‘Now!’ screamed Jean, and the sally port was thrown open, men pouring from it. The first of the fleeing men entered their ranks, ran on to the opening in the wall. The last five had been caught and, flinging their wounded behind them, Haakon and Erik turned with weapons raised.
‘A Haakonsson!’
They were engulfed. Men swept around them, meeting those coming out from the city, like a wave crashing onto a beach colliding with the one that had crashed just before. War cries died, replaced by the grunt of blows given, blocked, struck home. The Norsemen, father and son, stood side by side, and lost count of the times they took blows meant for the other, axe and scimitars a blur of cutting edge, a space carved before them filling with bodies, soon slippery with blood.
It could not last. The waves that had clashed together had been more or less the same, stopping the other with equal force. But reinforcements kept flooding out from the Florentine trenches; someone over there had seen the tantalizing open gate in the wall they’d been trying to breach for fifteen months. As more joined, the defenders formed into a rough half circle to withstand them, giving ground, backing toward their escape, each knowing that if one broke, they would all break, to be trapped and slaughtered before that tiny entrance.
Unable to use her reloaded musket due to the press, Beck had watched the desperation build below, saw the inexorable gathering of the enemy, her friends about to be swept away by it. There was only one chance now and she took the stairs two at a time. She found Jean on the middle level, above the battle. He was pressed against the wall, his mouth working, staring into the mêlée.
‘Now, Jean, now! Send in De Monluc’s French. It is their only chance.’
Jean continued to stare ahead, muttering.
‘What is the matter with you? Send them in.’
He turned and she recoiled from the deadness in his eyes.
‘They are lost.’
Bursting past him, she ran down the remaining stairs. Leaping onto a powder barrel there she cried, ‘Frenchmen! Your ancestors followed Jeanne d’Arc to glory. Will you follow me?’
A shout came from twenty throats and, pulling her short sword from her side, Beck led the pike men out the sally port. They formed up, lowered their pikes and advanced.
It made a difference, for a moment, twenty armoured men in a tight body thrusting forward. Friends dodged under their points, foes gave back before them. Disciplined, they halted at the front of their line and the Germans and Spanish there gave back a few paces, opposing pike to their pike. These soldiers, professionals all, had faced each other for fifty years across the battlefields of Italy. Each would await the other’s next move.
A silence, the weird silence that sometimes descends on a combat, descended now. Men took breaths as if they’d only just learned how. Even the wounded seemed to still their moans. In this silence, Beck found the Norsemen, standing just behind the line of pike, leaning on their weapons.
‘You’re bleeding, Haakon.’
‘Beck! I might have known I’d see you here.’ He looked himself up and down. ‘This? This is not my blood.’ And he laughed. Loudly.
The laugh broke the silence. ‘Surrender, you French and Sienese jackals. They will lock you out to die. Throw yourself on our mercy and you may be spared.’
There was a simple French word. Even in Haakon’s execrable accent it was clear enough.
‘Merde!’
Noise returned to the battlefield in shouts, threats, wails. And under it, there came another sound, a crump – it was faint, yet somehow everyone there heard it. Maybe because it was accompanied by a pulse that ran up through their boots. Flame suddenly gushed from the Florentine trench, at that point where Erik had burst through, and the killing ground around them began to buckle and shift. Furrows, as if dug by some crazed plowman, shot out between legs, knocking men aside.
‘The mine! The mine is blown.’
And with that cry, a huge section of earth fell into the tunnels below. It was mainly on the Florentine side, and it dropped men thirty feet into the ground. A jagged rent appeared just before Haakon and Beck, the Norseman just managing to grab his son by the collar, dangling him over the sudden precipice for a moment before pulling him back.
Haakon yelled, ‘The hand of God, Beck?’
‘The one hand of the Fugger! Come on!’
The explosion had shaken Jean from his daze, preceded as it was by the Fugger bursting up from the well. Looking over, he saw, the front rank of the enemy disappear into the earth, saw reinforcements even now rushing around the flank of the hole, as his men began to squeeze through the narrow sally port.
‘My lord?’ he called up to the tower above.
‘Seen them, Rombaud,’ came a drawled response.
The volley cut down the pursuit, gave their own men a chance to withdraw. They crowded through the gate, but never blocked it and within a minute, all who could walk, crawl, or be carried were into Siena. Haakon and Beck were the last, going back for the one last wounded man of his command. Pushing him through the gate, he turned to Beck and smiled. ‘After you, my lady.’
He saw the beginnings of a smile in return, then saw that smile change to surprise, as she staggered into him. Reaching around to catch her, his hand encountered something hard, feathered. It protruded a finger’s length from her back.
He swept her up into his arms, moved inside. As the sally port slammed shut, he cried, ‘Jean! Beck is down.’
‘It’s all right. I’m all right!’ she said, just before she fainted.
Jean was there in a moment. ‘To me! Give her to me.’
He took her, wondering at how light she had become, in the long age since he had last picked her up. Her head was rolled back, sightless eyes under her heavy lashes, and he was suddenly terrified that he would never look into those eyes again, see her love or even her fury there. The crowd of men parted before him, jubilation quelled. Above, Blaise de Monluc stepped onto the ramparts, once more slowly sweeping the plumed hat from his head. Crouched at the foot of the stairs, a bloodied Fugger raised a bandaged arm toward Jean and his burden.
There was only one place he could go, one person who could bring the flame back into Beck’s black eyes. He had to find her now, and swiftly. He had to find his Anne.
TWO
INQUISITION
They began to trail him from the entrance of the ghetto. Even though they knew his destination, it was good practice to follow the old Jew through the narrow alleys, then onto the broader, crowded thoroughfares. Not only did they have to avoid his eyes – and this one was wary, stopping at street stalls, fingering a pear or a bolt of cloth while glancing the way he had come – they also had to spot and isolate his shadows. Three of them and hard to recognize in the throng, for they had eliminated all signs of their faith, dressed like any other Roman, stopping when the Jew stopped, sometimes moving past to wait, to let him pass again. They were good, but the Grey Wolves were better, soon had them isolated, cut out, two on one, within their own elaborate dance of misdirection and disguise.
Gianni Rombaud was pleased. They had learnt well, his Cubs, while his more experienced brethren – Rudolpho, Wilhelm – had assumed their role of shepherd effortlessly, restraining their own natural desire for the swift kill, in service to the plan. Wilhelm would be finding it especially hard, his hand twitching at his dagger. But meeting his eyes now, crouched over a book on the Via Gulia, haggling with the stall holder, even in the briefest of contact they allowed themselves, Gianni saw the Bavarian was poised, calm. Ahead, the Jew had lingered at a pastry cart, so Gianni grabbed an apple and threw it into the air, a coin plucked from his pocket, flicked across, before the fruit landed in his hand.
He was pleased for another reason. Three shadows meant their quarry had something valuable on him, probably rings, maybe even a necklace. The Grey Wolves hunted for the blooding, but it was always good to have a bonus for their efforts. Christ’s bounty funding Christ’s work.
The old man moved off r
apidly, took an unforeseen turning, heading up toward the squatting mound of the Castel San Angelo. They had not been spotted, Gianni was sure, but something had spooked their quarry, some sense of danger in that old Jew head; if he was not to double back and disappear into the ghetto, where they could not follow, they would have to let him be.
Gianni began to eat the apple, not moving from where he’d bought it. It was old, had cellared the long winter, its skin mottled and streaked. A little like the old Jew’s, Gianni thought, chewing slowly, the thought making him smile. He was aware of his men, even though he did not see them, knew they recognized the signal of the apple, and would be finding things to do, books to peruse, nuts or roasted offal to buy. The Jew’s shadows flitted slowly past, one by one, slipping down the alley, soon to be lost in the maze ahead.
It did not matter. It had been a useful exercise. The Grey Wolves had stalked prey through half of Rome. Throwing the apple core into the clogged gutter at the centre of the street, Gianni turned down the alley opposite to the one the Jew had taken. He knew the rest of them would take their own routes to the rendezvous, would assemble there by the mid-morning bell. By that time, the reassured Hebrew would be inside the house in the olive grove on the edge of Trastevere. Thinking he was safe.
He passed a small chapel, erected for the working men of the neighbourhood and their families, its only outward sign a cross scored across the lintel. He paused. It would do him good to pray, to focus upon His words, to meditate as to why he was about Christ’s work in this unique way. Stooping, he entered the dim and scented world. It had rough walls, a lack of any adornment, a complete contrast to the ornate palaces of worship that abounded in Rome. It reminded him of the farmers’ chapels where he’d first met his Saviour, in the hills near Montepulciano.
The floor was crudely tiled, broken in places. Seeing he was alone, Gianni immediately threw himself down on the space before the altar, pressing his face to the ground, paralleling the cross above him with outstretched arms and began to recite his prayers. Usually, he could lose himself in the Latin, its comforting rhythms and familiar cadences, but today it seemed as jagged as the split tiles beneath him. At first he thought his mind was too full of the action ahead, seeking out little flaws in his plan, making adjustments. He struggled, knowing he should be able to put all that aside, to lose himself in his adoration of Christ. Struggled until he realized what was truly wrong – this chapel, so like the ones of his youth, raised memories that drove prayer from him. Even though he had not seen them in three years, his parents’ sins clung to him like choke vines round the stock.
There was a cough. He stood and turned swiftly, a hand reaching to his belt and the dagger there. Behind him, Wilhelm was kneeling before the pews, his hands clasped. He glanced toward the door and Gianni nodded. Making their final kneeling tributes, crossing themselves, they stepped out into the day. Rain had come and Gianni scanned the sky for a break in it. Rain did not help his plan.
‘You’re bleeding.’ Wilhelm ran his finger down Gianni’s cheek. ‘See?’
On the finger before him, a red streak. In its centre, a shard of tile.
Gianni grabbed the finger, bent it back. The big German leaned down toward him in self-protection. When he had him close, Gianni put his lips to his ear, and whispered, ‘Would that I could shed all my blood in what we are to do. And yet live to do it again and again and again.’
He released the finger and Wilhelm rubbed it. The piece of tile had penetrated and there was more blood now.
‘Have a care, Gianni.’ He sucked at his finger.
‘Oh, I do.’ His dark eyes flashed. ‘I have a care for the Lord’s work.’
The two grey-cloaked figures shrugged into the rain, heading for Trastevere.
It fell in angled sheets, slanting into the ground, bouncing off olive trees, so heavy that the house in the centre of the grove shimmered as if insubstantial. The three shadows had gathered beneath the eaves, round a brick fire place, which they tried to stoke with a supply of sodden wood. They were having a little success, enough to keep them occupied, and the times between one of them leaving and walking around the house were growing further apart.
Gianni dropped from the wall, landing beside the two Cubs. The hulking one, Bruno, was throwing his knife into the ground between his legs, rain cascading off his cloak, oblivious to all but the way the blade dug into the mud before him. The slight one, Piccolo, was trying to light two more oil lamps from the one cradled in his lap. Each time he took a taper from its shelter, however, the rain or wind snuffed it out.
Gianni’s arm snapped forward, grabbing the handle of the dagger in mid-flight. Pointing the tip at Bruno he said, ‘Help him with the lamps. When they are all lit, take one to each of the others. Tell them to wait for the call. Then return.’
He threw the dagger between the spread legs, close to the groin. Bruno flinched, sheathed the weapon, and hurriedly moved to obey. Cupped hands transferred the flame and soon all three oil lumps were lit. Taking two, Bruno moved off into the rain and around the corner of the wall.
Gianni rested his back against the flaking plaster. The rain made a difference, but not that much. It might even help, concealing the Wolves’ approach, even if it did mean the flames of retribution would be harder to conjure.
Raising his face to it, closing his eyes, Gianni allowed himself a smile.
Thy will be done. As always.
Then Bruno was back, a nod showing that all was prepared. Putting his foot into Bruno’s joined palms Gianni carefully raised his head above the parapet. As he did, he saw one of the shadows detach himself from the fireplace at the side of the house and move around the building, out of sight of his comrades. Another ten paces would carry him around the other wall to the welcoming grasp of Wilhelm, brought running by the cry Gianni was about to order. He looked down into Piccolo’s tensed face and nodded. Instantly, the boy threw back his head and let out a perfect imitation of a scavenging crow.
Looking back into the yard, Gianni saw three things happen. A large log flew over the front gate, landing with a soft but distinct crunch on the gravelled path. This brought the two guards by the fire to their feet, turning toward the sound. At the same time the other guard, stopped, hesitated, then carried on around the corner. Pulling himself over the wall, landing in the soft earth there, already running as he landed, Gianni heard the thump of Piccolo close behind, the heavier thud of Bruno following. There was a shout from the far side of the house, a cry of alarm, then of pain, turning the other sentries for a moment. He was ten paces away when the first of the men turned back and five when the guard began reaching to the wide-mouthed arquebus resting under the eaves. Gianni dropped his shoulder, put it into the man’s chest at full charge, knocking him off his feet and hard against the wall. The second man swung a fist at him, but Gianni dodged, falling onto the back of the one now struggling to rise. He heard but did not see the blows as first the faster Piccolo and then the heavier Bruno caught the other man with their cudgels. Gianni found the prone guard’s chin, jerked it back and swiftly to the side. There was a crack and he rode the body to the ground.
The other three Cubs from the front gate now picked up the log they’d thrown over and ran with it at the door. It splintered at the first impact, folding in on itself, the three carried through by the force of their charge to sprawl on the other side. As Wilhelm and his two Cubs joined them – one of them clutching what looked like a broken wrist – Gianni stepped through the shattered timbers into the one room beyond.
He had been there before, had anticipated the sight that would greet him. The smiling girl who had given the thirsty ‘student’ some water, she would be cowering there. And the Jew, of course, their quarry, finally brought to ground, he would be there. But the tall man with the pistol drawn and levelled, behind whom Jew and girl crouched, he was not meant to be there. And when he discharged the pistol and the bullet grazed Gianni’s face, to bury itself in the plaster behind him, Gianni knew he must be th
ere no longer.
‘Mine!’ he cried, a dagger appearing in his hand, matched by one in the hand opposite. There were few times when he did anything but curse what his father, Jean Rombaud, had given him, but lessons with a knife, he almost blessed him for those now. The man he opposed had also learned, dropping into a stance, the dagger level with the other hand that reached out, balanced, but Gianni saw he was not quite square, his right foot forward. Throwing the dagger to his left hand he thrust it toward the man’s face, while his right reached up, flicked the clasp of his cloak open, swept it from around his shoulders, his hand passing over his head, carrying it down and around to the right where the rain-heavy wool wrapped around the man’s leg. Stepping back, Gianni pulled hard and the cloak jerked the man’s leg from underneath him, sending him crashing back onto the table, collapsing it. Dropping the cloak, stepping forward, the knife thrown back to his right hand, grabbed overhand, Gianni plunged down. With a sharp cry of agony, the man folded himself in on the blow that found his stomach, dropping his own knife, folding himself around Gianni’s.
The attack had brought his face level with the old Jew’s.
‘What? What …?’ was all the old man could get out and the look of pure terror, coupled with the exultation of the violence, made Gianni howl with joy, howl like the animal whose name he had taken. The wolf cry, echoed from those behind, ended when Gianni raised a hand.
‘Vat? Vat?’ Gianni’s impersonation was exaggerated, deliberately so. ‘You will find out vat in a moment.’ He called over his shoulder. ‘Take the girl outside, and the servant. And finish this …’ He kicked at the writhing body on the floor. ‘Leave the Jew with me.’
Blood Ties Page 5