The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) (6 page)

Raphael could not bring himself to vocalize agreement—the idea seemed so enormously reprehensible in its cruelty—but he could not verbalize any cogent argument to the contrary. His throat was too tight for any words to escape.

Brother Francis offered him a kind smile. “I have been here for many weeks,” he said. “Every day I ask God this question: what have I really accomplished? What have I done that has made any difference?”

Raphael nodded, hearing an echo of those questions in his own heart. “Has He offered you an answer?” he asked.

Brother Francis idly rubbed the back of his hand again, and Raphael noticed that, even in the gloom of the shack, the shadows on the backs of the monk’s hands remained. “He has,” Brother Francis said. “Rather, He will. Soon.” He smiled again, and this time his smile was free of any sorrow. “I have faith.”

Raphael wanted to touch the other man’s face, to trace his fingers along the curve of that smile in a vain effort to understand how it was formed.
After everything he had seen, how could he still cling to his faith?

After everything I have done, how can I be worthy of such faith?

Brother Francis twisted around and grabbed the edge of the chest. He pulled it closer to him and fumbled with the lid. He took out a ragged scrap of parchment, and rooting around inside the box, he located several shards of charcoal. “Do you know much about the Muslim faith?” he asked as he smoothed the piece of parchment flat. “Their holy book is called the
Qur’an
, and it contains a list of the names of God. Ninety-nine of them, in fact. The Sultan, Al-Kamil, told me about this when he and I met in Egypt. He is an incredible man, and to this day, I wish the mean and petty differences of our cultures did not prevent us from being better friends.” He sighed.

“I was born in Acre,” Raphael said. “As was my mother and her mother.”

Brother Francis eyed him. “And yet you are a Christian man?”

Raphael struggled with his answer. “The only vows I have ever sworn—the only ones I will ever keep—are those I swore to Athena Promachos.”

“‘She who fights in the front line,’” Brother Francis said. “Those are hard vows to keep.” He laughed. Not from a place of pity or arrogance, but from simple clarity. “You may be a stronger man than I, Raphael of Acre,” he admitted.

He showed Raphael the sheet. It was covered with a number of skewed lines of Latin, and Raphael read a few: “
You are Good, all Good, supreme Good...
”

“It is but a pittance,” Brother Francis explained. “A distraction, perhaps, from what I am meant to be doing, but for some time, it has been something I have been yearning to write. In fact, it is only now, meeting you again, that I understand the source of this desire.” He turned the page over and, peering at Raphael’s face for reference, quickly sketched a figure at the base of the page. The man seemed to be lying on his back, looking up at the lines of text over his head. He squinted at Raphael’s hat and shook his head, drawing instead a peaked cap reminiscent of the style worn by Muslims. With
a practiced twist of his hand, he inscribed a letter rising from the figure’s mouth.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked Raphael, pointing at the letter.

“The
tau
,” Raphael said.

“Do you know what it means?”

“I have heard it is used to represent the Cross upon which Jesus died.”

“The Cross upon which he was
resurrected
,” Brother Francis corrected him. “Our lives are not spent waiting for death, but waiting for life.”

Raphael acceded this interpretation could be equally valid, though the subtle distinction was one that he would have to consider more fully. “I have brought death to many,” he said quietly.

“And have you not given others life?” Brother Francis asked.

Raphael shrugged. “How can one ever atone for the other?”

“Only God can answer that question for you, Raphael of Acre,” Brother Francis said. “But you have to let Him. You have to have faith that He will.”

Raphael nodded, hearing the monk’s words. His mind struggled to accept them, to let them sink into his heart where they might take root.

“Give this to Brother Leo,” Brother Francis said, offering the page to Raphael. “Tell him it is more important than any other legacy of mine.” His face tightened, a brief spasm of pain that seemed to rise from nowhere and flee just as quickly.

“I will,” Raphael said, accepting the page. He glanced at the words written on the back page, the text that floated on the page over the prostrate figure. “‘May God smile upon you and be merciful to you,’” he read aloud. “‘May God turn his regard to you and give you peace.’”

Brother Francis laid his hands in his lap and let out a long sigh as he closed his eyes. “God has blessed my life—time and again—and I have not always been able to see or appreciate it,” he said. His fingers twitched, and Raphael saw a dark blossom growing in each of the monk’s palms. “But now, now I understand it.”

He groaned then, his body twitching under his robe, and then his back straightened. His hands relaxed, his fingers uncurling, and in the center of each palm was an unmistakable sign. He opened his eyes and gazed at Raphael. “You are worthy of forgiveness,” he said reverently. “Your heart is stronger than you know. Never stop loving them. That is the only way you can save them. That is the only way.”

In Hünern

Andreas: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

Rutger: Shield-Brethren knight master, quartermaster of the Rock

Styg: Shield-Brethren initiate

Eilif: Shield-Brethren initiate

Maks: Shield-Brethren initiate

Hans: orphan of Legnica, member of the local gang known as the “rats”

Father Pius: Roman Catholic priest

Dietrich von Grüningen:
Heermeister
of the Livonian Order

Sigeberht: the
Heermeister
’s bodyguard

Burchard: the
Heermeister
’s bodyguard

Onghwe Khan: Ögedei Khan’s dissolute son

Tegusgal: captain of Onghwe Khan’s personal guard

Ashiq-temür: second in command of Onghwe Khan’s personal guard

Zugaikotsu no Yama: Nipponese
ronin

Kim Alcheon: Korean Flower Knight

In Rome

Ferenc: a young Magyar hunter

Ocyrhoe: orphan of Rome

Matteo Rosso Orsini: Senator of Rome

Master Constable Alatrinus: keeper of the Septizodium

Father Rodrigo Bendrito: a priest of the Roman Catholic Church

Robert of Somercotes: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Sinibaldo Fieschi: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Rainiero Capocci: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Giovanni Colonna: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Rinaldo de Segni: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Tommaso da Capua: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Romano Bonaventura: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Gil Torres: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Goffredo Castiglione: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Stefano de Normandis dei Conti: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

Riccardo Annibaldi: Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church

In the East

Feronantus: Shield-Brethren knight master, the Old Man of the Rock

Percival: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

Raphael: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

Roger: Shield-Brethren knight initiate

Finn: Germanic hunter, Shield-Brethren companion

Yasper: Dutch alchemist, Shield-Brethren companion

Istvan: Hungarian horse-rider, Shield-Brethren companion

Cnán: Binder, Shield-Brethren guide

Eleázar:
Matamoros
, Shield-Brethren initiate

Taran: Irish gallowglass, Shield-Brethren knight initiate and
oplo

Rædwulf: English longbowman, Shield-Brethren initiate

Illarion: Ruthenian noble, Shield-Brethren companion

Haakon: Shield-Brethren initiate

Vera: leader of the Shield-Maidens

Alena: Shield-Maiden

Benjamin: Jewish Khazar trader

Kristaps: the First Sword of Fellin, Livonian knight

Alchiq Graymane: Mongolian
jaghun
commander

Ögedei Khan:
Khagan
of the Mongol Empire

Yelu Chucai: Kitayan advisor to the
Khagan

Gansukh: Mongolian hunter, emissary of Chagatai Khan

Munokhoi:
Torguud
captain

Lian: Chinese slave and tutor

Toregene: Ögedei Khan’s First Wife

Jachin: Ögedei Khan’s Second Wife

R
OME WAS NOT
the first city Ferenc had ever seen. As a child, he had lived in Buda, where the clustered buildings were strewn like squat boulders along the banks of the slow-moving Danube. His memories, though, were but vague shapes in a fog compared to the reality laid out before his eyes.

Rome lay below them, wrapping itself around the River Tiber like a jealous lover. The light was strange here too. It was brighter and brisker than his memories of Buda, as if the sky over the city had cracked open and scattered celestial sparks upon the peaked rooftops, creating a dazzling spray of illumination.

Ferenc glanced at the priest slumped on the horse next to him. He was draped over his horse’s neck, his knuckles intertwined in the animal’s mane so tightly they were white. The light from the city was reflected in his eyes, making him look almost blind. A ropy strand of spit quivered in his tangled beard.

His fever was back. The disease had gone into hiding deep within the priest a week ago, and then he had insisted they ride farther and harder each day. Ferenc had tried to hold him back, knowing this relief from the burning infection was temporary. He had been right: this morning, it had returned. The skin around the wound on
the man’s hip was still angry and red, even though the gash was closing. If it closed all the way, it would seal the fever inside, and he would never heal.

With a groan that made Ferenc shudder, the priest pushed himself upright. His right foot slipped from the stirrup. He grabbed at the horse’s mane to keep from falling, and the animal tossed its neck back, as if protesting his clumsiness. Father Rodrigo shook his head, and the spit flew from his beard. “Rome,” he croaked. “We made it.”

When he looked at Ferenc, his eyes were still filled with the wild, reflected light from the city below. The young hunter made the sign of the cross on his chest, as the priest had taught him, and whispered the holy words that would protect him from possession. His mother had taught him other charms against evil spirits—the warding eye, the sign of the forest—but he didn’t want to enrage the priest. He didn’t want the madness in the priest to know he was afraid.

Ferenc had come to realize the strength of the priest’s magic. Father Rodrigo had one sign he used for everything. He didn’t have to remember the prayers to the wind or the rain or the spirits living in the forests. He didn’t have to know the hymns to sing before and after a hunt. He didn’t have to memorize the glyphs and sigils used by mothers to protect their houses and children. The priest had one sign only—such a simple gesture, so easily taught to children, so easily remembered—and one god to call upon. Followers of such magic asked only for strength and guidance; why they needed either was left unspoken.
God knows
, the priest had assured Ferenc,
God knows everything in your soul
.