The Condottiero: A Tudor Deceit (Tudor Crimes Book 4)

by Anne Stevens

  “Giuseppe,” he says, turning to his herald. “Gallop on ahead, and enquire of those soldiers, as to their destination, and from whence they came.”

  “Yes, sire.” He hesitates, then plucks up the courage to ask a pertinent question. “What if they kill me, sire?”

  “Then I will know their intentions,” Alessandro replies. “Rest easy, my friend. My guard will avenge your murder, ten fold.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Giuseppe says, and spurs his horse on, after the straddle of men ahead. As he draws near, they turn about, and one or two hold up their pikes, in a warning manner. Another one steps forward, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Stay, sir. What do you want of us?”

  “Nothing, good fellows, but to enquire who you might be, and where you might be heading.” Giuseppe concludes by taking the wineskin from his pommel, and offering the dozen men a draught of wine. “Hand it around, my friends, I have more, back with my company. The threat is much understated, but he draws their attention to the sixty, heavily armed cavalry, a bare five hundred paces away. One glance tells the men on foot to accept the wine, and hold their peace.

  “As to who we are, sir,” their spokesman says, “we are but a few common soldiers, late of the army of Malatesta Baglioni, under the command of his general, Gino Valdo.”

  “Then the army near Florence is the condottiero’s?”

  “Yes, sir. We camped, resting up, before the final push, on to Verona. Then we were to take Padua. I dare say, when old Baglioni arrives, he’ll end up looting Venice.”

  “Happy news, fellow,” Giuseppe tells him. “Here, take my purse for your trouble.” He throws across a purse of silver. Enough, he calculates to buy them a bed for the night, and a couple of cheaper whores to hand around. “Why are you fellows on the road to Rome though?”

  “A scouting party, sir.” The man waves a hand at the dozen or so strapping, well armed fellows in his company. “We heard rumours that Pope Clement’s army was close, and have been sent to meet them, and lead them back to our base.”

  “Splendid!” Giuseppe announces. “Clement’s army, together with Malatesta Baglioni, will sweep aside all our foes. My master will be delighted with your news, and wish to join in the final kill. I must go, and tell him these tidings, at once.”

  Giuseppe cannot believe his luck. Such news will astound the duke, and he will be well rewarded. The wine, and the few silver coins were well invested. He spurs his horse hard, and gallops back to where his master is waiting, impatiently. Once he hears the news, he will wish to join up with Baglioni’s army, and ensure he gets a cut of the spoils.

  “Cozza,” the soldiers spokesman says, and spits on the ground. “Come on lads, let’s get a move on, before they realise we are deserters.”

  “Scouting ahead, that was a good one, Umberto,” a second man says, and laughs. “Do you really think they’ll ride to the camp?”

  “Like a well aimed arrow,” Umberto says. “Once that mincing little finocchio tells his lord what I’ve said, the stuck up stronzo will be off, at the gallop!”

  “And good luck to them,” another tells them.

  “Let the bastards rot,” Umberto replies. “Tell them something they don’t want to know, and they’d have ridden us into the road.”

  “Well?” the duke asks, the moment Giuseppe is in earshot.

  “It is the condottiero’s men,” the herald calls out. “They are scouts, but the army I saw near Florence, belongs to the traitor, Malatesta Baglioni!”

  “Great God, but this is a lucky day for me,” Alessandro Medici says. “My father can go hang!”

  “His Holiness is said to be coming on, at the head of a great host,” Giuseppe reports. “He means to destroy the Doge, once and for all, by the sound of it.”

  “And cut me out of the deal?” the duke snaps. “Curse him, and damn his soul, for we will join Baglioni.”

  “Just being at the scene will entitle you to a share of the spoils, sire,” Giuseppe says.

  “Well done, my faithful friend,” Alessandro Medici tells his herald. “For this day’s work, I will reward you well. With two armies, and our own troops, we will be able to take Siena on the way, then Verona and Padua will fall. Imagine it, half of Italy in our hands.”

  “Do we return to Florence, and raise our levy, sire?”

  “No, we ride to Malatesta Baglioni’s camp, and make ourselves known.”

  “Baglioni isn’t with them, sire.”

  “No, then Il Moro will take command, until he comes.”

  “Forgive my forwardness, sire, but the name suits you, both in temperament, and power.”

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” The Medici duke seems, suddenly, to accept his ill starred birth, and welcomes recognition of his black bloodline. Let them call him ‘Il Moro’ if they wish. For proud Moorish blood runs in his veins. His mother, a Medici serving girl, called Simonetta da Collevecchio is a tall, ebony skinned woman, still only in her late thirties, who lives quietly in Florence now, with servants of her own. “We ride, men, to Venice, and to glory!”

  There is a ragged cheer as his bodyguard sense the possibility of pillage, with little personal danger, and an exciting few weeks away from the dullness of Florence.

  “We need to be here,” Malatesta Baglioni says, stabbing the point of his dagger at Rome on his wall map. “If Valdo is marching there, we must join him.”

  “Why would he, sir?” one of his captain’s asks. “His orders are to advance towards Venice, and encircle the Doge’s army.”

  “He must have heard that Rimini has fallen,” Baglioni tells him. “He realises that the Venetians might get between him and the Pope’s forces, and is falling back on the city. We cannot be left, stranded in Perugia.”

  “The walls are thick, and we have almost six hundred men, sir,” the same man persists. “We can withstand a six month siege.”

  “To what end?” Baglioni shakes his head, vigorously. “No, we ride to Rome, and I take command of our army. The Venetians cannot stand against me, but I must reach Rome.”

  “We have horses enough for all, sir,” another officer says. “We can take the Via Flaminia, and be there inside two days. If only the enemy do not think to cut the road.”

  “Where would they attempt such a thing?” Baglioni asks. The man pores over the map, then points.

  “There. San Gemini is a fortified hill village, straddling the road,” he explains. “Eve a small force, occupying the place, might stop us.”

  “Then we must reach there first,” Baglioni decides. “Pick fifty of my best men, and send them off now. We will follow on, once we are ready.”

  “What about the camp women, sir?” the first officer asks. “Some of the men have taken town girls, and will want them along.”

  “No.”

  “They will insist,” another officer says, unwisely.

  “Will they, by God?” Malatesta Baglioni’s mouth is like a cruel slash across his face. “Tell the men of my decision. Whichever of them complains first, and will not move without his woman, is to be bound, and made to watch the whore be handed around the rest. Then you will hang her, and ask who else wishes to complain.”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer’s voice is sullen, as he has a woman who he wishes to keep with him, but he goes off to obey his master. The condottieri live by a common vow, and each man is bound by strict rules of etiquette, and loyalty. To betray one’s comrades means the end, for you, and all of your family.

  “Will these dogs never learn?” Baglioni snaps to the remaining officers. “I help bring down Florence, and make them all well off. Then I take Perugia, and they are given land, and any woman they wish to take. Next, I will give them the freedom of Venice. All I ask is that they obey, and fight like demons.”

  “Every man in your army will fight to the death for you, condottiero,” one says, and the others murmur their approval. To be a mercenary in the army of Malatesta Baglioni is to be part of one of the truly elite fighting forces in
the world, and no man would have it otherwise.

  “Then send out the advance party, and let the rest of us prepare,” Baglioni concludes. “For, by tomorrow, I intend being in Rome, or dead, with a sword in my hand!”

  Alessandro Medici does not think it unusual when his small party are not challenged by the camp’s guards, nor is he unduly worried that no-one rushes forward to offer their greetings. It is the heat of the day, and most of the men are in one of the three thousand tents littering the plain. It is only when they gallop into the roughly formed square, at the epicentre of the mercenary army’s camp that he notices the unnatural quiet.

  “Giuseppe, dismount and roust a guard of honour. Don’t these dogs recognise royalty when they see it?”

  The herald stays on his horse. He can see men lying inside some of the nearest tents, and some others are wandering about in the near distance, as if unsure of what to do. Then, a lone man emerges from the nearest tent, holding his hands up, as if in supplication.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Giuseppe cries, wheeling his horse about. “It is the plague … the lenticulae are on his face already. Ride, sire, ride for your life!”

  The bodyguard are already milling about, trying to turn, and gallop away from the horror. The Medici duke gasps in horror, and holds a scarf to his mouth. Then Giuseppe catches his reigns, and leads him away from the carnage of invisible death.

  Gino Valdo has pitched his camp there, because his men are becoming weak with the sweats. By the second day, they are bed bound, or suffering fits and hallucinations. Now, the lentulae are appearing on their skins, and they are moving into the agonising final hours.

  Apart from a few hundred, who desert and flee at the first sign of sickness, the entire army is now affected. By tomorrow, five thousand will be dead, and by the next day, ten or twelve thousand shall have succumbed. After seven days, it will have run its course, and Malatesta Baglioni’s army will be a memory. Two thirds of them will be dead, and the remainder nothing more than shadows of their former selves. The bones of over fourteen thousand men will lie in the hot sun for months, until some brave souls gather them for burial, and steal the silver from their purses.

  Alessandro Medici, Duke of Florence, rides back to his city at full gallop, and shuts himself away in his palazzo. His ever faithful Giuseppe gives orders to close the gates to everyone, and issues instructions for the populace to stay indoors, and ration their food, until further notice. Medic cowers in his bed, made impotent by the thought of plague. The idea that he might be tainted by it will stay with him for days, until he fails to become sick, but the fear will haunt him for the rest of his short, violent life.

  Guido Monticelli’s mount is beginning to blow under him, and he realises the horse will not last another mile. He is in charge of Malatesta Baglioni’s spearhead, and is sworn to reach San Gemini, before the enemy can block their way. Behind him, are fifty of the hardest men in Italy, all determined to gain the walls of the fortified village, and hold them, come what may.

  Monticelli slows to a canter, and is about to dismount, when they reach a small crest, and look down. In the distance, they can see San Gemini. The mercenary leader forgets his ailing horse, and kicks it into a gallop. One last rush, and the village is at their mercy.

  “Fottuta Cristo!” The shocking blasphemy erupts from the man to Monticelli’s left. He curses again, and points at a group of dots, moving across the valley bottom. Their leader understands at once, and urges his men on. He is outpaced by those with sounder mounts, and they race for the village, knowing they must arrive first.

  The enemy, about thirty in number, also spur their horses forward, and a madcap chase ensues, as each side rides for the village’s single, wooden gate. It is standing open, and unguarded in the late midday heat, and beckons both sides on, invitingly. Baglioni’s man screams for his men to hurry, but sees that the Venetian force has a small lead.

  Will Draper is hunched over his saddle, urging his horse on to one last effort. All about him, his men’s mounts are beginning to pant, and stumble. Mush, the slightest amongst them goads his horse into the lead, and then, in the blink of an eye, he is through the gate, and leaping to the ground, sword already in hand.

  As more of the Venetians gain the safety of the inner wall, Mush is already starting to shout out orders. Will Draper dismounts, and looks about for those of his men with muskets. He grabs one, and shouts for the rest to follow. He urges his man up onto the low wall, and tells the others to man the parapet, and prepare to offer shot to the enemy.

  He is convinced that Baglioni’s men will dismount, and spread out, ready to lay siege, but he is wrong. Monticelli’s men ride at the gate, full tilt, with spears couched, as if they will force their way in with sheer bravado. Tom Wyatt’s friend, Antonio Puzzi, and Bartolommeo Rinaldi, are each pushing one side of the gate shut, even as the leading riders arrive, and lunge at the rapidly narrowing entrance.

  Puzzi cannot avoid one of the sudden spear thrusts. He takes the point of one in his left shoulder, but continues to push as if his life depends on it. Other men are running up, and lending their weight to the task. After a frantic few moments, the gates are closed, and a bar slid across. A sword is thrust through the small grating in the gate, as if to try and skewer anyone still by the door. Mush knocks it aside, and thrusts his own blade out. There is a sudden scream, and a volley of curses.

  Will Draper is pulling his musketeers into a rough line, and urges them to take aim. Heavy barrels rest on the fortification’s thick Roman wall, and a dozen men crouch, to look for a near enough target. Then they discharge their muskets in a ragged volley. A great cloud of gunpowder smoke billows up into the air, and the men rash enough to still be pounding at the gate take the full effect.

  They curse, and tumble back, out of range, leaving behind four dead. Will’s men send up a cheer, and begin the laborious task of reloading their muskets. Each stage must be meticulously completed, else the gun might fail to discharge, or even blow up in their faces.

  “Hold fast, lads,” Will Draper says. “They are out of our range now. If they venture near, give fire to them again.” He jumps from the parapet, and seeks out Mush, who is standing with Bartolommeo. “Fine work at the gate, my friend. Is Antonio badly hurt?”

  “The spear went in barely an inch,” the young Venetian replies, “but it has torn his shoulder muscle. He can still hold a sword. What now?”

  “It will take their leader some time to think about his options,” Draper tells them. “Then he will realise how little time he has to take this place. I doubt he has enough men to storm the walls in different places, simultaneously, so he must settle for the gate.”

  “Some of them have muskets, and I saw some arquebusiers amongst them,” Mush says. “Perhaps they might try and shoot us from the walls?”

  “If it were I,” says Will Draper, “Then I’d concentrate all my guns opposite the gate, and keep firing at it, and the walls on each side. Then, whilst we are keeping our heads down, out of sight, they could charge the gate with a battering ram.”

  “Like the Romans?” Bartolommeo rubs his chin. “They will need a very stout tree trunk, and at least fifty men to batter away with. They are too few, Will.”

  “All they need is a cart from the fields,” Will explains. If they fill it with heavy stones, it will be a formidable ram. If the man has enough wits, he might command them to pack it with straw too. Then, soak it in lamp oil, set fire to it, and use horses to draw it close. A few dedicated men at the back, pushing, and the job is done.”

  “Surely, the gate will hold?” Bartolommeo asks.

  “Probably, but it will be weakened, and the flames will take hold and do even more damage. Then, under cover of the attack, by no more than a dozen men, I would have the main force rush to an unguarded part of the outer wall, and scale it with ladders. Once on the wall, we will have the devils own job driving them off.”

  “Then let us hope our adversary is stupid,” Mush says, smiling. “In the mean
time, do we stay together, or man the entire wall?”

  “Signor, whose men are you?” A timid, round bellied man, in his fifties, approaches from one of the nearby tumble of white painted houses.

  “We are the Venetian army,” Mush replies, gesturing to the thirty odd men awaiting orders. “And you, sir?”

  “I am the mayor. We feared you were the condottiero’s men again. Each time they come, they rob us, and take which ever girls they want. How can we help?”

  “How many able men have you?”

  “Within the walls?” the mayor thinks for a moment. “Perhaps sixty, but we are not soldiers, signor.”

  “Call them together, and tell them to bring anything they can use as a weapon. Sharpened staves, or a billhook lashed to a long pole will do. Have them stand at the walls, five paces apart, and look as soldierly as they can.” Will knows such men have little military value, but if they are above the enemy, and alongside a fighting man, they might stand their ground. “Mush, have your men position themselves between each villager, so as to give them strength. Then, will you keep a close eye on our musketeers?”

  “I shall, Will,” Mush replies. “With a hundred men, we can cover almost all of the outer wall.”

  “You must be ready with your musketeers, Mush, to rush to any part where we are hard pressed.”

  “We have about four hours of good light left,” Mush replies. “Do you think they will risk fighting in the dark?”

  “They might,” Will says. In truth, he has no idea how the condottiero’s men with handle themselves. Stumbling about in the dark, carrying a wooden ladder might not be to their taste. Most mercenaries will fight well, but only if they know they have a decent chance of success. “We must hold out until nightfall, then be doubly on our guard. Let the men sleep in shifts, so the wall always looks well manned.”