“How can you be so sure that Macrobius is dead?” he asked.
Himerius’ eyes glittered. “He is dead. Let there be no question about it. I am High Pontiff, and no Torunnan captain of arms will gainsay me.”
“What are you going to do?”
Himerius steepled his fingers together before his face.
“We will send out riders at once—tonight—to every court in Normannia—all the Five monarchies. They will bear a Pontifical bull in which I will denounce this impostor and the man who is behind him—this Martellus, the Lion of Ormann Dyke.”
Himerius smiled.
“I will also send a private letter to King Lofantyr of Torunna, expressing my outrage at this heretical occurrence and telling him of my reluctance to commit our Knights Militant to the defence of his kingdom whilst that same kingdom harbours a pretender to my own position, an affront against the Holy Office I occupy, a stink in the nostrils of God.”
“So you will withhold the troops you promised Brother Heyn,” Betanza said. He sounded tired.
“Yes. Until this thing is dealt with Torunna shall receive no material aid from the Church.”
“And Ormann Dyke?”
“What of it?”
“The dyke needs those men, Holiness. Without them it will surely fall.”
“Then so be it. Its commander should have thought of that before he started elevating blind old men to the position of High Pontiff.”
Betanza was silent. As the Knights Militant were quartered in Charibon they were nominally under the command of the head of the Inceptine Order. But never in living memory had a Vicar-General flouted the wishes of his Pontiff.
“The men are already on the march,” Betanza said. “They must be halfway to Torunna by now.”
“Then recall them,” Himerius snapped. “Torunna shall receive nothing from me until it extirpates this impostor.”
“I beg you to consider, Holiness . . . What if this man is who he says he is?”
“Impossible, I tell you. Are you questioning my judgement, Brother?”
“No. It is just that I do not want you to make a mistake.”
“I am directly inspired by the Blessed Saint, as his representative on earth. Trust me. I know.”
“By rights we should reassemble the Synod and put this to the convened Colleges and Prelates.”
“They’re happily trekking homewards by now. It would waste too much time. They will be informed in due course. What is the matter with you, Brother Betanza? Do you doubt the word of your Pontiff?”
One of the powers inherent in the Pontifical office was the nomination or removal of the Vicar-General of the Inceptines. Betanza looked his superior in the eye.
“Of course not, Holiness. I only seek to cover every contingency.”
“I am glad to hear it. It is always better when the Vicar-General and the Pontiff have a good working relationship. It can be disastrous if they do not. Think of old Baliaeus.”
Baliaeus had been a Pontiff of the last century who had quarrelled with his Vicar-General, removed the man from office and assumed the position himself in addition to his Pontiffship. The event had scandalized the entire Ramusian world, but none had attempted to reinstate the unfortunate head of the Inceptines. The man had died a reclusive hermit in a cell up in the Cimbrics.
“But you are no Baliaeus, Holiness,” Betanza said, smiling.
“I am not. Old friend, we have worked too hard and striven too long to see what we laboured for torn away from us.”
“Indeed.” So if Himerius went, Betanza went. That much was clear at least.
“In any case,” Himerius went on suavely, “we may be worrying over nothing. You have said yourself that the dyke must fall. If it does, the impostor will fall with it and all those who believe in him there. Our problems will be at an end.”
Betanza stared at him, open-mouthed.
“That will do, my lord Vicar-General. Have the scribes sent to me when you leave. I will dictate the dispatches this evening. We must strike whilst the iron is hot.”
Betanza got up, bowed and kissed his Pontiff’s ring. He left the room without another word.
Brother Rogien was waiting for him as he exited. He strode along the wide corridors of Charibon with Rogien silent at his side. He could hear Vespers being sung from half a dozen college chapels and smell the enticing aromas from the kitchens of the monastery.
Rogien was an older man, broad-shouldered and stooped, with hair as white and fine as the down on a day-old chick. He was Betanza’s deputy, experienced in the ways of Inceptine intrigue.
“He will not even investigate it!” Betanza raged at last, striding along at a swift, angry pace.
“What did you think, that he would tamely lie down and accept it?” Rogien asked caustically. “All his life he has coveted the position he now occupies. He is more powerful than any king. It is not a thing to be abandoned lightly.”
“But the way he goes about it! He will recall the Knights promised to Torunna; he will alienate Heyn and the Torunnan king. He will gladly see Ormann Dyke fall rather than risk his own position!”
“So? We knew that was what would happen.”
“I have been a soldier of sorts, Rogien. I commanded men in my youth and maybe that gives me a different outlook. But I tell you that this man will see the west riven by fire and ruin if he thinks it will advance his own cause one jot.”
“You have attached yourself to him,” Rogien said implacably. “His fortunes are yours. You worked with him to gain the Pontiffship; he helped vote you into your position. You cannot turn around now and forsake him. It will ruin you.”
“Yes, I know!”
They reached the Vicar-General’s quarters, dismissed the Knights at the door and went inside, lighting candles as they did so.
“You would never have become head of the order were it not for him,” Rogien went on. “Your age and your late vocation counted against you. It was Himerius’ lobbying that swung the Colleges. You are his creature, Betanza.”
The Vicar-General poured himself wine from a crystal decanter, made the Sign of the Saint with a clenched fist and drank the wine at a gulp.
“Yes, his creature. Is that what they will say in the history books? That Betanza stood by whilst his Pontiff brought down the west? Can the man be so blinkered that he is unable to see what he is doing? By all means, denounce the impostor; but withhold the Torunnan reinforcements as well? That smacks of paranoia.”
Rogien shrugged. “He is willing to take no risks. He knows it will bring Lofantyr to heel quicker than anything else. And you have to admit it would look odd were the High Pontiff to send troops to bolster the garrison of a fortress which has raised up a rival High Pontiff.”
“Yes, there is that, I suppose.” Betanza smiled wryly and poured his colleague and himself more wine. “Mayhap I am losing my skill at the Inceptine game.”
“You bring to it the wisdom of a man who has not worn a black habit his whole life. You were a nobleman once, a lay-leader. But that is in the past. If you are to survive and to prosper, you must learn to think wholly as an Inceptine. The order must retain its pre-eminence. Let the kings worry about the defence of the west; it is their province. We must concern ourselves with the spiritual welfare of the Ramusian world—and what would happen to it were there to be two Pontiffs? Chaos, anarchy, a schism that might take years to heal. Think on that, Brother.”
Betanza regarded his subordinate with sour humour.
“I think sometimes that you would be better off sitting in my chair and I in a soldier’s harness before Ormann Dyke, Rogien.”
“As you are Himerius’ creature, I am yours, lord.”