Eminence and the Holy Roman Emperor had not been at each other’s throats, before the supreme Pontiff had fallen ill. Dietrich did not know why the Pope had granted him an audience, but held out a dim hope that the Pope was going to offer him—and the remnants of his order—a commission to lead a new crusade to the Levant.
The Pope, however, had had other plans.
God has not abandoned anyone, least of all those who are willing to fight and die for Him
, Gregory IX had said during Dietrich’s first audience with the Pope after being elected
Heermeister
of the Livonian Order.
His design is too vast and too subtle for us to comprehend. All we need to trouble ourselves with is faith and obedience; in return, He will grant us not only eternal life in Heaven but also eternal life in this world. All He asks in return is that you serve Us.
I do serve
, Dietrich had replied.
My duty and my life are devoted to the Church.
Not enough.
Clutching the gold keys of his office, the Pope had offered his left hand to Dietrich. On his finger was a gold ring, and its seal was a fragmented Greek letter, an omega cleaved in twain by a stick—or a
fasces
, an old Roman weapon used by the lictors.
You must serve Us
, the Pope had reiterated.
Dietrich had pressed his lips to the ring and had been shocked to find it cold. The Pope’s fingers were like ice, his palm stiff and waxy—as if he were already dead.
Dominus custodiet te
, the Pope had blessed him.
Dominus protectio tua super manum laevum tuum.
The Lord will protect you.
The servingwoman appeared at his elbow, rousing him from his reminiscence, the pitcher of beer perched on her wide hip. “More,
Heermeister
?” she asked in German.
Dietrich grunted and raised his tankard. She poured adroitly, and the foam rose to the edge of the tankard but didn’t slop over. Her movement was supple and simple, the sort of deftness that came with practice. Was she married to the Hungarian tavern master, or was she his daughter? He glanced up, his gaze lingering on her breasts.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Flore,” she replied, her eyes downcast. “Flore di Mantua,
Heermeister
.”
Italian
, he thought, taking another look at her shape. “That’s enough, Flore,” he said. “For now.” She gave him a short bow, and he watched her walk away, considering how he might spend the evening once he was done parading his men around Hünern.
As Flore stopped to refill the cup of a bearded man with a wide mouth, Dietrich let his gaze move on, reexamining the other patrons of The Frogs: a sad assortment of drunk mercenaries; a few priests, more interested in drinking than tending to their flock (though Dietrich couldn’t blame them); a trio of Italian merchants, loudly telling lies about the bulk of their cargo; several groups of vagabonds and ruffians who clutched their cheap mugs as if they were the most precious possessions they owned.
Worthless wretches.
He lifted the tankard, inhaling the slightly acrid scent of the ale. He watched Flore laugh at something the bearded man said; she pushed hair back from her face and cocked her hip flirtatiously.
Dietrich grimaced as he drank.
All you had to do was show some gratitude in return for our protection.
The incident at the bridge still galled him. Two of his knights had been summarily beaten by a single opponent. One said it was a Mongolian; the other man argued it had been someone else—one of the other Easterners who were part of the Khan’s menagerie of fighting men. Either way, the soldiers’ mission had been simple: escort the priest to the Shield-Brethren chapter house, look suitably menacing along the way to advertise their strength, and return. The soldiers had opted to not take their shields and to ride a few of the more swaybacked nags the order had at its disposal—decisions that, in retrospect, were ill-advised.
During his interrogation of the pair, one of them—Tomas, a Curonian—had tried to plead his case, but
The Pope, however, had had other plans.
God has not abandoned anyone, least of all those who are willing to fight and die for Him
, Gregory IX had said during Dietrich’s first audience with the Pope after being elected
Heermeister
of the Livonian Order.
His design is too vast and too subtle for us to comprehend. All we need to trouble ourselves with is faith and obedience; in return, He will grant us not only eternal life in Heaven but also eternal life in this world. All He asks in return is that you serve Us.
I do serve
, Dietrich had replied.
My duty and my life are devoted to the Church.
Not enough.
Clutching the gold keys of his office, the Pope had offered his left hand to Dietrich. On his finger was a gold ring, and its seal was a fragmented Greek letter, an omega cleaved in twain by a stick—or a
fasces
, an old Roman weapon used by the lictors.
You must serve Us
, the Pope had reiterated.
Dietrich had pressed his lips to the ring and had been shocked to find it cold. The Pope’s fingers were like ice, his palm stiff and waxy—as if he were already dead.
Dominus custodiet te
, the Pope had blessed him.
Dominus protectio tua super manum laevum tuum.
The Lord will protect you.
The servingwoman appeared at his elbow, rousing him from his reminiscence, the pitcher of beer perched on her wide hip. “More,
Heermeister
?” she asked in German.
Dietrich grunted and raised his tankard. She poured adroitly, and the foam rose to the edge of the tankard but didn’t slop over. Her movement was supple and simple, the sort of deftness that came with practice. Was she married to the Hungarian tavern master, or was she his daughter? He glanced up, his gaze lingering on her breasts.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Flore,” she replied, her eyes downcast. “Flore di Mantua,
Heermeister
.”
Italian
, he thought, taking another look at her shape. “That’s enough, Flore,” he said. “For now.” She gave him a short bow, and he watched her walk away, considering how he might spend the evening once he was done parading his men around Hünern.
As Flore stopped to refill the cup of a bearded man with a wide mouth, Dietrich let his gaze move on, reexamining the other patrons of The Frogs: a sad assortment of drunk mercenaries; a few priests, more interested in drinking than tending to their flock (though Dietrich couldn’t blame them); a trio of Italian merchants, loudly telling lies about the bulk of their cargo; several groups of vagabonds and ruffians who clutched their cheap mugs as if they were the most precious possessions they owned.
Worthless wretches.
He lifted the tankard, inhaling the slightly acrid scent of the ale. He watched Flore laugh at something the bearded man said; she pushed hair back from her face and cocked her hip flirtatiously.
Dietrich grimaced as he drank.
All you had to do was show some gratitude in return for our protection.
The incident at the bridge still galled him. Two of his knights had been summarily beaten by a single opponent. One said it was a Mongolian; the other man argued it had been someone else—one of the other Easterners who were part of the Khan’s menagerie of fighting men. Either way, the soldiers’ mission had been simple: escort the priest to the Shield-Brethren chapter house, look suitably menacing along the way to advertise their strength, and return. The soldiers had opted to not take their shields and to ride a few of the more swaybacked nags the order had at its disposal—decisions that, in retrospect, were ill-advised.
During his interrogation of the pair, one of them—Tomas, a Curonian—had tried to plead his case, but
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