Read Online The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) by Mark Teppo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Teppo
Ads: Link
by the early morning residents. The pair stood out, not by virtue of their ragged appearances or because they were on horseback but because they didn’t have a clear destination in mind. They wandered aimlessly, moving at odds with the rest of the people in the square. One of them, the elder, appeared to be drunk. The other was not a local youth. Nor was he a simple farmer, though he had that wide-eyed, skittish, wondering look Ocyrhoe had seen on many a lad the first time they came to Rome. She sensed he was only a few years into manhood, but his beard and hair were thick and long, his face dark and lined from exposure.
She had been watching them since they came in through the Porta Tiburtina. The Via Tiburtina wasn’t a major thoroughfare likeVia Appia, but it was the only open road into Rome for those coming from the east.
Each morning, she climbed one of the churches on one of the seven hills of Rome and took stock of the city. There was too much of it for one person to cover; she couldn’t hope to watch over it all, and so each morning she had to make a choice. Which gate? Which district? Which road? Where would she go? This morning, what little wind there was at dawn had been from the east, and so she had come to the market square next to the Porta Tiburtina to watch and to wait.
She was the only one left. She had to be careful.
Rome was caught in the throes of two crises. There were those who were still mourning the loss of the Bishop of Rome; others stood in the shadow of the walls and looked for signs that Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor, was losing his taste for the blockade. Ocyrhoe wasn’t privy to most of the political and religious machinations, nor did she profess to understand all of them, but she understood the rhythm and the pulse of the people, and in it she sensed a great deal of unease and danger.
And this had been true even before her kin-sisters had begun to disappear.
Two weeks ago, she had spotted the white pigeon on the statue of Minerva. When it had still been there the next morning, she had dared to climb up and retrieve it. The message on its leg had been written in the secret language, and without her sisters to help her, Ocyrhoe had spent most of the day deciphering it. The message was nothing more than a simple question, and she knew instinctively that it was meant for her:
Where are my eyes in Rome?
The others were gone, taken—or driven off—by the Bear’s men, or they had fled before the Emperor’s armies had set up their camps outside the city. She was the only one left—too small to be noticed, too young to flee the city that had reared her—and so the task fell toher: to watch, to wait, to learn what was happening. And when the time came—when another bird appeared on Minerva’s shoulder, as she knew in time it would—Ocyrhoe would be ready to report on everything she knew, on everything she had seen.
Today had brought these two: the drunken priest and the wild man-child.
The younger one wasn’t very tall or broad, but he was more square than round in the chest. His shaggy hair had been bleached blond by the sun a long time ago, and what was left of his natural brown persisted as shadows and stripes through his beard. A rustic, homemade bow and quiver were slung across the withers of his horse. A small knife was thrust through his belt. The older man was trying to be a nondescript traveler, but Ocyrhoe sensed he was a priest. His hooded robe—stained and worn from travel—was a simple garment and gave no hint as to what sort of priest he might be. But the thin cord wrapped around his waist—from which a plain satchel was hung—was a rosary. He had cut off most of the long tail, but the short stem still had a few knots.
They were strangers, and she only had to watch them clumsily navigate the flow of people, carts, and draft animals through the market to know that, but there was something else about them that drew her attention. She had been training with
She had been watching them since they came in through the Porta Tiburtina. The Via Tiburtina wasn’t a major thoroughfare likeVia Appia, but it was the only open road into Rome for those coming from the east.
Each morning, she climbed one of the churches on one of the seven hills of Rome and took stock of the city. There was too much of it for one person to cover; she couldn’t hope to watch over it all, and so each morning she had to make a choice. Which gate? Which district? Which road? Where would she go? This morning, what little wind there was at dawn had been from the east, and so she had come to the market square next to the Porta Tiburtina to watch and to wait.
She was the only one left. She had to be careful.
Rome was caught in the throes of two crises. There were those who were still mourning the loss of the Bishop of Rome; others stood in the shadow of the walls and looked for signs that Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor, was losing his taste for the blockade. Ocyrhoe wasn’t privy to most of the political and religious machinations, nor did she profess to understand all of them, but she understood the rhythm and the pulse of the people, and in it she sensed a great deal of unease and danger.
And this had been true even before her kin-sisters had begun to disappear.
Two weeks ago, she had spotted the white pigeon on the statue of Minerva. When it had still been there the next morning, she had dared to climb up and retrieve it. The message on its leg had been written in the secret language, and without her sisters to help her, Ocyrhoe had spent most of the day deciphering it. The message was nothing more than a simple question, and she knew instinctively that it was meant for her:
Where are my eyes in Rome?
The others were gone, taken—or driven off—by the Bear’s men, or they had fled before the Emperor’s armies had set up their camps outside the city. She was the only one left—too small to be noticed, too young to flee the city that had reared her—and so the task fell toher: to watch, to wait, to learn what was happening. And when the time came—when another bird appeared on Minerva’s shoulder, as she knew in time it would—Ocyrhoe would be ready to report on everything she knew, on everything she had seen.
Today had brought these two: the drunken priest and the wild man-child.
The younger one wasn’t very tall or broad, but he was more square than round in the chest. His shaggy hair had been bleached blond by the sun a long time ago, and what was left of his natural brown persisted as shadows and stripes through his beard. A rustic, homemade bow and quiver were slung across the withers of his horse. A small knife was thrust through his belt. The older man was trying to be a nondescript traveler, but Ocyrhoe sensed he was a priest. His hooded robe—stained and worn from travel—was a simple garment and gave no hint as to what sort of priest he might be. But the thin cord wrapped around his waist—from which a plain satchel was hung—was a rosary. He had cut off most of the long tail, but the short stem still had a few knots.
They were strangers, and she only had to watch them clumsily navigate the flow of people, carts, and draft animals through the market to know that, but there was something else about them that drew her attention. She had been training with
Similar Books
