Voices from the direction of the Torguud escort roused Chucai from his ruminations. Piqued by the movement among the bodyguards’ horses, he turned his attention from the kneeling Khagan.
Namkhai and the other Torguud had surrounded an interloper. The horseman was not Darkhat, though he was clearly Mongolian, and his attire was both well cared for and weather-beaten. His sun-darkened face was familiar to Chucai, though he could not quite place the man, and his unrestrained hair had been bleached of all its color by years of sunlight.
“Who is this man?” he demanded as he rode over to the cluster of Torguud riders.
“He claims to be an old friend of the Khagan’s,” Namkhai rumbled.
“Here? Now?” Chucai scoffed. “The nearest outpost is how many days away?”
“Two, Master Chucai,” the interloper called out. He raised his arm—slowly, so as to not startle the already tense Torguud—and pointed. “In that direction. It used to be an old Merkit village before Temujin and the clans took it over. Do you remember it, Master? Or was that before you came to the Great Khan’s household?”
“The Merkit are no more,” Chucai said. “We are all Mongols now.”
The gray-haired man smiled. “Some of us remember, though, because we were there.”
“Who are you, old man?” Namkhai demanded.
“His name is Alchiq.” Ögedei rode up beside Chucai, and though his face and beard were wet with tears, there was a smile on his face. “He was my father’s man. On one of my first hunts, he helped me carry the meat from my kill back to camp.” His smile became a broad grin. “I thought you were dead.”
“Not dead, my Khan,” Alchiq replied, sparing a withering glance at Chucai as he placed a closed fist over his heart and bowed his head. “Just far away, in the West.”
Ögedei appeared to not notice the glance as he waved his hands at the Torguud surrounding the gray-haired man. “He is an old companion,” he commanded. “Do not treat him as an enemy.”
But he was, Chucai recalled, when you first became enamored of the spoils of the empire. He was one of those who stood at your side—exhorting you to drink, to enjoy the privileges of being the Khan of Khans.
The dissolution had begun with the desire to build Karakorum. Shortly after vanquishing the Jin Dynasty—one of the last conquests left unfinished by his father—Ögedei had decided to build himself an imperial palace, much like those his armies had demolished throughout the Chinese provinces. Chucai could recall the arguments about the foundation of such a fixed camp, and one of the few regrets he had concerning his governance of Genghis’s legacy had been telling Ögedei that Genghis never would have built such a place.
I am not my father, Ögedei had shouted at him, and there had been such finality in those few words, such outrage and such pain, that Chucai knew he had indelibly damaged his relationship with the son of the Great Khan.
And now this man, this gaunt and weather-hardened Mongol, has returned, and in his gaze, Chucai saw an obdurate devotion that had refused to wither. When Alchiq had been exiled from the nascent palace of Karakorum, his only duty—his final duty to his Khagan—had been to go someplace far away, to wander past the edge of the empire and die. Like the decency a dog has when it realizes it is too old to hunt.
While Chucai ruminated on Alchiq’s arrival, Ögedei pushed his way past his sluggish and reluctant Torguud, and warmly clasped Alchiq’s hands in his own. “You have returned at the right time,” the Khagan said, pulling the older man half out of his saddle in an effort to hug him. “You are an omen of good luck, sent by Blue Heaven to bless my hunt.”
“No, my Khan—” Alchiq began. His mouth closed to a narrow line and his nostrils flared as he smelled the wine on the Khagan’s breath.
“Yes!” Ögedei blustered on, ignoring Alchiq’s change of expression. “The hunt!” He turned in his saddle, seeking to make eye contact with Namkhai. “I am done here. I have paid my respects to my father, and the spirits of this place have responded. They have sent me an old friend. They approve of my quest. They approve of me.”
“Of course, my Khan,” Namkhai replied smoothly. He turned in his saddle and, with a quick series of hand gestures, informed the bodyguard of the Khagan’s desire to ride back to the caravan. The riders fanned out into a teardrop formation.
Namkhai is the right choice, Chucai thought, watching the other riders respond to the wrestling champion’s commands. I will inform Ögedei tonight that Namkhai is his new Torguud captain.
“You will dine with me,” Ögedei said to Alchiq. “I will hear of everything that has happened to you in the last few years.”
“There is one thing—” Alchiq started.
“It can wait,” Ögedei said, and with a wild cry, he snapped his reins. His horse leaped to a gallop, and the Torguud followed, smoothly parting around Alchiq, Chucai, and the few Darkhat who had accompanied the Khagan to Genghis’s grave.
Ghaltai, the Darkhat leader, hesitated for a moment, and then he and his men followed the Khagan and his bodyguard, leaving Chucai and Alchiq behind.
Chucai stroked his beard and stared at Ögedei’s old companion, daring Alchiq to lock eyes with him again. The surprise had worn off, and his own mental guard was back up. Exiling Alchiq and the few others who had been a bad influence on the Khagan had been the right decision. They had all been drunks, and he had hoped the shame of the exile would have been enough to give them the requisite excuse to drink themselves to death, but such a supposition had clearly failed in Alchiq’s case.
“He’s still drinking,” Alchiq frowned.
“Yes, he is,” Chucai said. We both failed. He brushed that thought aside as readily—and with the same indifference—as if he was brushing dust from his sleeve. The past is dead; there is only the future of the empire to consider. “Do you recall the penalty for breaking your exile?”
“I do.”
“Then why have you returned?”
“The Khagan is in danger. I—I had to warn him.”
“You could have sent a messenger.”
“Would you have believed a messenger?”
Chucai offered Alchiq a withering smile as his answer.
“That is why I came,” Alchiq said, a fervent finality in his voice. “My duty was clear.”
And so are your eyes, Chucai noted, and the irony of Alchiq finding salvation in exile was not lost on him.
The Darkhat had met the Khagan with a great deal of noisy ceremony when the caravan reached the Kherlen River, two arban of identically clad warriors on splendid horses thundering across the water. Only one of the Darkhat spoke, offering greetings to the Khagan; the rest had sat like imposing statues on their horses, staring into the distance as if they could see the enormity of the empire’s history laid out in the caravan’s wake.
They were meant to be imposing, and Gansukh had noticed the effect their stoic intensity had on a number of the younger Torguud. When the Darkhat had arrived, they had galloped toward the Khagan’s ger without pause, as if they expected the Torguud to get out of their way. The Khagan’s Imperial Guard had moved aside for the oncoming riders, and—just like that—the Khagan’s men had already ceded the mental advantage to the newcomers. Without even realizing it, they had accepted a presumed subordination.
After the Khagan departed for the grave of Genghis Khan with a retinue of his own men and half of the Darkhat riders, Gansukh had had an opportunity to watch the remaining Darkhat as they preceded the caravan to its final destination.
The caravan was being taken to a valley on the southern slope of Burqan-qaldun. It was not—as he had inaccurately assumed—the location of the Sacred Grove that the shaman had spoke of back in Karakorum, but a long meadow that would provide sufficient open ground for the many ger as well as pasture for the horses and running water. The grove itself was closer to the mountain, through a vale of rock and—according to the vague nonanswer offered by one of the Darkhat when Gansukh had inquired—beyond a waterfall and a field of singing ru
shes.
All very mysterious, intentionally off-putting so as to maintain an air of secrecy and mysticism. Gansukh was a humble steppe warrior—sure to be mentally constricted by long-extant clan superstitions that would keep him docile and respectful. So that he wouldn’t question what his eyes were telling him; so that he wouldn’t allow his curiosity to ask too many questions.
The Darkhat armor was worn—not from use, but from age. Their horses, while sure-footed and well-groomed, were no longer young stallions. Gansukh was fairly certain his pony could outlast any of the larger Darkhat horses in a long-distance race. While all of the Darkhat carried bows, nearly a quarter of them had quivers that were only half full. And the men themselves? None of them were his age, and, in a less formal setting, he probably would have referred to more than half of them as grandfather.
He ruminated on these details during the remainder of the day, and as the caravan slowly trundled down a gentle slope toward the sunlit meadows of their camp, Gansukh was struck by an odd discrepancy. No one was waiting for them.
It was not a significant social failure. The Khagan had not yet rejoined them, and such pomp was typically reserved for his eyes, but Gansukh found himself wondering why there had not been more riders waiting for them in the valley. Typically, when receiving visitors, an ordu chief would send out his best warriors as escort, and he would greet them himself when they arrived at their destination.
There are no more Darkhat, he realized. The two arban that had met the Khagan at the river were all the Darkhat fighting men. The clan was dying out.
He tried to dismiss this conclusion as the caravan came to a halt and began the lengthy process of settling into camp. Once he had removed his saddle and gear from his horse and performed the remedial tasks of brushing and feeding it, he joined the other men who were clearing the field for the ger. The busy work would keep his hands and mind occupied, so that he would not dwell overlong on the conclusion he had reached.
It wasn’t just the Darkhat clan he kept thinking about; it was the empire as a whole.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Man Who Would Be Pope
Ferenc’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, making him look like a younger Monferrato. “Father Rodrigo!” he gasped, grabbing Ocyrhoe’s arm and pointing excitedly.
Too far away to tell, she signed on his arm, reluctant to believe the evidence of her ears.
Ferenc and Ocyrhoe paused at the edge of a crowd of at least a thousand people, no longer milling and murmuring, but transfixed, all eyes trained on a small man dressed like a priest, standing halfway up a huge mound of rubble, head bowed as if in prayer. Ocyrhoe could not see his face clearly, but he held out something that flashed and gleamed—something brilliant, golden, almost hypnotic in the steady sunlight. The cattlelike lowing sounds had subsided into a profound quiet. Ocyrhoe was used to the city and its busy, noisy throngs, but she was not used to so large a group falling mute all at once, unified in utter silence.
The three adults—Léna, Cardinal Monferrato, and the soldier, Helmuth—came up behind. The Cardinal was breathing heavily through his mouth.
After a long break, the priest on the mound lifted his head and resumed his harangue. His voice rang out clearly over the onlookers and echoed from the far walls.
Ocyrhoe had seen many prophesiers in many marketplaces, but never before had she seen one of them attract this kind of attention. And his words! She shook her head, still unwilling to believe what she was hearing. He was preaching violence.
Ferenc shook his head and exclaimed out loud, “It is Father Rodrigo!” Around them, outliers glared in disapproval and lifted hushing fingers. Oblivious, Ferenc spoke to Helmuth, the one man who could understand his native tongue. “That is the man we have come to Rome to save!”
Helmuth frowned. “We did not come to Rome to save anyone,” he said. “We came to bring Cardinal Monferrato to vote for the Pope.”
Ignoring him, Ferenc turned back to Ocyrhoe. Tell me what Father Rodrigo’s saying, he signed.
Ask Helmuth, she begged off. Too many words. She couldn’t tell Ferenc what the priest was saying.
The Cardinal was staring open-mouthed at the man on the rubble pile. “Who is that?” he demanded. “How is it this boy knows him?”
Ocyrhoe wondered how best to explain. After a deep breath, she began. “It is Father Rodrigo Bendrito, a Roman priest who once lived near Ferenc’s home. Ferenc and Father Rodrigo traveled together to Rome, and then Father Rodrigo was put into seclusion with the Cardinals in the Septizodium. As he is not in the Septizodium, that could mean the others are no longer imprisoned there, either.”
Monferrato closed his eyes a moment, as if hoping to open them to a different, saner reality. “He is preaching a Crusade. He is telling these people to rise up and defend Christendom against the Mongols.”
“I hear what he’s saying as well as you,” Ocyrhoe said. The man’s face pinked. He puffed and looked outraged that she had dared to address him so abruptly. Out of the corner of her eye, Ocyrhoe saw Léna frown. “He was very ill when they arrived here, both physically and mentally,” Ocyrhoe said quickly, trying to find some explanation that the Cardinal would find suitable.
Monferrato blinked owlishly at her, and she shrugged, not sure what else to tell him. She had no idea why the priest was exhorting the crowd to launch a Crusade against the Mongols. It seemed so unlike the kindly—albeit somewhat dazed man—she had met in the Septizodium.
Beside them, Helmuth was translating Rodrigo’s rant to Ferenc, who looked as if he were watching eels do circus tricks. Ocyrhoe felt somewhat mollified; Ferenc couldn’t believe what Father Rodrigo was saying either. He replied to Helmuth in a tone that Ocyrhoe took to be a defense of the priest, and used the word Mohi several times.
Léna started upon hearing the name. She snapped her fingers in front of Ferenc’s face to get his attention and repeated, “Mohi?”
When Ferenc nodded, she turned her attention to Helmuth. “What was he saying?” she demanded.
The Emperor’s guard shuffled nervously, his face pale. “He talks of the battle at Mohi, as if he and the priest were there.” He said something to Ferenc in Magyar, and Ferenc nodded tersely in reply. “They didn’t just witness it,” Helmuth continued. “They were on the battlefield.”
“You poor boy,” Léna said softly. She touched his arm, her fingers dancing lightly across his skin, and Ocyrhoe was surprised when Ferenc pulled away from Léna’s touch.
Léna hesitated for a moment, and then she turned to the others. “The priest and this young man were present at one of the most atrocious battles Christendom has ever witnessed. It was a battle no one should have had to witness—least of all a man of God—and what the priest saw must have driven him mad.” She indicated Ferenc. “With what sanity he had left, he must have asked this boy to bring him back to Rome, perhaps to seek redemption—or whatever peace might be left for him. But now it would appear that his madness has consumed him, and he is infecting the rest of the city.”
She listened intently to Father Rodrigo’s sermon, as if hearing him differently now. She had the same expression on her face that Ocyrhoe had seen previously—her attention both intent and distant.
Privately, Ocyrhoe thought Father Rodrigo looked much healthier than she had ever seen him. And he spoke with a great deal of verve. His words were clear and direct. He spoke without hesitation or confusion, as if the message he was delivering to his rapt audience was one that he knew quite well.
It was a strange message, one she did not understand fully. He spoke of trees—cedars—being cut down and the darkening of stars. He spoke both of the need for faith and the end of the Church, and when she glanced over her shoulder at Léna, she noted that the Binder woman was mouthing words almost in concert with Father Rodrigo.
A disturbance rippled through the crowd and further discussion as to the sanity of Father Rodrigo was cut short by the arrival of other figures on the makeshift pulpit. From around
the side of the mound of rubble came a young boy and half a dozen men dressed in white uniforms, each with an image of crossed keys emblazoned on their chests. Three of the men carried pikes, and were already pointing their tips down toward the crowd. The other three men rushed Father Rodrigo and brandished swords close to his face. He gave them a curious glance, then returned his attention to the crowd, calling upon them again to take up arms, to drive the darkness back to the East, whence it had come.
The guards looked disgusted and reluctantly sheathed their swords. One of them circled from behind and grabbed Father Rodrigo around the neck, while the other two lifted his legs and tied his ankles. They then tossed him like a pig carcass, pulled back his arms, and used a length of rope to bind his wrists behind him. The cup he had been holding fell clanging to the stones. The guards, still manhandling the unresisting priest, did not notice. Ocyrhoe did, and when she glanced at Ferenc, he nodded, indicating he had seen the cup fall too.
Behind her, she heard Léna draw in a sharp breath.
The crowd, released from the spell of the priest’s prophetic ranting, turned ugly. Swiftly, a chain of possession from the vendors’ carts materialized, and the angry citizens began to pelt the soldiers with vegetables.
The soldiers ignored the fusillade of vegetables. One even reached out and intercepted a flying cabbage, giving the crowd a brief bow and a crooked grin. Within a few heartbeats, they had efficiently draped Father Rodrigo over the largest man’s shoulder and departed in the direction from which they had come.
The crowd growled and surged to the left, as if it would move, in one unit, around the ruins and follow the soldiers and the trussed up priest. But as quickly as it moved forward, it fell back again like a wave on a beach meeting a sea wall. A phalanx of uniformed, helmeted men equipped with yet more pikes erupted into view. The crowd’s shouts of protest twisted into cries of alarm, then pain, and the mass swayed sideways and back to get away from the prodding, jabbing weapons.