“Capocci,” he said amiably. “Soft. We have an audience.” He spoke in Italian.
The one named Capocci grunted, “Eh? What?” and straightened up from his labor. The torchbearer gestured into the fading light. As Capocci’s shadowed face turned toward them, Ocyrhoe said quickly, in the same dialect the torchbearer had used, “We are friends, seeking another friend.”
Capocci chuckled. “Did you hear that, Colonna? They’re only friends.”
“Friends of whom?” Colonna asked, as if this were a casual afternoon chat with fellow passersby at a market.
“Father Rodrigo,” Ocyrhoe said, a hint of defiance in her voice. The two men sobered immediately. Capocci took a step back, staggering over the pile of dirt he’d amassed around his feet. Now he was level with Colonna, and four dark, searching eyes glistened in the torchlight at the young duo.
“Father Rodrigo? How interesting,” Colonna said after an appraising pause. “Well, you certainly look the part; you’re both even more ragged than he was when he got here.”
“Is he alive?” Ocyrhoe asked, forcing her voice to remain dispassionate. “Is he well?”
“Alive but not well,” Capocci answered. “We’re curious about your curiosity.”
Ferenc grabbed her wrist. “What are they saying?” he demanded. She brushed his hand away.
“Can you take us to him?” Ocyrhoe asked. “In exchange, we will show you a way out of here so you do not have to dig yourselves out.”
The two men exchanged glances, and then their faces softened with mirth. “What, this?” Capocci said, gesturing with his filthy hands to his destruction. “I do this for exercise.”
“We’ve already dug two others,” Colonna explained. “And we know about Fieschi’s exit. Is that how you got in here? It’s only guarded after sundown.”
“No surprise you have nothing to offer us,” Capocci concluded cheerfully. “But don’t let that stop you from trying to convince us to help you. I could certainly use a new distraction, couldn’t you?”
“Absolutely,” said Colonna heartily. “In fact, I personally thank God you’ve come. What is it you want, exactly?”
*
It was spectacularly ill-advised to go to Orsini’s home in broad daylight. Fieschi knew that. But he also knew that Robert of Somercotes had let himself into the new priest’s room and blocked the door behind him. He knew from listening at the crack of the door that they were talking, or at least that Somercotes was; the sick priest sounded perhaps delirious again, or at least deeply distracted. Fieschi knew exactly what he wanted to do, but he knew better than to undertake it without first consulting Orsini. Waiting until darkness might be safer—but Somercotes moved fast. There was no way to ensure the Englishman would not have rallied the priest, and by extension the entire swing vote of the College of Cardinals, before sunset. Damn Rinaldo for letting Somercotes steal him, he said to himself for the thirtieth time in an hour. A vital opportunity had been thrown away because de Segni wanted to be the first to get his morning meal. Fool. Selfish, lazy, shortsighted fool. Like all the rest of them.
He decided to risk being recognized. After he stalked away from de Segni’s room, he pulled off his cardinal’s robe and hurled it into his own chamber as he walked past; underneath, he wore a simple priest’s robe, so perhaps he could disappear into the midday market crowds, anonymous. He grabbed the torch outside his room, which demarked the limits of habitation along this particular tunnel.
He walked on into the darkness, to the second empty room along the corridor, which had a broken beam blocking most of the door. With practiced efficiency, he twisted his body and the torch around the beam and slipped into the small chamber. It was empty, but on the far side was a dark gash in the wall. He crossed and moved into this narrow opening; turning sideways for ease of movement, the torch held in his forward hand, he navigated the tight, zigzagging tunnel some thirty paces as it sloped gently upward. Then it opened onto a broader tunnel, which, if Fieschi took to the left, would lead eventually to his convenient freedom.
But above his torch’s hissing, he heard a sound. He stopped moving. He stepped out into the tunnel but saw nothing. He could not tell from which direction the sound had come. Another sound—a voice. Voices. He glanced in the direction of the tunnel egress. If there was anyone between him and the exit, he should be able to see them, at least the faintest trace of them, in the outer reaches of his torchlight. There was nobody there.
So he turned to the right and began a slow trek. Now another voice, and unexpected—a girl’s voice. A girl’s voice.
Could it be the young woman from the marketplace? The one who’d fled on horseback with the wild young man?
He wanted to rush toward the voices but constrained himself. One slow step at a time. The voices continued.
Laughter. He stopped short again, briefly; he knew that laughter. Capocci and Colonna. They leaned toward Castiglione, Somercotes’s choice. Fieschi fought off a sudden, enormous wave of dread. Was Somercotes carrying out a full-sprung conspiracy right under his nose, without Fieschi realizing? Was that toady of the Unholy Roman Emperor truly that efficient?
He saw the light now, coming from around the corner to the right; he hesitated, wondering if he should douse his own torch and try to approach in stealth. That would not work; they’d smell the smoke. And he would be at the mercy of whatever they decided to do with their own torchlight.
Cursing the entire enterprise—especially de Segni, who could have prevented it coming to this—he took a broad stride forward, putting himself in the middle of the tunnel that branched off to the right.
“Good afternoon,” he said loudly. “What an interesting situation we find ourselves in.”