Excerpt of Map of Bones by James Rollins
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The holy relics were granted to Rainald von Dassel, Archbishop of Cologne
(1159-67), following Emperor Barbarossa's sacking of the city of Milan. Such a
treasure was granted to the German Archbishop for his aid and chancellorship in
service to the current Emperor. Not all were content to see such a treasure
leave Italy…not without a struggle.
--Excerpt taken from L'histoire de la Sainte Empire Romaine (The History of
the Holy Roman Empire), 1845, HISTOIRES LITTÉRAIRES
***
March, 1162
The archbishop's men fled into the shadows of the lower valley. Behind them,
atop the winter pass, horses screamed, arrow-bit and cleaved. Men shouted,
cried, and roared. The clash of steel rang as silvery as a chapel's bells.
But it was not God's work being done here.
The rear guard must hold.
Friar Joachim clutched the reins of his horse as his mount slid on its
haunches down the steep slope. The loaded wagon had reached the bottom of the
valley safely. But true escape still lay another league away.
If only they could reach it…
With his hands clenched on the reins, Joachim urged his stumbling mare down
to the valley's bottom. He splashed across an icy brook and risked a glance
behind him.
Though spring beckoned, winter still ruled the heights. The peaks shone
brilliantly in the setting sun. Snow reflected the light, while a billow of
rime-frost flagged off the peaks' razored tips. But here in the shadowed gorges,
snowmelt had turned the forest floor into a muddy bog. The horses slogged up to
their fetlocks and threatened to break a bone with every step. Ahead the wagon
was mired just shy of its axles.
Joachim kicked his mare to join the soldiers at the wagon.
Another team of horses had been hitched to the front. Men pushed from behind.
They must reach the trail coursing along the next ridgeline.
"Ey-ya!" yelled the wagonmaster, snapping a whip.
The lead horse threw its head back, and then heaved against the yoke. Nothing
happened. Chains strained, horses chuffed white into the cold air, and men swore
most foully.
Slowly…too slowly, the wagon dragged free of the mud with the sucking sound
of an open chest wound. But it was moving again at last. Each delay had cost
blood. The dying wailed from the pass behind them.
The rear guard must hold a little longer.
The wagon continued, climbing again. The three large stone sarcophagi in the
open wagon bed slid against the ropes that lashed them in place.
If any should break…
Friar Joachim reached the foundering wagon.
His fellow brother, Franz, moved his horse closer. "The trail ahead
scouts clear."
"The relics cannot be taken back to Italy. We must reach the border."
Franz nodded, understanding. The relics were no longer safe upon Italian
soil, not with the true pope exiled to France and the false pope residing in
Rome.
The wagon climbed more quickly now, finding firmer footing with each step.
Still, it trundled no faster than a man could walk. Joachim continued watching
the far ridge, staring over his mount's rump.
The sounds of battle had settled to groans and sobbing, echoing eerily across
the valley. The ring of swords had died completely, signaling the defeat of the
rear guard.
Joachim searched, but heavy shadows steeped the heights. The bower of black
pines hid all.
Then Joachim spotted a flash of silver.
A lone figure appeared, limned in a patch of sunlight, armor glinting.
Joachim did not need to see the red dragon sigil painted on the man's
chestplate to recognize the black pope's lieutenant. The profane Saracen had
taken the Christian name Fierabras, after one of Charlemagne's paladins. He
stood a full head taller than all his men. A true giant. More Christian blood
stained his hands than any other man's. But baptized this past year, the Saracen
now stood beside Cardinal Octavius, the black pope who took the name Victor IV.
Copyright © 2004 James Rollins - Excerpted from Map of Bones by James
Rollins. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher, William Morrow.
