Tom Swan and the Last Spartans - Part Five

by Christian Cameron

  ‘And Medici knows,’ Colonna said.

  ‘He does now,’ Swan said.

  ‘And …’ Colonna prompted.

  Bembo spoke. ‘Antonelli was foolish enough to arrest the Venetian ambassador,’ he said. ‘We will ensure that Messire Loredan is released. Messire Antonelli is unlikely to survive. Politically. Or, really, in any other way.’

  Colonna sat back, watching the woman and the child. ‘It is my fate to owe you favours, Ser Suane,’ he said. ‘Be careful. Antonelli is looking everywhere for you.’

  Swan nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘He is saying that it is you,’ Colonna added. ‘I feel it is the least I can do to tell you that Antonelli is telling the world that you are the one who has stolen the money from the Medici. You are the one who killed the factor; you are the one who knows where the old Pope’s money is.’

  Swan swallowed. ‘Of course he is,’ Swan admitted.

  ‘And if he catches you, he will have days to persuade you to tell a confessor,’ Colonna said. ‘So how exactly do you plan to topple him? He may convince Medici himself!’

  Swan smiled nastily. ‘Unlikely,’ he said with snide assurance. Then he spread his hands and glanced at Bembo. Bembo’s look said ‘Your play’.

  Swan bowed to the old cardinal. ‘I cannot disclose my little plan without spoiling it,’ he said. ‘But I expect that you will receive an invitation in the next few days to an audience with his Holiness.’ He bowed again. ‘We’ll see how that goes.’

  Colonna nodded. ‘You are a very dangerous young man, Ser Tommaso. This is not always a compliment.’

  Bembo bowed. ‘It’s always interesting to be with him. For my part, Eminence, if anything happens to Loredan, Venice will burn Rome. That’s no threat. Your Pope and your financial agent are threatening to upset the Peace of Lodi.’

  ‘Now you threaten me,’ Colonna said.

  Bembo shook his head. ‘When last we met, I was a bastard adventurer and you, Eminence, were the head of the most powerful faction in Rome. Now I am the scion of the richest house in Venice; I have offices; I know what I say.’

  ‘You think this makes you my peer, eh?’ the cardinal asked.

  Bembo bowed. ‘No, Eminence. We are not peers. In real power, I could buy and sell you.’

  ‘Get out of my house,’ Colonna Uno ordered.

  Out on the river in the small boat with the terrified boy, Swan turned to his friend.

  ‘Was that wise?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Bembo said. ‘It was foolish, but by God, Thomas, they burn me, these Romans, playing on a dung heap and claiming it to be the world.’

  Swan shook his head and watched the far bank.

  ‘Can we at least be nice to the Orsini?’ Swan said. ‘The Colonna used to like us, remember? The Orsini hate us.’

  ‘They hate you and Cesare,’ Bembo said. ‘But I will be mild as a nun.’

  ‘I’ve known nuns,’ Swan said.

  They stole a garden ladder, like boys with illicit lovers, and climbed over the Orsini palace wall. There were dogs, but Swan found a servant, probably up to no good, and they were taken into the hall. The Orsini guards were none too fond of them, and the result could have been ugly had not Orsini Primo appeared at the head of his magnificent stairs.

  ‘Saint George and Saint Michael,’ Orsini said. ‘All of Rome is looking for you two and I have you under my roof. What were you doing? Seducing my dogs?’

  Swan reached into his doublet and produced a letter. ‘I have a letter from Caterina,’ he said. ‘From Mytilene.’

  Orsini snatched the letter, summoned a torch, and read.

  ‘Joseph and Mary,’ he snarled. ‘You saved my sister?’ he said, as if complaining to the heavens. ‘What’s wrong with the world, Ser Tommaso? I hate you. You hate me. This is as the world should be.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘I found your sister a most gracious ally and a fine sword,’ he said.

  Orsini smiled. ‘Wine for my guests. Christ crucified, is that Di Bracchio, the notorious sodomite?’

  ‘I thought you said he liked you?’ Swan asked. ‘May I introduce Bembo Primo, of the Golden House of Venice?’ he added sweetly.

  ‘Oh, the fucking floor is falling out of the world,’ Orsini said. ‘So now I suppose you two cretins are going to save me from the Pope, who has just suspended my commission as Gonfaloniere and ordered an audit of my accounts?’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Illustrio,’ he added.

  The whole of the next day passed without apparent event. Gangs of Spaniards roamed the streets; people were killed. Out by the old aqueduct, a pair of Spaniards were trapped, no one knew who by, and murdered.

  Swan and Bembo ate bread and sausage and drank cheap wine. They discussed war, and war at sea; they debated the concept of free will at length, quoting Plato and Augustine back and forth like the pedants they were; they talked about Sophia and about Bembo’s wife.

  It was, all in all, a very pleasant day.

  Towards evening, Swan went out into the darkening air and the stink and checked his three signal posts. He had just noticed the chalk mark on the first one when he saw Kendal; the Englishman gave no sign of recognition, but Swan was confident in his man and turned and walked.

  Kendal followed him. Unbeknownst to the younger Englishman, Bembo was behind him, covering Swan. But if they had other shadows, they didn’t see them, and the three men passed into the Malatesta fortress together.

  ‘I saw ’em both,’ Kendal said. ‘Sforza was no friend, but he said he’d do what could be done. The so-called First Citizen …’ Kendal whistled. ‘Saint George, Swan, he’s something. Any road, he cursed a bit, as you would, and then he asked what you intended.’

  Swan smiled.

  ‘So I told him you have a plan. And he laughed, and said that he thought men like you always had a plan until the halter went around your necks.’

  Swan stopped smiling.

  ‘He said that he would take action against Messire Antonelli. He said that he has evidence of his own.’ Kendal shrugged. ‘That’s all, except that Clemente passed me this for you.’

  ‘This’ proved to be a list of comings and goings from the Picclomini palace.

  Swan looked at it with satisfaction.

  So did Bembo. ‘Now we can double-check on our friend Cesare. I trust him like a brother, but this is a difficult business.’

  Swan nodded. ‘William, I need you to go back to Bessarion. Send Clemente next time; I have a mission for him, and you are too well known.’ He then embarrassed his squire by embracing him. ‘Well done, William.’

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ Kendal said. ‘Giannis is worried,’ he went on. ‘Spaniards are everywhere.’

  ‘Any word from our other friends?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t I have told you first?’ Kendal said.

  ‘Next thing. I need you to find where the papal chamberlain lives.’

  ‘Jacob?’ Kendal asked. ‘That old tub o’ lard?’

  ‘Just so, William.’

  ‘Consider it done. Anything else?’ Kendal asked.

  ‘Send us Clemente,’ Swan said.

  Kendal slipped out into the stinking dark after a cup of wine, as if he was any house guest come for an evening.

  Bembo shook his head. ‘If Loredan weren’t in danger,’ he said, ‘I’d be enjoying this.’

  ‘I thought you hated Loredan,’ Swan said.

  Bembo shrugged. ‘Things change.’

  ‘I know,’ Swan admitted.

  ‘I know this is your finest hour,’ Bembo said. ‘But will you take advice?’

  ‘From you, the master spy?’ Swan said. ‘Tell me anything.’

  ‘Don’t try to bring down the Pope,’ Bembo said. ‘Antonelli, yes. Leave Callixtus some plausible deniability and walk away.’

  Swan sat back. They had agreed, after much walking around, that one candle in the old notary’s room could not be seen from outside. It was just enough light to read a friend’s facial expression. ‘Wh
y?’ he asked. ‘Antonelli is a tool. Calixtus is the one killing people, stealing money, and betraying …’

  Bembo held up his hand. ‘Primo,’ he said, ‘because if you bring down the Pope, everyone will be terrified of you; even allies. Medici will fear you. And me. No one will hide us. Please, let’s get Loredan and go home and make babies.’ Bembo smiled. ‘You make babies. I’ll take the one, and bless God we managed it.’ He ticked another finger. ‘Secondo; because then we’ll have a papal election with a great deal of scandal, and all of it will be for nothing. The next Pope is almost certain to be Picclomini.’

  Swan sighed. ‘I admit, I was hesitant to pull down the Pope.’

  ‘I know you,’ Bembo said. ‘You were tempted, just to see if you could. And to see what would happen.’

  ‘Yes,’ Swan said.

  ‘Good. Just this once …’ Bembo shrugged.

  The next morning, Clemente arrived with the dawn. Swan saw him make a casual chalk mark across the street and wander off down a lane, and he was at the wicket gate in time to open it.

  Clemente all but glowed with something – self-importance, victory, grace. Swan felt like tormenting the boy, just because of his clear desire to speak of his triumph.

  Clemente had a basket of warm food, fresh from Antoine; rolls, butter, honey, a clay pot of warm hippocras, a big slice of ham, a pair of Cypriot oranges. The two men, famished, dug in, demolishing the basket with the fervor Christians were supposed to reserve for fighting the infidel.

  ‘Very well,’ Swan said, his mouth full of a perfect combination of bread and butter and honey. ‘Tell us your news.’

  Clemente shrugged. ‘Illustrio, I have two pieces of news.’ The boy’s eyes positively sparkled. ‘First, the Princess Caterina Zaccaria and her entourage have entered the city. They have made quite a stir; indeed, Giannis heard that they have demanded an audience with the Pope. And Antonelli.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ Swan said.

  Bembo smiled and lines of tension eased in his neck. ‘Well, well,’ he said.

  Swan rubbed his hands together like a stage villain. ‘This is superb, Clemente. What is the other news?’

  ‘Oh, it is a very small piece of news, nothing important …’ Clemente was actually bouncing up and down.

  ‘Out with it,’ Bembo snapped. ‘The Pope has died?? Antonelli is arrested?’

  Clemente bowed. ‘Nothing so profound, gentles. Only, yesterday, I bought a nice ham in the market …’

  Swan rolled his eyes. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was with Antoine. You left me, messires, after a promise that I would be employed. In this business.’ The boy shrugged.

  Swan had a flash … a moment wherein it seemed possible that the boy had betrayed them, just through boredom.

  Clemente’s smile put paid to any such possibility. It was radiant; St Francis of Assisi might never have smiled such a smile.

  Swan sat with his cup of hippocras and allowed himself to indulge the boy. ‘Yes. Events overtook us. I miscalculated in a matter … I could not come back for you.’

  Clemente nodded. ‘So I ended up as a sort of supernumerary at the house, if you take my meaning. And after catching up on some much-needed sleep, I found time to help Antoine, and he needs help at the market with all the Spaniards about …’

  ‘Good God,’ Bembo groaned. ‘Get on with it, you are killing me.’

  ‘I, Illustrio? I merely relate my little tale. I bought a ham at Antoine’s direction; a huge, greasy thing, but I was wearing an apron. I hoisted the thing on my shoulder, and then, there was Siscotti, the Pope’s chef. You know him?’

  Swan shook his head.

  ‘Of course not; fine gentlemen rarely know a cook. Siscotti told me to take the ham directly to his kitchen, and a man-at-arms stepped in behind me. Believe me, gentles, these little misunderstandings happen all the time; servants come and go from various masters.’ Clemente was glowing; he might have been said to emit light.

  ‘The Pope’s cook mistook you for his boy,’ Bembo said.

  ‘Under half a pig, yes,’ Clemente said.

  ‘And Antoine?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Played perfectly, engaging the other cook in conversation. I was marched back to the Castel Sant’Angelo, carrying a huge ham.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Bembo said.

  ‘I walked in under the iron portcullis, and all the way to the kitchens, where my man-at-arms wandered off immediately to kiss a girl. So I picked up a pail of slops from a jake; I stank, covered in pork fat, eh? And I walked …’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Bembo was laughing.

  Swan was shaking his head.

  ‘I walked past the living areas and down the central steps; the ones that go to the prison, brushing past guards with my pail of shit. No one questioned me, and indeed, Illustrio, I have heard you say many times that these things must either be played like music or planned like a siege. I walked down into the prison, found the jakes, dumped my bucket, and then exchanged a few words with the illustrious Lord Loredan.’

  Bembo was unable to speak, but he leaped to his feet and embraced the surprised young man.

  ‘Clemente, you are a great man, and when you are the master of Bessarion’s special service, I hope that you will remember me in my dotage.’ He pounded the man on the back. Clemente just beamed.

  ‘How was Master Loredan?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Bad. But immensely cheered. If I may be bold, my lords, I would venture that I put life into him. He has been beaten; several times. But not tortured, not by professionals.’

  ‘He was not specially guarded?’ Swan asked.

  Clemente shrugged. ‘I was terrified; I stayed perhaps one minute. His cell door is low, and hidden by a turn in the corridor; the nearest guard was perhaps two turns away.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Did he know we were here?’ Swan asked. He stood up. ‘A great deal depends on this answer.’

  Clemente thought for a moment. ‘No. I swear, he cannot have known you were here, because he grabbed at me as a drowning man would clutch a spar. Even through his door. He said he had given up hope. He said terrible things …’ Clemente frowned. ‘He is in a bad way.’

  Swan looked at Bembo. ‘So. Lucrezia looks even worse.’

  Bembo narrowed his eyes. ‘And yet she did not have you killed. I wish you to consider her life; and let me suggest that in every case, she must play everyone against everyone else; compromise, adjust.’

  Swan considered. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That is exactly right. She is playing both sides.’

  ‘If Loredan died, it is nothing to her,’ Bembo continued. ‘You, she likes. But now she knows; indeed, she had to know from the moment you walked into a certain house.’

  Swan shook his head, feeling foolish. Then he took a writing case out of the table, spread a scrap of vellum, and began to write in his clerkly hand.

  ‘Clemente, the only reward for work is more work,’ he said. ‘This needs to go to David Ben Abraham. I owe him that much.’

  Bembo curled his lip. ‘Bah. Jews.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Our Lady was a Jew, or so I hear. Indeed, Jesus was called Rabbi. Reading Greek reveals a host of truths. Listen, Alessandro; you know a host of men who love other men; I know a host of Jews.’

  ‘By such people is the order of the universe preserved,’ Bembo said, snarling his quote of St Augustine.

  When Clemente was gone, Bembo looked at him. ‘Too many people know where we are,’ he said.

  Swan shrugged. ‘I have become fatalistic. Inshallah.’

  Bembo shook his head. ‘What did you tell Ben Abraham?’

  Swan looked out of the little window. ‘I said, “Antonelli falls tomorrow. Save yourselves.” The Jews are heavily invested in the Pope’s scheme.’

  ‘Your heart is far too soft. They risk money; let them get their fingers burned.’ Bembo sounded angry. Swan thought it was the anger of a man cooped up too long.

  ‘I agree. We should move,’ Swan said. He was watching a Spaniard walking back and fort
h in front of the Malatesta gate.

  ‘They will have followed Clemente,’ Bembo said, picking up his sword.

  Swan swore. ‘Right you are.’ He threw the rest of the vellum, the pens and the candle into the jakes, in case they could betray something. Then the two men went out of the notary’s space, and into the hall; there, behind the throne of the wolf, was the truly secret door, which Bembo had access to.

  He kicked the throne, and it moved with a soft, well-oiled click.

  ‘Malatesta has a sense of humour,’ Swan said.

  ‘Alberti designed all this,’ Bembo told him.

  ‘There’s a man who hates me,’ Swan said.

  ‘Be lucky he’s not in on this,’ Bembo pointed out. ‘He’s far away, designing a cathedral. If Antonelli had Alberti working for him, we would be in even more trouble.’ The two men descended into the earth, down a set of gleaming white marble steps that were the antithesis of anything ‘secret’. Bembo went back and pulled the throne along its slide, until it clicked home and the trap was shut. It was black as pitch, and the two men had to move very slowly.

  Behind them came two voices speaking rapidly in Spanish, and the sound of a hammer blow on a big door; resonance made the sound appear close.

  Swan was feeling for the catch on the inner door of the tunnel. Neither he nor Bembo could find it; hurry and darkness encouraged panic.

  A third loud voice demanded silence.

  ‘This is the lair of the wolf,’ Forteguerri’s voice said. It carried as if the man were right there with him. ‘Our enemies are in league with the heretic.’

  Swan’s hand found the catch. He picked at it, very carefully, and it came loose; the door under his shoulder pressed open without a sound.

  There was a corridor that ran right under the floorboards of the hall. Swan and Bembo walked carefully along it, mindful that at least three enemies were directly over their heads.

  ‘I smell a candle,’ a Spaniard said in bad Italian.

  ‘Dannazione,’ Forteguerri said. ‘Malatesta will have this fucking place riddled with warrens. Take the hunchback boy. Start cutting pieces off him until he talks.’

  ‘Make the whore talk!’ spat a Spaniard. ‘More fun that way.’

  Forteguerri stamped a foot. ‘The woman you call “the whore” has as much power in Rome as the Pope,’ he said.