know who he was—or what he represented. By taking the satchel before any of his fellow inmates were sharp enough to notice it, Fieschi had stolen all there was to steal. He had played to Orsini’s paranoia and self-doubt, planting the seed that the priest was one of Frederick’s pet cardinals, but he wasn’t entirely sure himself. The man could be nothing more than a simple priest—one who was inflamed with heretical madness, which may be useful in its own way. But was there a way he could turn the mystery of this man’s identity to his advantage?
He had seen the priest be accosted by Colonna and Capocci, the two dangerous clowns who were wiser than they let on; he knew perfectly well what they were doing, even though de Segni did not seem to, a persistent trait of his fellow cardinal. Fools, he thought bitterly, I am surrounded by fools.
His eyes swept over the radiance of cardinals, disgusted to be reduced to living among them in squalor. Even Castiglione looked appalled and morose, as if he’d give up his position as the Papal candidate in exchange for a bath and a night of sleep on a feather bed.