All the Plagues of Hell

by Eric Flint

  She didn’t quite manage a scream, but came close. She made enough noise to call someone anyway. The young man lifted the cloth veil again. “Man,” she said weakly. “Next to me.”

  “Ah. Do not worry. That is Signor…Carlo. He was also bitten. We have so little of the scent we are using to treat you that both of you have to share it. This is the only little bit that’s been available for the last nine hundred years, so I doubt we’ll get more. He is on a separate divan, and there are servitors here all the time, my lady. You are perfectly safe. Would you like to try drinking something?”

  It hadn’t been her virtue that had worried her. More the shock. But she would like to drink something. “Yes. Please.”

  He helped her to sit up a little. She could not have done it herself. She sipped the watered wine, aware that those watching were smiling and, in the case of the portly little man in the corner, hastily scribbling on a pad, and both beaming and crying. She thought she recognized him. One of Uncle Cosimo’s men, perhaps?

  “Where am I?” she asked as they let her sink back on the daybed, feeling exhausted, giddy and…alive.

  “Venice, Signora. In the Doge’s palace. I am Marco Valdosta. You were consigned to my care by your uncle and my physician friend, Francisco Turner, who saved your life. I don’t know if you remember, but you were bitten by an extremely venomous snake. You are lucky to be alive.” He took her pulse. “You need to remain under the tent and continue to breathe in the scent of the roses of Laurin. We don’t know how much is needed, and how long it will take for you to recover, and in this case, I believe more is better. Be patient. You have been unconscious for many days.”

  * * *

  Carlo Sforza had actually been lying there, awake for some time now, trying to muster the strength for his next move, and also trying to work out just how he thought he had seen Marco Valdosta. Now, listening to that interchange, that at least was clear. It was also clear that Marco was not advertising who he was to Violetta de’ Medici. She was actually a pretty girl, not that it mattered now.

  Sforza was not too sure how he’d gotten here, or how long he’d been here, but at least he knew where he was. That might not be all that safe in the long run, but was certainly better than being at the tender mercies of his dear wife. He’d bet Francisco had had some hand in getting him here. He must get back to Milan to keep things together there. There were a lot of men relying on him, and that was always something a good commander took very seriously. He relied on them, they relied on him. He did not fail them, and most of the time, they wouldn’t fail him either.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the tiniest little ladylike snore from his fellow snake victim. He had to smile at that. He’d been told he could snore a house down, so when her turn came she’d have a lot more to listen to.

  He tried calling out. “Marco.” It came out as a feeble croak, but the man heard him.

  “I will speak to M’lord alone,” Carlo heard Marco say. “I think you might alarm him.”

  It was neatly done. The boy had learned Venice’s ways.

  Marco pulled the tent covering away. “I think that, if you are understanding me clearly, you should keep your identity secret.”

  “Yes. Drink?”

  Marco helped him more upright, pulled a pillow under his head, and held a goblet for him. “A little only.”

  That was fine. He didn’t feel up to quaffing much. The taste of it was very intense…and, perhaps for the first time in his life, his nose wasn’t at least partly blocked. Snakebite, as a way to cure catarrh, was never going to be popular though.

  “Thank you.”

  “A pleasure,” said Marco, putting it down.

  “Not for the drink. For saving my life.”

  The young man smiled, looking very much as he had when he was ten or so. “Thank Francisco. He brought you to me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He went back. He said that you had given him the responsibility of seeing you had a principality to return to. I’ll send him a message about you, but you must rest now. Breathe as much of the scent as you can. It is very precious.”

  “I heard. And I will. And…thank you again, Marco. I never loved you as much as I should have.”

  The young man nodded. “But I shouldn’t have believed you wanted to kill us, either. Now rest. There will be time to talk later.”

  He pulled the cushion out, pulled down the tenting fabric, and Carlo Sforza was left to his thoughts and the smell of roses. He thought quite a lot about the past, and about the future. Nearly dying did that to a man. It would make him into a priest yet, he thought wryly. Then, because it was what he would do whenever he had to wait, which was often as a soldier, even as a commander, he began reconstructing campaigns in his head, working out the possibilities, and in doing so fell asleep.

  * * *

  When he awoke again, it was much brighter outside the fabric, and he was feeling a great deal stronger and far more alert than he’d swear he’d felt for months. He was aware of movement outside the little tent. The movers opened it, and it was Marco and two other men.

  “Good morning. How are you feeling?” Marco took Carlo’s wrist and felt the pulse.

  “Better. I could try to get up.”

  Marco shook his head. “These gentlemen will take you, wash you, shave you, and change your clothes. You will try to do as little as possible for yourself. As I remember, you gave a lot of orders.” He smiled slightly. “It is my turn now, and you will please cooperate. Seriously, overdoing it now could set you back—or worse. Your pulse is still fast and not as strong as I would like it.”

  Carlo nodded. Even that was still an effort. Marco was probably right, drat him. And by the time he returned to the tent, he was glad to simply slip off into sleep.

  The young woman was not there when he went to sleep, and was when he woke later. She was being fed some gruel—and being firmly told by Marco: no, she could not feed herself, and that her stomach would have to grow used to solid food first. There was more officer material in the boy than he’d realized. He was given a small meal of steamed fish, which he’d never liked, but found himself hungry for, and told to drink a moderately vile tisane to help clear the poisons out of his system.

  Later that day he found himself awake, alert, while still feeling weak lying in the tent. He set about the battle of Bella di Torra and found that, as usual, he could not remember the name of the company of pikemen on the south ridge. He muttered something to himself.

  “What?” said the young woman, to whom he had yet to be formally introduced.

  “Oh, nothing. I was trying to remember something about Bella di Torra.”

  “One of Duke Enrico Dell’este’s masterpieces,” she said.

  He was almost as surprised as when the snake had lunged out of Lucia’s bosom. “Well, well. I don’t suppose you would know the name of the company of pikemen on the south ridge?”

  “They were under the command of a Frankish fellow, von Mandelbohm. Four hundred men, mostly Swiss, and a bit green. In my opinion, the battle turned on their inexperience.”

  If he hadn’t been lying down and feeling as if a feather was too much weight to bear, you could have knocked Carlo Sforza down with one. “Yes, I have always suspected Dell’este must have known that.”

  “He did. They had tried to contract to him that spring,” she said.

  They covered the campaign in some detail, and then moved on to others. To his secret amusement, Sforza found his own tactics as a junior officer in Balco’s company, when he’d been about this girl’s age, dissected by her. “Sforza was just lucky and had the confidence of his men. It was strategically stupid. If he’d taken the high ground instead…”

  Carlo knew he’d been enormously lucky and had had a good sergeant who had dissuaded him from going any further. He’d had a plan. It had been, with twenty years hindsight, a terrible plan, but as a wet-behind-the-ears officer, it had seemed good. He avoided saying too much about it though, and th
e talk moved on. And then, abruptly, she fell asleep midsentence. Carlo realized he, too, was exhausted, and fell asleep as well.

  When he awoke later, he found himself drawn into an argument about armor. She had strong points of view and was not in the least afraid to express them, or to change them—or not—depending on the skill of his argument. She was strong-willed, but not stupidly pigheaded. Both of those were traits Carlo approved of, since he was much the same way himself.

  “You are better at this debate than I am. Do you spend all your time sparring the gentlemen of your acquaintance into submission? I detest koboldwerk, but I might even wear it after this.”

  She paused. “I do not often have the chance. It’s not a subject ladies are supposed to know anything about. So I used to argue with Cosimo, and with my father. But Signor Valdosta told me something I don’t wish to think about. So I was talking about battles I have never seen. It…is easier. My mother is dead, and I don’t know how to deal with that. We were very different, and now I regret that I didn’t try harder for her. I cried for a month when my father was killed. Now I just feel sad for my mother. And that makes me feel guilty.”

  “You were very nearly dead yourself. And that drains you. I am glad to talk, if that helps. As long as it is not about fashions. I have always had to confess to ignorance about them. The ladies informed me that I had no taste, which absolutely devastated me.”

  That got a small snort of laughter from her. “I am sure your knowledge of court gossip redeemed you no end.”

  “Another of my weak points, alas.”

  “And no doubt many of them thought you were boring as a result of these confessions. I wonder how many of them realized you were being sarcastic at their expense?”

  “Oh, some of them did, but not many, I admit. Come, let us talk more of battles.”

  Florence

  “Get an escort ready for me,” commanded Cosimo de’ Medici, after he finished reading the letter from the man he’d sent to watch over Violetta’s treatment. “I’m departing for Venice immediately.”

  Chapter 46

  The Duchy of Milan

  Lucia admitted to herself that she was worried about the military might her spies reported were massing against Milan. She’d known that there were enemies, but had had no idea of the numbers, and of the different forces attacking Milan. What had Sforza done to let it get to this? She thought he’d beaten them back before she’d fed him the poison!

  They’re dying in Terdona. The city cannot hold. The asp’s tone was triumphant. Dying, dying, dying. Orkise devours!

  There was a terrible, irresistible urge to go there, to see her victory. She called Lord Laglissio. “I plan to go to inspect the war. Arrange an escort. I believe we are about to capture the city of Terdona.

  He blinked. “I had heard the siege still held, Your Grace.”

  They’re dying, dying. The few live people try to fight, or hide. They cannot flee.

  “I also have sources of information. Do not question me. I will need a suitable escort. Perhaps a thousand men.”

  “Er. We only have eight hundred in uniform so far,” answered Laglissio nervously.

  “I should imagine eight hundred will be adequate. Sforza…my husband’s mercenaries are still in control and beating back our foes.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. When do you wish to leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning will be acceptable.”

  The escort was ready shortly after sunup the next day. There were a few matters that Lucia had forgotten that had been planned for that day, however, so in fact it was only the following afternoon that they set out, eight hundred men, escorting her traveling carriage, and those of her ladies-in-waiting. And their luggage.

  The countryside bored her, but she did sleep, and had one of the ladies read to her, until the woman threw up. Lucia’s brief rage was quieted by the asp reminding her that this “trusted confidante” was under the snake’s spell, and could scarcely have planned to vomit down the side of the gilded carriage. And she was feeling slightly queasy herself from the swaying and bumping. So they had stopped at the next town, where suitable lodging was acquired. She so liked the villa in which they stayed that it restored her humor. And the former owners quite deserved what they’d gotten.

  Before crossing the Po, her view from the windows had showed little signs of war. She’d begun to suspect that the tales of war had been greatly exaggerated for effect. That changed on this side of the river. There were soldiers, checkpoints, and some signs of war damage. There were some minor delays when Sforza’s mercenaries foolishly held up their progress, disputing with her officers. But she was the duchess. She was allowed to pass, all the way to within half a league of the small city of Terdona.

  There, the guards on the road were tense, actually firing a shot in the air when one of her captains attempted to ignore the order to halt. He fell off his steed. Several of her men had their weapons readied rapidly, and Lucia’s bodyguard massed around the carriage. At first, it looked ugly—the guards might be outnumbered but they had given a warning call, and had retreated into their little fort. But when the captain got up, unhurt, and an officer of Sforza’s men came riding up hastily, the situation was defused.

  The officer was brought to her carriage to speak to her in person. He at least knew who she was and treated her with suitable respect.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace. There is a disease loose in the city. I cannot, for your safety, allow you to proceed any closer.”

  The kiss will not affect you. You are Orkise’s chosen, said the asp.

  “In Sforza’s illness, I must act for him,” she said, aware of the sinuous slither emerging from her cortege. None of her guard would react, but the mercenary officer’s eyes bulged briefly…before the asp brought him to her will.

  She was escorted through the lines, a mile through uninhabited countryside. To the inner perimeter, to the burned ground around the city—and its far less able guards. Less able perhaps, but far less biddable as well. Captain Borghetti and his men were not what she thought of as proper soldiers.

  A gust of wind brought the stench of rotting corpses wafting from the shattered walls. Up on the count’s tower, his flag still fluttered in a last weak defiance. That was the only sign of movement from Terdona. That, and the crows.

  “Well, sir?” demanded Lucia. “Why do you still wait like useless cowards? Why does that flag still fly?”

  There was something oddly alluring about that smell. Yes, it was decay and death. But it was also victory. Thus would die all her foes.

  The scruffy captain and his battle-worn men stood stock-still, staring at her, not moving toward the fallen city, across the burned sward of land that surrounded it.

  She had become accustomed to instant obedience to her slightest wish, in the Palazzo Ducale and with the guard there. They’d seen to it, rapidly, that the citizens of Milan understood appropriate respect as well.

  Not so among these mercenaries. They were ragged, bandaged, some on crutches, some not even trying to stand.

  “Well?” Lucia repeated herself. “Answer me, Captain Borghetti, or I’ll have you flogged here, in front of your men.” She had her personal guard with her, quite capable of seeing the threat carried out.

  The captain did not seem to care. “I have my orders. Nothing leaves there alive. Not a dog, nor a cat, nor a rat. Not even the crows if we can shoot them. You can send one or all of your pretty boys in”—he sneeringly gestured at her escort—“but if they try to cross the sward to come out again, we’ll kill them. The plague is loose in there. You shouldn’t even be in this layer of the cordon. Your Grace.” The last part was an obvious afterthought.

  Lucia neither knew nor cared what they thought had killed the people of Terdona. She knew perfectly well what it had been and that it was hers to command.

  “Plague,” she sneered. “They dared to withstand us and that is the fate of all who resist. Yours, too, Captain. Understand this. I give the orders in the Duchy of
Milan while my husband is indisposed. When he recovers, those who balked will pay the price.”

  She knew that was not going to happen, but they did not, and among the mercenaries, Sforza’s name probably still carried a greater weight than the principality of Milan.

  The captain shrugged. “They tried to throw their dead at us. That’s why Francisco ordered the sward burned. It looked enough like what I had heard of plague to me, and to Turner. He’s no fool. The buboes, the swelling…I want no part of it. I make war for a living, but not like this. You can guard your own cordon, and take your own town, Duchess.”

  Instinctively Lucia knew, despite her fury at his insolence, that she had gone too far. If the rumor spread that Milan—or rather, she herself—had caused the plague to get loose, soldiers would desert, and not just mercenaries like this one.

  But you will not need them, whispered the asp concealed in her bosom. They will do your will, or die. Or just die. The dead cannot defy you.

  “You have misinterpreted me, Captain,” said Lucia, keeping her voice calm and silky. “I mean they have brought this on themselves, and if there is an outbreak of some infectious disease, what better thing could we have done but to besiege them, to isolate them? Good work!”

  The captain, for the first time, looked a little uncertain. He would still die for his insolence and temerity, when the time came.

  Later, said the asp.

  * * *

  Lucia returned to Milan directly, but by the time she got there, she found that rumor had ridden on faster steeds. There was a jam of carts and wagons at the gates of Milan. Her men had to use their whips to clear a way through.

  “What is going on here?” she demanded.

  “A panic, Your Grace. Seems someone has started a tale that the soldiers are using the plague to conquer towns. They’re blaming Sforza, saying he is sick with the plague, too. It could get ugly, Your Grace. We’d best ride on.”