I wanted to visit my favourite place in the city once more before I left, and so a little before None I arrived before the Church of Santa Maria of the Martyrs. From the
Mirabilia,
I knew its true name to be the Pantheon, and indeed the great portico, with its inscription to Agrippa, seemed like the entrance to no church I had ever known, even in this city of confounding discoveries. But it was not the outside that had drawn me here again and again in the past weeks, but what lay within, through the mighty bronze doors.
It was almost empty inside, save for a nun sweeping the floor and a verger talking with two monks against the far wall. As I always did, I paused on the threshold before setting out into the great well of dusty light, padding across the marble and feeling the round walls rise around me, letting my head fall back as I walked until I was in the centre of the floor and gazing straight up at the sky through the perfect circle of the oculus. There I stood, seeing nothing but that disc of purest blue hanging at the apex of the domed roof, and all around it the squares within squares that made up the dome, carved from stone but seemingly weightless. A pigeon fluttered to and fro across the shaft of sunlight that angled down towards me. Sparrows twittered faintly out in the portico. I breathed in the cool air, and felt the hair on my head rise ever so slightly, as it always did in this spot. For here, I was sure, was the centre of the world, the point on which everything turned. Here was stillness, utter calm, the axis: around me, the seas, the countries at war and peace, the fretful seas, the clouds, the stars in their spheres spun and danced.
The nun began coughing horribly behind me, wet, wracking spasms. I sighed and looked down. The marble walls in all their colours glimmered. I rubbed my eyes: I had walked far today, and I realised I was tired. The nun coughed again. I glanced over. There she was, hunched over her broom, shoulders heaving. The verger was also regarding her with irritation. And further around the curving walls, a woman in a tunic of silvery linen, whose yellow hair fell straight behind her back. This time she was no illusion: the monks were watching her too. She caught my gaze, and began to edge along the wall towards the door. She walked, step by cautious step, and I turned in place, still the axis, still caught under the eye of heaven. Through the golden half-light she slipped, past empty niches and tombs, past the nun, recovered now; I turned, and she reached the door and darted outside.
Released by the oculus, I took to my heels after her, ignoring the throaty admonitions of the nun. But out in the piazza I found only the dun-coloured flocks of pilgrims circled by sharp-eyed Roman wolves. I looked about me in a frenzy: where had she gone? I chose an alleyway at random, and ran up it until I reached a little church, around which the streets diverged in three directions. It was hopeless: she had probably not even come this way, I told myself. But she had followed me after all, for happenstance does not strike the same two people twice in as many hours. Why? I leaned against the church wall, panting.
Slowly as pitch trickling down the planking of a ship, comprehension dawned and I realised what I had to do. I must hide the pope's decree at once. The yellow-haired woman was no scullery maid, and what she had been scrubbing from the emperors floor had been blood. I had not liked the voice of the man in the shadows. I had not liked that he did not show his face, and the way his flat Venetian voice had drilled into me, full of command and condescension. If they were following me it was not for myself, for I was nothing. It was for what I carried.
I had a fairly good idea where I was, so I made my way, through back alleys and the narrowest passages, west to the piazza in Agona. The long, broad field of the piazza I skirted to the north, through alleys overhung with towers snarling across the air at one another. I thought to slip across the bridge to my lodgings in the Borgo, but that would be too obvious, for that man in the White Hound was used to command - he would have more than a wench at his call, that was certain - and no doubt he was watching the bridges.
Who could I go to for help? I was starting to feel exhausted, for I had been on my feet in the heat all day and had eaten and drunk but little. A cup of cool wine would surely clear my head. I thought of a comfortable cellar and a friendly barrel of white wine from the Alban hills, and then it struck me: Marcho Antonio Marso, the Captain's old companion-in-arms.
I found the covered passage with a little difficulty, for I was coming at it from the wrong direction, but at last I was in the piss-soaked gloom and walking past the crooked windows and the midden heap to the door of Marcho's inn. To my dismay I was not the only customer at that early hour, for a couple of carters, already drunk, were mock-arguing in the corner and a whore was flirting mechanically with the potboy in hopes, no doubt, of a scrap of free food. I beckoned him over, slipped him a silver coin and asked for wine and meat. When the wine came I enquired, casually as I could, if the master was about. I got a look, sharp and curious, but before I had taken my second mouthful, the ominous form of the innkeeper appeared at my side.
‘I am busy’ he said, shortly. He was radiating annoyance like a brazier.
'Good Marcho Antonio, I am a companion of Captain de Montalhac. Do you not recognise me? I have enjoyed your hospitality often’
'So what?' growled the man, although his countenance seemed to soften imperceptibly.
I was wasting time, and I wished to get things over with one way or another, so I stood up and placed my arm around his shoulder. Ignoring his palpable irritation, I leaned close in and muttered in his scarred ear:
'Marcho Antonio Marso, are you a Good Christian? I mean, are you a
credente?
He stiffened as if I had driven a knife between his ribs. I pressed home.
'I am guessing, Signor Marcho. But you have my master's trust, and I am giving you mine. Listen to me: I am about-Captain de Montalhac's business, and the enterprise is in danger. I need your help’
Marcho let out a ragged breath. He glared at me, but he had gone rather white, and there was a bead of sweat working its way out of one eyebrow. Then he gave a twitch of his head, half nod, half spasm.
'In the back’ he hissed. Then, raising his chin, he bellowed over to the pot-boy: 'Eh, Lodovico! I’ll be in the back. Do not bother us, understand?'
I followed him through the door in the back of the room, which opened on to a short flight of stairs. We descended into a low-beamed cellar, earthen-floored, with walls of narrow bricks and hunks of marble. There were barrels everywhere, hams and sausages hung from the beams, and a soft light shone over all from a brace of fat candles that were melting slowly over a battered table at the far end. Marcho halted in the middle of the floor and faced me, arms crossed stolidly across his chest.
What do you mean by all this, boy?' he asked. His voice was cold, and suddenly I wondered if I had made an awful mistake. Nevertheless I bit my lip and pressed on, heart fluttering.
'I have sailed with Michel de Montalhac for two years’ I said determinedly, although I was all too aware of how hollow my voice sounded in this cave of a place. 'He saved my life. That is what he does, is it not? Save people, the unwanted, the persecuted? I am not a Good Christian. I... am nothing, an outcast from my own church, an exile from my home. I meant no offence, and I did not mean to alarm you, for I know
'Ah, boy, enough’ All of a sudden, Marcho looked bone-tired. He pointed to a barrel. 'Sit yourself down. You look ready to fall’ There was kindness in his voice now, at least a tinge. Yes, I am what the people of Toulouse call a Good Christian. My brothers and sisters call ourselves Patarani. There: you have the power to burn me now, as my brothers were burned six years ago in front of Santa Maria Maggiore. You see, they still make human sacrifice in Rome’
'I am sorry for it’ I said, sinking down on the barrel.
'Do not be: they made a good end, despite the baying of the mob’ He shrugged, that fatalistic shrug that I had seen Gilles and the Captain give a thousand times. 'Now, what is your trouble?'
'Captain de Montalhac has been in negotiation for a .. ‘ 'No! I do not need to know the details. It is business, yes?' I nodded. 'Then tell me the trouble that afflicts you now’ 'I am being followed. I have something that the men .. ‘ I closed my eyes for a moment, and saw yellow hair and sharp eyes. 'They are Venetians, I believe. I am carrying something they want. They will probably kill for it. It would be better if they killed me and lost this, than the alternative. As far as business goes, that is’ I added. He did not laugh, and I could not.
‘In the valise?' I nodded again. 'Give it to me.'
I made to open the satchel, but Marcho shook his head. 'Do not. Again, I do not need to know. I will not open it. What will you do?'
'I need to give this to the man it is intended for, but failing that, to the Captain himself’ I said. ‘I will ride north to Venice, for that is where the
Cormaran
is headed. But Rome is deadly to me now.'
'And you cannot leave today?'
I explained, as briefly as I could, that my lodgings lay in the Borgo, together with my horse and the money that Gilles had entrusted to me. They would be sure to have the Pons San Petri watched, and perhaps my rooms as well, though I doubted they knew where those lay. I would have to grab my belongings and my horse, and make a dash for it.
Marcho grunted when he had heard it all. 'You will have to cross to the south’ he said. 'Take the Jews' Bridge or Saint Mary's. Then work your way through the gardens under the Janiculum and round the back of Saint Peter's. They'll be watching the city side, not the country.'
'But I'll have to come back for ...' I nodded at the valise.
'No. I doubt you will be safe coming back over here, even on a horse.' He squinted at me, as if worrying a broken tooth. 'I will bring it to you’ he said finally. 'Ride north along the river. I will meet you at a place called Saxa Rubra, just beyond the Milvian Bridge.' He must have seen my look of shock, for he smiled for the first time. ‘I owe Michel a turn or two. Do not concern yourself about me: I will amble up the Via Lata with the rest of the bumpkins, as I do whenever I go to look over my vineyards. I’ve got a nice little farm picked out for myself when I leave this game, away over in Tolfa. No one will blink if they see me leaving town’
This was beyond hope, and I was so moved that I doubt I could have found enough words to thank him with had he not bustled me out of the cellar and walked with me to the door of the inn.
You are armed: know how to use it?'
'A bit’ I said.
'My advice? Do not. If they catch you, they'll be wanting this.' He tapped the bag. 'They will not harm you unless you give them reason. I know ... and you must know, boy, that there are men who are glad enough for a reason to spill blood. Right then. Tomorrow, the Saxa Rubra, around eight bells.'
What manner of place is that, Marcho?' I asked.
'Just some red rocks beyond the bridge. Don't you know your history, boy?
In hoc signo vinces.
Let us hope that they will mean victory for you. One more thing. Do you know what is in there?' He nodded at my valise. I hesitated, and shook my head.
'A ... a letter, for someone else’ I said.
'If you are risking your liver for it, I would read what it says, if I were you,' he said. 'Might not be worth it.' With a gruff nod he left me there and shut the door behind me.
I thought for a while, and then drew out the letter with the great leaden bull. It was sealed with wax, and I opened it carefully with Thorn, taking care to keep the seal intact. The candles threw their yellow light over illuminations and letters in a beautiful, snaking hand. There was much courtly and legal stuff, and I searched impatiently for the meat. It was a decree all right, a
mandamentum,
and it had to do with
Baldwin. But it was not addressed to him. It appeared - I could not entirely make sense of the legal curlicues - to be made out to the Captain himself, or to the company of the
Cormaran.
It is the business of the pope to look after the interests of the Latin empire of Constantinople,
I read,
since it was taken from the schismatic Greeks with the approval of the papacy, and since it is the papacy s bulwark in the East against the Greeks and the Infidel.
There were more niceties, and then:
In support of the eastern province, in addition to the forgiveness of sins which we promise to those who, at their own expense, set out thither, and beside the papal protection which we give to those who aid that land, we hereby decree by the paternal love which we have for you that whosoever offers for sale, sells, seeks to purchase or does purchase any and all of the holy relics of Our Lord and of His saints yet remaining in the city of Constantinople and its territories under the aegis of this decree shall have, by the power vested in us, dispensation to make any such transactions and absolution from simony, that the eastern province may accrue such riches as will shore up its defences and so carry out Gods will.
And there was the signature of Pope Gregory. I leaned back against the cobwebby bricks, my heart pounding. No wonder they were after me. I found an awl and heated its tip in the lantern flame, melted the wax and resealed the letter. Marso was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. He studied my face, but took the valise without a word and stood aside to let me pass.
As I crept south through the narrowest, stench-plagued alleys I could find, I sent up a thousand wordless prayers - to whom I knew not, for the god of the Cathars was a puzzle to me, and the god I had once served had ceased to listen to my prayers some time ago - for Marcho Antonio Marso. I had no doubt that he would be waiting for me in the morning with my valise and the papal bull. But whether or not I would make our rendezvous was another matter entirely. My predicament was now beginning to reveal itself to me, although I was still guessing as to the details. It was plain that something bad had befallen the hapless Baldwin de Courtenay. I doubted that he was dead: one did not kill an emperor, however petty, and stay to clear up the blood. So he might have been taken, against his will: hence the blood.