“As good as any. Naught will come of it, I fear. Or at the worst, we will emerge from this purgatory to find a city filled with corpses—Orsini and Frederick having killed themselves and everyone else in their frenzy to keep us safe. What sort of world will we thrust the next Bishop of Rome into?”
“God only knows, my dear Giovanni,” Capocci sighed. “God only knows.”
“Speaking of God, He will forgive me—I hope—when I say this, but I like your idea of dropping them on Fieschi in his sleep.” Colonna leaned forward to peer into the clay jar. “Though, I am not sure the fellow ever actually does sleep. He’s out most nights—all night—at Orsini’s, and he has never, to my watchful eye, dozed off once during the daylight hours.”
“De Segni, then,” Capocci said offhandedly. “Or Bonaventura!”
Colonna grinned. “A marvelous choice. The good man will shit himself, probably in front of us. Ho, he will surely lose some votes that way.” He laughed until a thought struck him. “Or when they appear to sting him, and then he doesn’t die, Fieschi will use that to imply Bonaventura is some sort of holy man.”
“Ah, excellent point. That sort of foolishness would clinch the election. Some of the others are rather prone to such superstitious nonsense.” Capocci deftly retrieved another scorpion. “In that case, perhaps we suggest to Somercotes that he use them on Castiglione, to the same end.”
Colonna shook his head ruefully. “Fieschi is well practiced in law and rhetoric, remember? He will use this as the basis for an argument that Castiglione is an agent of the Devil, as is clearly demonstrated by his unnatural affinity to the demonic sort of creatures that scorpions are.”
“That’s true,” Capocci sighed. He plucked the stinger from the scorpion, then dropped the angered arachnid into the clay jar and flicked the now useless stinger into the room’s far shadows. “Let’s just throw them on Fieschi anyway. For the fun of it. God will forgive us this infantile transgression, don’t you think?”
Colonna leaned his head back against the cool stone wall. “I would think so, my friend. He has had little enough to say these past years about an endless parade of monstrous cruelties.”
*
The chaos in the marketplace at the Porta Tiburtina confirmed Ocyrhoe’s fears. Wagons were lined up for the gate, but none of them would be moving anytime soon. A dense mob swirled and surged around the wagons like surf raging upon broken rocks. Ocyrhoe spotted a lanky thief boldly lifting a crate of fruit off the back of a sagging wagon, then darting away with his prize—no one the wiser. Most of the merchants had already packed up their stalls, even the farmers who wouldn’t be able to get out of the city until the guards decided to start letting people through. It was better to have their wares and goods safely stowed than stolen or ruined in the crush.
A line of guards, pole-axes lowered and wavering in the general direction of the mob, like the rippling ridge of hairs on the back of a nervous caterpillar, stood fast before the gate. More than a few looked distinctly unhappy—nervous, fearful. They didn’t know how long they were supposed to stand there or under what circumstances they could begin allowing people to pass through the gate.
Once Ocyrhoe realized she and Ferenc couldn’t simply walk out of the city, she examined the mob and the guards more carefully, listening and looking for some opening, a gap, a weakness through which they might pass. Not out. Not through...ah, yes...
“We can use this,” she signed to Ferenc, dragging him away from the edge of the mob. They slipped into the back alleys, winding ever closer to the wall of Rome itself. Gradually, the district became more and more residential, more quiet and deserted, but the guards who might otherwise have been patrolling were absent—no doubt called to the gate as reinforcements against the riot that would eventually erupt. Whatever had stricken the marketplace near the Coliseum would sweep through the crowd at the gate, sooner rather than later. Judging by the number of guards and their somewhat fearful presentation, they were well aware of the oncoming storm.
Eventually, she found what she was looking for—the wall itself. Maybe three stories high, the wall around Rome had been built to keep people out, not in. In some places, it was possible to clamber to the top by way of dirt that had been piled against the inner side. They weren’t so lucky here, and they didn’t have the time to find such an easy method of escape. The wall was made of rough volcanic rock, knotted and twisted with all manner of hand and toeholds. It shouldn’t be too hard to climb—as long as they weren’t seen.
Ferenc said something to her in his tongue, but she shook her head and pantomimed climbing the wall. When he still hesitated, she shoved him at the wall, and he finally relented. He grabbed at several knobs, lifting himself up easily, and proceeded to climb the wall, as if he had spent many hours in his youth climbing such barriers. He probably had, Ocyrhoe thought, or trees, even. She hesitated, hand on the nearest knob of rock. Trees. She was about to leave Rome, the only home she had ever known. Outside the city was...outside. There were no walls, no houses, and no streets. Just forest and swamp and plain and...what else? She held her breath. Was she doing the right thing? Was she ready for this?
“Halt!”
Behind them, a man ran toward them, fumbling to pull his sword out of its scabbard. Ocyrhoe recognized the colors of his garb. One of the Bear’s men.
She glanced up at Ferenc. He was halfway up, far enough that the guard couldn’t reach him, but not far enough to quickly reach the top. There would be no time to finish the ascent before the guard reached them, and if they were on the wall, they’d both be easy pickings.
Ferenc looked down, and there was an agonized moment when they stared at each other. If she ran, would the guard chase her? Or would he go after Ferenc? What would they do if they split up?
She shook her head. She didn’t know. She hadn’t thought through their plan that far.
“Get down from there!”
The guard was nearly upon them.