THE GUARD OUTSIDE Orsini’s palazzo held up his hand as Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi approached. “Good day, Father. Please state your business with the Senator.” Fieschi, lost in the turmoil of his thoughts, stopped abruptly and stared at the man’s hand. He had been thinking about the gates of Rome, about which one the pair of ragged messengers would probably use to escape the city, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to his surroundings. Walking through Rome during the day, dressed as a priest—even a simple one, without any of the usual finery he or the other cardinals wore—was much less dangerous than the hurried and somewhat stealthy pace he typically adopted during his nocturnal visits.
“Servus Dei, bringing urgent news to Senator Orsini,” he growled at the guard. “Let me pass.”
The guard blinked but did not move aside. Fieschi, on the other hand, did not blink, pinning the man with a stony glare that worked so often on the weak willed. “The Senator wants to see me immediately.”
The guard shrugged and sucked on the inside of his cheek. “The Senator is a busy man, Father. Why don’t you tell me what’s so important and I’ll have someone inform the Senator?”
The man didn’t recognize him. The nighttime guards knew him, having been informed that he would occasionally show up unannounced; after a few visits, they had simply turned a blind eye when he arrived at the palazzo’s gates, indifferent veterans to the secret machinations in which their master was involved. The daytime guards, though, were another matter; their purview was less complicated: keep the palazzo safe; don’t let anyone disturb the Senator.
Fieschi stepped close. “Listen to me very carefully, you son of a poxy bitch,” he said. The guard jerked to attention, surprised by such language coming from a priest’s mouth. “The news I carry is of vital importance to the Senator and to the safety of Rome itself. If your stubborn ignorance causes harm to befall the Senator, he will—I am certain—have you flayed alive with less ceremony than he would take in picking his crusty, noble nose. You will—immediately—escort me, Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi of the Holy Church, to the Senator’s chambers, or not only will your skin be ripped from your body and thrown to the dogs but the hands of your wife, your mistress, your daughter—if you have managed to breed—will be nailed to the head-board of your favorite whore’s bed.”
The guard had more spine than Fieschi credited him for, and he held his ground until Fieschi raised his left hand as if he were going to deliver a backhanded slap. The guard caught sight of the large ring on the cardinal’s hand, and the blood drained from his tawny face.
He fled, running for the palazzo, and Fieschi allowed himself a tiny smile before he followed.
*
“Threatening my staff now, are you, Sinibaldo?” Orsini asked as Fieschi entered the Senator’s sitting room.
“He did not recognize me,” Fieschi said with sullen irritation. “He mistook me for a common parish priest—”
“I thought humility was one of the traits holy men sought to embrace. A reminder of one’s insignificance before God, no?” Orsini observed with a trace of a smile. “Besides, do you really expect my entire domestic staff to know you on sight? That would suggest both of us are atrocious at keeping secrets.” He drew back his smile and his face turned cold. “Why have you come in the middle of the day? What has happened? Did someone die?”
“Not yet,” said Fieschi and repeated with emphasis, “not yet. There is a more alarming crisis that you must address. At this very moment, a messenger is heading to alert Frederick of the cardinals’ imprisonment.”
Orsini’s face darkened. “What messenger?”
“That’s the worst of it. A Binder.” Fieschi threw him an accusing stare. “So much for your successful eradication of that witch network.”
“How do you know this?” Orsini demanded.
“Oh, my friend, my friend,” Fieschi clucked. “You would not believe the excitement we’ve had in our little prison. I will tell you all that has happened, but first, you must immediately lock the gates; the guards must be on full alert, not only at the gates but the rooftops of any building within jumping distance of the walls.”
“Are you serious?”
“Have you ever heard of a Binder-carried message not being delivered?”
Orsini frowned. “What you are proposing is costly and difficult; I want to know that this is a genuine threat.”
With visible effort, Fieschi controlled his temper. It was no wonder the palazzo guards were so disrespectful and arrogant—they took their cues from their master. While it would be satisfying to wash his hands of this disaster and let Orsini discover the danger of doubting his words, the messenger could disrupt everything. “I heard—with these very ears,” he said with some forced patience, “I heard Somercotes give the message to the Binder girl. Simply, it asks for Frederick to assault the Septizodium and tells him that she knows of the secret passages.”
“And you let her go?” Orsini snorted.