by Nancy Holder
“I think he would call himself a freebooter. His was the first Venetian foot on the deck of The Protector. According to our laws, he therefore lays claim to salvage rights.”
“Which he claimed on open sea with the rightful owners in their beds.”
Machiavelli made a theatrical display of pondering MacLeod’s statement. “Top marks, my young student. At least, it sounds plausible.”
A frisson of caution crept up MacLeod’s spine. Was Machiavelli toying with him, telling him in so many words that he did know he’d been on the Protector? He must tread carefully. He couldn’t afford to jeopardize Ali’s rescue. “The Doge denied the safe-passage letter.”
“As well as all knowledge of the envoy,” Machiavelli added. “His predecessor agreed to the peace talks, not he.”
“A misstep. Now their countrymen will be angry.”
Machiavelli scratched his cheek. “Burlingame’s an aristocrat with gambling debts and a pregnant Spanish mistress. The Turk is only a merchant. No one will miss him.”
MacLeod moved his pawn to king’s bishop four. “On the contrary. I’ve heard he’s a respected general.”
For an instant, Machiavelli looked startled. Then his easy expression returned. “Of course. That’s common knowledge. How did you know?” He captured the pawn.
MacLeod shrugged. Had it been known that Ali was a person of rank and importance, someone better ransomed than executed? When the Ottomans heard that he’d been killed, they might be moved to war.
Which could be exactly what Machiavelli wanted.
Distracted, MacLeod moved another pawn, a stupid, useless action.
Machiavelli deftly captured the pawn. “You’d never deny a safe passage, would you. Not even to a man who had murdered your best friend.” MacLeod said nothing and studied the board.
Machiavelli laughed. “You’re as constant as the sun, MacLeod. In language, you’d be a noun. A thing that is what it is. Unchanging. That is why you’ll never beat me at chess. Or any other Game,” he added significantly.
They each moved swiftly, aggressively, the Ruy López opening abandoned.
MacLeod was losing. He said, “You just said people never change.”
Machiavelli looked mildly insulted. “The mind of the mob changes with the times. What is heresy one day is science the next.”
“Principles don’t change. I have you in check, signor.”
Machiavelli unfolded his arms and waved his hands dismissively. “Perhaps you aren’t ruler material after all. A prince must be like a weather vane. But of course he should never appear to be one.” He scrutinized the board and announced, “Duncan, you fool. You’re in check yourself.”
“A prince should be a compass.” MacLeod saw that the game was lost and dawdled over his last move as he mentally sketched various routes from the traghetti to the New Prisons. If he asked Machiavelli any more questions about the prisoners, the Immonal would be alerted.
“Now, this matter of the Calegri.”
Aye, of that matter. He could be away from the islands and on his way to the prison if he agreed. Once again, he wondered if Machiavelli knew more than he had let on. Was his intelligence about Ali’s possible execution his baited hook? There was no way to know. MacLeod made a show of considering and nodded in defeat. “All right.”
“Good.” Machiavelli said. “You’ll need new clothes, of course. We must dazzle them.”
Machiavelli had MacLeod outfitted in cloth of gold, scarlet, and black, clothes splendid enough for a banquet at the Calegri palazzo, which was more appropriately called a canaluzzo, since it hung over one of Venice’s waterways. He pressed money into his hand—the coin of a murderer—and described to him exactly what Giovanni Calegri looked like.
The gondola was waiting; MacLeod left as if in state, like a titled knight, except that he traveled alone. The fewer who knew of a crime like murder, the better.
Except, of course, that he had no intention of murdering anyone. He had no intention of going to the Calegri at all. He must watch his back; he must watch all quarters. He must do all he could to take advantage of this shaky opportunity to rescue Ali.
But now, by God’s bones, he was lost.
MacLeod reined in the sleek white mare he had hired near the traghetti, or gondola docks, and raised himself high in the saddle for a better view. At the entrance to yet another calle, a constricted, dank alley, he studied the maze of side streets, passages, and the camel-humped bridges that had no railings to keep one from sliding into the canals. Sagging balconies jutted from hovels, while the next two or three buildings over glittered with jeweled Byzantine shutters. Tattered laundry dried on lines secured to the edge of a neighboring wall sheeted in real gold. A messy confusion, fascinating in its way, but too alien and ornate for a man who was Highland-born and -bred.
With a grunt, he shook his head and wished himself someplace where this fine young skitterhooves could gallop at full tilt with no thought in her wee brain but going faster. The Nefud Desert was a place like that. So were the Highlands, of course. All of a green magic, with the mist rising off the heather, and you could run for a year and not have to stop.
But Venice was a floating, tight maze, the vendettas and the intrigues as labyrinthian and twisted as the city. On his way to the hiring yard, two gangs of youths in the colors of their houses had descended upon one another, screaming vengeance and blood. One young boy’s stomach was ripped open, and MacLeod had stared down the swaggering bully who threatened to stop him with his foil from saving the lad’s life. Giuliano, the young one’s name had been, Zulian in Venetian dialect. Stomping humiliated from the scene, the nameless bully had promised retribution while MacLeod stanched the torrent of blood and ordered the boy not to die.
Zulian’s mother had thrown herself down beside him, screaming and wailing. Assured by the condition of his wounds that the lad would live, MacLeod had refused her money but had accepted her offer to pray for his soul and to kiss his forehead as a blessing. He was eager to be away. Already he had drawn too much attention to himself.
“One day, I shall repay you, life for life,” she vowed, nigh toothless though she could not be very old. Her breasts hung to her knees, the result, he surmised, of nursing many children, most of whom had probably died in infancy. Or in skirmishes such as this.
“Mother, do nae speak like that,” he told her, remembering the last man to make such a promise to him, back on The Protector. “Only God can trade lives.”
God, and Immortals.
“Damn it all.” He swore now, frustrated, chilly and wet from the weather and the high canal water that pooled in the mud, and, aye, lost. How the devil could such a grand pile as the Doge’s palace hide itself like this?
From a distance wafted a hint of smoke. The smell was not uncommon in Venice, for the homes of the poor were so tiny they did most of their cooking and dining out of doors.
His horse nickered. Absently he patted it as he clicked his heels easily against its sides. It took a few steps forward, then whinnied and violently reared.
Though surprised, MacLeod held on. The smell of smoke was stronger; curious, he urged the horse in its direction.
Then he heard the screams. The stink of burning flesh hit his nostrils. He broke into a gallop.
By the coat of arms over the entrance, it was the Calegri palazzo. Flames erupted from six stories of arched windows. Stained glass exploded and cascaded to the ground like razor-sharp raindrops. From the capitals of the ground-floor arcade and the pilasters and facades, statuary—lovely nymphs, saints, the lion of St. Mark—plummeted to the ground, ancient and astonishing suicides.
Leaping off his horse, MacLeod tied the horse to the handle of a wellhead and ran toward a forming bucket brigade. There were perhaps a dozen men and women armed with but three buckets, one end stationed at the well where his horse panicked and reared; one in the middle; and the third so far from the building that the water it contained, when thrown, didn’t even touch it.
“Auito! Ah! God bless you.” A chubby, pockmarked priest slung a full bucket into MacLeod’s arms. They couldn’t hope to stop the blaze, even though more people came running to help.
But they could save the lives of those trapped inside.
“No, my son!” the priest protested, as MacLeod hefted the bucket over his head and doused himself. He threw the bucket down and wrapped himself like one of the primitive Highland dead in his sopping cloak. Bobbing his head at the priest, who made the sign of the cross over him, he covered his mouth and nose with the edge of the cloak.
“Follow me, Father!” he shouted. “What we’re doing here is useless.” The priest hesitated. “Come, if you truly are shepherd to your flock!”
They raced toward the palazzo. The priest kept pace as MacLeod dashed up the sizzling grand staircase made of stone. The front of the palazzo, ribboned with stained glass, shimmered and blazed like the very gates of Hell.
The heat was unbelievable. Blisters rose on MacLeod’s face and hands before he was halfway to the wooden doors. The planks cracked and collapsed inward, leaving a gaping maw that belched smoke and rippling tongues of fire.
The other man fell back, crying, “No! Stop! It’s no use!”
MacLeod leaped over the burning debris and balanced on a tiny portion of mosaic floor. Flames shot all around him. His cloak caught fire and he stamped on it, then unhooked it and dropped it to the ground. In a matter of seconds, it was ash.
The screams were terrible, but he saw at once that it truly was too late; he could see nothing but fire in all directions. For a moment he hesitated, hoping for a break in the inferno. The ceiling above bowed ominously. There was nothing he could do, save be burned to death for the sake of heroism.
He could not die publicly here. He still had to save Ali.
Fool, he cursed himself, for allowing this distraction. Had it been engineered by Machiavelli? He had no idea. He only knew he should be at the prison by now.
Then, despite the danger, he froze. In this room. Yes, somewhere near. To the left.
An Immortal.
His body prickled, all senses on alert. All he saw were row upon row of fiery eruptions, shooting up like fountains. All he smelled was fire and death. All he heard was dying.
He waited, scanning. His eyes watered. The other was nearing. Close now, very close.
He heard a whoosh, looked up.
A black-cloaked figure on a rope swooped down on him, blade extended. Easily, MacLeod ducked, then sprang with his scimitar extended in an attempt to inflict some damage. The tip of the scimitar caught the hem of the cloak; he pulled hard. The hood yanked back and slipped off the head. The figure was masked; MacLeod pulled harder.
If all he had seen was the hatred in the eyes, he would have known it to be Ruffio.
More flames roared between them, shielding them from each other. MacLeod realized the futility of a battle here, now, but his blood was pumping and his warrior’s instincts engaged. He waited on the chance that Ruffio found a way to come to him, panting, readying to spring. When he didn’t show, MacLeod turned and crashed back through the entrance.
He didn’t realize that his clothes were on fire until the onlookers shouted and pointed at him. His doublet and sleeves were like an armor of flame; as soon as he realized the extent of the damage, the pain began to attack him.
He collapsed at the top of the stone steps. Over and over he tumbled, a wheel of fire, until he landed in a heap.
Instantly water spilled over him. Steam sizzled. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He knew what it was to die from burns such as these. It would be a hard going, and a hard coming back.
“Signor, have courage.” It was a woman’s voice. A shape knelt over him. More water poured down on him, the pressure ripping at his wounds. He groaned. The woman said, very far away, “Gather him up.”
I canna die in a public place, he struggled to say. Nothing came out.
“Hush.”
He was lifted by hands he couldn’t see. The pain of being moved was excruciating. Unwilling or unable to cry out, he clenched his teeth, which began to chatter. He was going into shock; he was going to die. Again.
Memories of a life ebbing, or dreams that sustain life:
The Highland battle raged from dawn to dawn. In the meadow, Jain, Duncan’s great father and clan leader, fearlessly charged the bastards and they came screaming with their weapons raised. Dying and dealing death would be glorious today.
“Dhonnchaidh?” shouted the MacLeoid, his sword piercing the sun. What a giant! What a father! Rain showered down on the great head, the blue war tartan wrapped around his large body, “Dhonnchaidh, do you come?”
Duncan’s heart soared and he made a fist as he raced after him. “Aye, I’m coming! ’Tis Dhonnchaidh indeed, your son!”
“MacLeoid forever!” his father bellowed, brilliant with joy and vitality. “Dhonnchaidh, my son! My only child! My son!”
“Hurry.” It was a voice accustomed to command. Then, more gently, barely a whisper, “It’s all right. I know what you are. I’ll take you to Machiavelli.”
Machiavelli. No. Not a good refuge, not a good harbor.
No.
He slid away again and floated back to the sweet Highlands.
Och, there she was! On the cliff, her bonnie red hair streaming free, her face turned to him. Calling for him.
Debra had been the first love of his first life, the only love of it, and the one he could not have. She was betrothed to Robert, his kinsman, and not for such as he. Then not for anyone, she’d proclaimed, not for this life. His honor be damned; she had begged, Run away, come away with me.
He could not, for the sake of honor. And then, almost as if God had willed it, she had fallen to her death, saving them both from disgrace.
My heart, my life, ‘tis so lonely I have been. ‘Tis a loneliness ye canna ken, for an angel would never know such Hell. If it’s only death now that keeps ye from me, death and no my honor, which is stronger than death, then I come willingly, aye, I run to my end. Eternity without ye is unbearable. My heart canna stand it any longer; nor my soul.
Bonnie angel of death, my bonnie Debra. In life, lost to me. In death, can ye be my wife at last?
If so, to dying…
“Signor?”
MacLeod bolted upright. He blinked and looked around. He had been laid in a gondola. Beneath stars and falling ash, a woman bent over him with a cool cloth between her fingers. She was exquisite, a delicate beauty with enormous amber eyes and tendrils of reddish blond hair—“Italian blond”—that spilled from beneath a simple black hood. Her cheeks were high and flushed; she smiled triumphantly, and whispered, with an eye on the gondolier, “Ah, you’re awake.”
Not simply awake. Back from the dead. For a confused moment he was filled with a longing so deep and powerful he thought he might weep. What had he dreamed? He didn’t remember.
A woman’s silk cloak was pooled in his lap. He looked down and saw that beneath it he was naked. He pulled the cloak around himself not so much for the sake of modesty but to hide his healed condition from the woman, who was mortal.
“Don’t concern yourself,” she whispered, daubing his forehead with the cloth. “I know.”
He was alarmed. She was not Immortal. She had no business knowing what he was.
“I am Maria Angelina.” She reached to her side and handed him a small flask. He pulled off the jeweled cap and drank. It was a spirit, cool and sweet.
“Duncan MacLeod,” he began in an undervoice, realizing she already knew far more about him than he did of her. All he had was her Christian name. She had his deepest secret. “Did anyone else survive?” He thought of Ruffio.
She took the flask from him and sipped. It was an intimate act, her drinking after him. Her breasts were full and ripe, her throat long and white as she swallowed. The ghost of longing lingered, and beneath the cloak he stirred.
She murmured, “I don’t know. But the family itself is wiped out.
Lord, lady, sons, nephews. Even the females.”
“A tragedy,” he replied, thinking that if he ever died, his own line—whatever line that was—would end as well.
She paused. “Some would say that.”
He took the flask from her and drank. Their fingers brushed against one another and she took a short breath as though startled. His desire grew. He swallowed deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unmannerly perhaps, but he was having trouble thinking of manners and the other niceties of civilized men. “And others would say?”
“That they had it coming. At any rate, now they are cradled by the Blessed Mother.”
She tilted her head. In the moonlight, she bore a resemblance to the statue of the Virgin Mary in the Veronese church where MacLeod had once courted a shy milliner’s assistant. She glowed like marble; she was luminescent. She was beautiful.
As the gondola plied the water and the moon traveled with it, she seemed to change, becoming many women, all desirable. After a time he could no longer tell if he was staring at a changeling or a human lass. Mesmerized, he wondered if he was delirious, or if she had drugged the flask.
He cleared his throat. “How do you know the likes of us?”
“I live on the islands,” she answered simply. “One of the littler islands of Murano. I have a villa. I live there alone.” She touched his forehead. “No matter how often I see the transformation, I am awed.”
“Transformation,” he repeated.
“From death to life. I was horrified the first time. I thought Machiavelli was a witch. I was going to report him to the Inquisition.” She dimpled. “I’m afraid I left him no choice but to reveal his secret.” Then she grew serious, and MacLeod fell into her dark eyes. “Except that he could have killed me to keep me silent. He did not.”
She was one of Machiavelli’s chess pieces, then. He was disappointed.
She studied him. “You must be tired.”
“Perhaps a wee bit. Life here has proved very strenuous.”
“Life anywhere for those like you is strenuous,” she rejoined.