Rodrigo bashed his hands against rough rock as he tripped. The smoke surrounded him—it was in his mouth, his nose, his eyes—but there was less of it down here next to the rock. He wanted to press his face against the rocky ground, and let the smoke pass over him. Let the dragon’s fire burn the sky overhead. Down here, nestled against the ground, he would escape notice. He could still breathe.
“Get up.” Someone grabbed his robes and dragged him upright. He fought back, his body racked with heaving coughs, but he had no real strength in his arms. He let himself be dragged along until it became clear that whoever was carrying him would continue to do so—more roughly, in fact, he realized as his knees bounced painfully off the ground.
When he had his feet beneath him again, the hand released its hold, and he was free to continue staggering down the endless passage.
As if he was running up the dragon’s throat, trying to escape the burning churn of the infernal fires in its belly.
Then, without warning, he was free. The smoke went upward, a curling black finger rising into the pure serenity of the blue sky, and the walls of the tunnel fell away. He had escaped.
And with the freedom came a sudden rush of clarity, as if much more than smoke was wiped clear of his eyes and throat. He had been in the grips of the fever again, the persistent heat that plagued his soul. It was such a heavy weight to carry that the brief moments when he felt God’s eyes upon him were such a momentous blessing. He felt so... elevated.
He looked behind him at the unadorned outer walls of the Septizodium. He stood in an alley, one of the many unmarked and unmemorable gaps between buildings in Rome. The door through which he had stumbled wasn’t a real door, but a clever panel of stone. Any other time, he would never have noticed it against the mottled background of the surrounding stone, but it hung open now and a column of black smoke spiraled up from it. There were other spires of smoke rising over the rooftop; clearly, there were other exits from the Septizodium. They might not have been plain to those who were sequestered inside, but smoke had a talent for finding a way out.
The tall, elderly Cardinal—Colonna, Rodrigo could remember his name effortlessly now—stood nearby, his chest heaving with a great cough. He spat something foul on the ground, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Are you all right?” he asked, and Rodrigo recognized his voice as the one that had kept shouting at him during his long exodus from the fire-laden darkness.
“Yes,” Rodrigo replied. “Well enough.”
Colonna nodded and made the sign of the cross. “Watch for others,” he said, “I am going to see if anyone... is waiting for us to... escape.” He took a step up the alley, and then seemed to realize he was still cradling a small earthenware jar in his hands. “Hold on to this,” he said, thrusting it toward Rodrigo.
“What is it?”
Colonna cocked his head to one side. “Just... hold it.” Shaking his head, he headed up the alley, leaving Rodrigo to wonder what was on the Cardinal’s mind.
Rodrigo peered at the jar, cradling it tentatively. The stopper was a thick wooden plug surrounded by a layer of wax, and the seal was so tight that if he turned it upside down—like so—the stopper did not come out. He held the jar close to his ear, cautiously listening, but he heard nothing over the groaning rumble of the fire burning deep within the Septizodium.
I am being a fool, he thought. If it is the one thing that Colonna brought out of this prison, then it must be important. That is enough for me. He glanced in the direction the tall Cardinal had gone. We all have our secrets.
Unburdened by the fever, he dispassionately recalled what he had seen at the abandoned farm near Mohi: the slaughtered horses in the barn; the children hiding in the hayloft; their mother, lying on the hearth in the house, her body burned and defiled; the old man pinned to the wall with arrows, forced to watch. He could remember it all clearly, unburdened by the horror and dread he had felt at the time. It was as if he was looking at the pages of an illuminated manuscript, and no matter how badly he desired to close this book and hide these pictures forever, he could not. They were an indelible part of him now, burned into his memory by the fever. By the vision.
He could also remember what Brother Albertus had taught him many years prior. He had been so young, so eager to learn how to worship God, and the older monk had been equally eager to share his newfound knowledge with a bright student. The Ars Notoria, a means by which he would be able to more readily explore his relationship with God. By understanding the language of God, by learning how the tongue and the mind were connected.
Brother Albertus had taught him a prayer. Te quaeso Domine m? illumina conscientiam meam splendore luminis tui. To call upon God to illuminate him with his light so that he would remember what he had seen and heard. Adorna animam meum ut audiendo audiam et audita memoriter teneam.