by Glenn Cooper
“Again, I ask why?” Himmler said. “He has iron mines, we have iron mines. They are not so rare throughout Europa.”
“I too asked this question,” Frederick said. “Listen to the reason.”
“The reason is this,” the duke said. “Henry has a new arrival to his kingdom, a man who has some knowledge of weapons and metal works. He has advised the king that he can make superior cannon with Swedish iron, as it is stronger. Furthermore, he has designed a new large cannon that is said to make a singing noise when fired.”
“Singing?” Himmler asked.
“Yes, singing. The ball is said to sing as it makes its way vast distances to its target. My spy was at a tavern in Gothenburg and heard Henry’s sailors speak of it. This weapon was decisive in the victory at sea over the Iberians.”
Himmler banged his desk in fury. “We are at a great disadvantage not having an ambassador at Henry’s court. Rainald handled the matter clumsily. He was not cunning enough in his diplomacy. We should have known of this new man and procured him for ourselves.”
Frederick fixed Emily with his watery eyes. “What manner of cannon sings?”
“You’re asking me?” she said.
“Such impertinence,” the duke yelped, sniffing the air at Emily’s scent.
“It is her way,” Himmler sighed. “She is like a wild horse in need of breaking, and believe me, I will break her.”
Emily folded her arms truculently and mumbled that they’d see about that then added, “I don’t know a damn thing about cannon, singing ones, dancing ones, any ones.”
“In any event, there is more news. Worse news,” the duke said, ignoring her. “As soon as Henry has made more of these new cannon his intention is to sail his fleet to the lowlands, march to Paris, his army augmented by several thousand newly conscripted Norse soldiers, and engage Maximilien. Should his singing cannon win him the day, he will add French troops to his numbers and surely march on us.”
Himmler forewent protocol and sat back down behind his desk, his cheeks blanched.
“Well,” Frederick demanded, “what can we do?”
Himmler gazed at the ceiling, as if looking for answers. “Our army is powerful, the best in Europa, but if Henry is able to defeat the French and combine forces, we are in jeopardy.”
“Is there nothing this woman can do to advance our defenses?” the king asked.
While Emily shook her head emphatically, Himmler replied that in time, perhaps, but not immediately. “We will have to seek a hasty and strategic alliance. We have little choice.”
“With whom?” the duke asked. “The French or the Italians will never make allegiance with us. There is too much bad blood. ”
“Nor the Iberians,” Frederick said. “They will be too lately weakened by their defeat at sea.”
Himmler found his answer on the ceiling. “It will have to be the Russians.”
“You suggest we dance with the bear?” the duke said. “Do you wish us to be mauled?”
“I don’t believe we have a better choice,” Himmler said. “It is a dangerous ploy, and we will have to take every precaution, but this is my recommendation as chancellor.”
The king surveyed the room and seeing and hearing no objection said, “Very well. Send your steam machines to Moscow with an armed troop to guard my emissary against rovers and the like. Have him carry a coded message for our ambassador. Tell him to quickly conclude a treaty with that loathsome man.”
Emily’s curiosity got the better of her and she had to ask, “Which man is that?”
The corners of Himmler’s mouth curled unpleasantly when he answered. “Joseph Stalin, of course.”
23
John disguised himself in his smelly cloak and set about to reconnoiter Borgia’s palace with Luca, Antonio, and Simon. The piazza outside the palace was crowded with market stalls filled with men trying to earn a few coins selling foodstuffs and odds and ends to the king’s courtiers.
Simon, who was always hungry, bought a few rolls and distributed them to his comrades to munch upon as they walked the perimeter.
“We should talk among ourselves so we do not look so suspicious,” Luca said.
“About what?” Antonio said.
“I don’t have any ideas,” Simon said. “We’ve done nothing but speak to each other for two weeks.”
John took the bull by the horns and said, “I haven’t seen any women around Giuseppe’s house. Doesn’t he have a lady in his life?”
Simon thought about it. “Aside from the likes of an old housekeeper or a seamstress I’ve never seen one about. At least not a lady to grace one’s bedchamber.”
“Nor I,” Luca said.
Antonio chimed in, “He told me once that he is too old to worry about women. He prefers his dogs. They demand less and offer an old man more.”
“How about you, Antonio?” John asked. “You seem like a ladies’ man.”
“I am a fighting man, not a lady’s man, signore. I live on the road. I take a whore from time to time but I have neither the time nor the money to support a woman. Maybe if our master achieves his goals then my life will change.”
“And I know who he would have then,” Luca said playfully.
“Who?” Antonio challenged.
“Borgia’s queen, that’s who. Caterina Sforza. I have seen him step on his tongue when her coach passes by.”
“Well, she is a beauty,” Antonio said.
“Dream on,” Simon said. “Tell me, John, what’s your Emily like?”
“She’s smarter than I am by a mile, she’s beautiful, funny, strong, mentally and physically. She’s an amazing woman. I hope you get a chance to meet her.”
Simon patted John’s shoulder. “She sounds wonderful.”
“Put it this way,” John said, “I’d follow her to Hell.”
Borgia’s palace appeared to be extremely well defended. The walls were high and John could see by peering through the main gate that they were also thick. Guards patrolled the battlements with muskets and the inner and outer iron portculli looked like they could be dropped in seconds to seal the main gate. His assessment was that it would take heavy and sustained cannon fire to breach the walls and a substantial well-armed invasion force to make entry and secure a victory.
Retreating to Garibaldi’s palazzo the men regrouped and dined with the duke.
“So you are not optimistic,” Garibaldi said.
“I can’t see a brute force approach easily succeeding,” John said. “You could set up conventional cannon at close range, assuming you could move them into position without engaging the enemy, and with enough time, I suppose you could punch through but your chances of taking the castle are speculative.”
“What about your singing cannon?” Simon asked.
“Yeah, we could build you some, providing you’ve got a good forge and good iron, but they wouldn’t offer a particular advantage. They increase range and accuracy but there’s no long-range line of sight to the castle, no high ground. You might be able to lob some rounds in from a distance but it’s going to be a hit and miss proposition.”
Garibaldi speared a piece of fruit. “We need to cut off the head of the snake. We need Borgia. His nobles and his army will accede to my command once he is neutralized. I know it.”
John drank some ale. His head was still hurting from the previous night’s brandy, and absent modern pain relievers the best he could do was administer the hair of the dog. “If you’re confident about that, Giuseppe, then why not try a targeted assassination, like the gambit that was tried on you last night?”
“He’s too well protected. His most trusted advisors and nobles are never truly alone with him. There’s always a ring of steel surrounding his person. He won’t even bed a woman without guards at hand in his boudoir. He won’t eat a morsel without a taster. He’s lasted as long as he has by being more than prudent. He trusts no one. Perhaps Machiavelli was closest to him but he is no more and with him missing he will be even more on guard
.”
John suddenly smiled at the audacity of the idea that had sprung full-blown into his aching head. “Why don’t we use a Trojan horse?”
Garibaldi shook his head and scoffed, “I rather doubt he’d be foolish enough to wheel a large wooden horse into his palace. He is too well schooled in the lessons of antiquity.”
“I’m not suggesting a wooden horse. I’m suggesting me.”
The forge, located at the end of a small lane in the northern reaches of Milan, backed up against a field of tall grasses. John waited outside while Antonio had a discussion with the blacksmith. Luca and Simon stayed behind with Garibaldi at his palazzo to work on other logistics. Antonio emerged from the forge and ushered John in when the business with the smith was settled.
“Franco is a friend,” Antonio said, clasping the short, powerful man on his bare shoulders. “He will help us.”
The smith hesitated when John extended his hand but with Antonio’s gentle prodding, he took it in friendship and amazement.
“It’s hard to believe,” he said in Italian.
“Show him what you need,” Antonio urged John.
Garibaldi had given John one of his precious sheets of paper and a charcoal pencil and he had made some sketches to demonstrate his design.
The three men drew closer to the furnace for light. It was far smaller than William’s cannon furnace, but it would do. The ironworkers, a group of a dozen or so shirtless men, sampled the air as John passed them by and at least pretended to mind their own business.
With Antonio translating, John showed Franco his drawings. The smith seemed to grasp the idea immediately but Antonio was puzzled.
“What do you call it?” Franco asked.
“It’s a hand grenade,” John said.
“It looks like a bomb which one throws,” Antonio said, “but where is the fuse?”
“Ah, that’s the point,” John said. “No fuse and no need to light it which means your enemy won’t know what’s coming and won’t have time to stop you. None of you have seen anything like this before?”
They shook their heads.
“Well, now you have,” John said.
“Will it work?” Antonio asked.
John smiled. “Let’s build some and see.”
He needed the smith to cast dozens of hollow, football-shaped receptacles, small enough to fit in a man’s palm. Each would be filled through a hole in the top, with black powder and small iron scraps.
“Here’s how we set them off,” he explained, pointing to a cross section. “You put a semi-circular disc of iron on top of the powder and lay a piece of flint on it. Then you jam a short iron rod through the hole so it presses on the flint and protrudes about an inch. It needs to fit snugly so it won’t fall out, but not so snugly that it won’t move. I’ll teach the men how to throw a spiral. When the rod hits something solid like the ground or a wall it’ll spark the flint, light the powder, and take out several enemy at a time.”
Franco and Antonio had an animated discussion in Italian for several minutes, complete with wild gesticulations. John let them go on until he interrupted impatiently and asked, “Well? What does he think?”
Antonio shrugged and said, “Mainly, he’s angry that he never thought of such an idea himself.”
While Franco worked at his forge, John whiled away the time pacing in Garibaldi’s courtyard, target shooting with the new flintlock pistol he’d been given, drinking whatever came out of the cellar, and shaving off his newly grown facial hair with a sharpened piece of steel. In the evenings he dined with Garibaldi, the two men conversing about all manner of things until the small hours.
In a day and a half, a barrel arrived from the forge. It was taken to Garibaldi’s courtyard where John carefully removed the iron footballs from their straw packing and inspected them.
“Show me how they work,” Garibaldi said.
“Here?”
“Why not? If you break some glass I will have it replaced.”
Word went out that a test of John’s new weapon would take place and a small group of men assembled—Luca, Simon, and Antonio along with a handful of Garibaldi’s best soldiers who were at his palazzo preparing a tactical plan.
John picked a corner of the courtyard as far away from windows as possible and had everyone stand well back. He chose a grenade at random and tested its feel in his hand before letting loose a perfect spiral, firing rod forward. The iron spun through the air and hit the ground right where he was aiming and exploded with surprising effect, blowing out not one but several windows with its shock wave and showering the courtyard with shrapnel, some of it landing uncomfortably close.
“Jesus!” John said, impressed. “These work better than I thought.”
“Fuck me,” Simon added.
“Bravo!” Garibaldi shouted. “Well done, John. A formidable missile. Teach the men how to deploy them.”
“We’d better use a dummy,” John said, “or we’re going to hurt someone.”
He gingerly worked the firing rod out of one and emptied the powder and shot.
“All right, who’s first?” he asked.
Simon volunteered and John gave him a lesson on letting the grenade roll off the fingers to make a tight spiral. On his first effort the grenade traveled all of three feet before plunking on the ground, eliciting hysterics from the others.
“Very funny, very funny,” Simon said, his face red. “Let’s see if you lot do better your first go.”
After several minutes of practice, Simon got the hang of it and John moved on to Antonio, who mastered the technique quickly and Luca who struggled. Before they retired for a celebratory drink, all the soldiers had become reasonably proficient. John stooped to pick a couple of grenades for his personal arsenal and stuffed them in his pockets.
The next morning, the plan was set and Luca was dispatched as an emissary to Borgia’s palace to deliver astonishing news for the king. A modern man, a live man with considerable skills, had somehow made his appearance in Brittania. Captured by Italian spies, he had been spirited away to Milan for Borgia’s interrogation and exploitation.
Garibaldi would lead the delegation to deliver John to the king. Antonio and Simon would pose as guards, along with Garibaldi’s choice contingent of soldiers. Garibaldi’s militia, some five hundred strong would be split among four units to descend on the palace from the four compass points when they saw a red flag flying from the battlements.
Climbing into the lead carriage, John produced a length of rope from his cloak and asked Garibaldi, “Do you want to tie my hands?”
“Why not?” Garibaldi said. “A nice touch. Alas, my fingers may lack the dexterity for the chore.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do it myself.”
At the palace, the train of Garibaldi’s carriages was waved through the twin portculli and came to a stop in a large, cobblestoned courtyard. Garibaldi got out and Simon and Antonio made a show of roughly pulling John down. The captain of Borgia’s royal guard, a large, sneering man, approached Garibaldi and demanded that his militia disarm themselves before entering the palace.
“And why is that?” Garibaldi said.
“Duke Machiavelli was attacked and destroyed. That has made the king jumpy.”
“Yes, I heard the sad news. But why should the act of some night rovers cause the king to distrust me and my men?”
The captain shrugged and simply said, “These are my orders.”
Garibaldi passed the word for his men to disarm and they shed their swords and pistols then suffered the further indignity of a pat-down by the captain. As they suspected, John, bound as he was, was not searched. When the captain was satisfied, John, flanked by Garibaldi’s men followed the royal guard into the palace.
Once inside the first reception room, John stopped to take in the unique sights, because unlike Henry’s palace at Hampton Court and Maximilien’s in Paris, this one was spectacularly appointed. Hanging from every wall were grand canvases, magnificent paintings of soar
ing beauty and terror, all in the same style and presumably from the same hand.
The next room was likewise dripping in oil paintings, and the next. There were huge, muscular men engaged in dining, hunting, drinking. Voluptuous women, their breasts and buttocks bared, their cheeks flushed with ardor. Stags and hounds and galloping horses. Waterfalls, forests and mountains, some seemingly done from memory rather than observation because many landscapes were sun-drenched. And then, motifs of terror. Dark canvases with ripped flesh and severed heads. Bulging, terrified eyes. Decay-filled rotting rooms with vermin and birds picking away at vital flesh. And a last great canvas over the entrance to Borgia’s throne room, perhaps the most evocative one of all, a sea of children, being led like lemmings by a winged Satan to a high cliff above a raging sea.
Two empty thrones stood against a wall draped with a large tapestry depicting jungle beasts, seemingly designed by the same artist who had done the paintings. Above the tapestry was a high, balconied gallery. Borgia’s guards took up position, forming a line of defense between Garibaldi’s party and the thrones. Everyone in the hall waited for the king to arrive.
In time, Luca and a throng of Borgia’s ministers, turned out in Renaissance robes, came in and stood against one wall. Luca nodded to Garibaldi in a sign that everything was in order and John saw the old man visibly relax.
A stately woman entered next and John could tell by Antonio’s moonstruck expression that this must be the queen, Caterina Sforza. Her hair was finely curled, long and reddish, flowing over a slim neck and narrow shoulders. Her features were small and delicate, almost doll-like. As she walked she stared straight ahead, her dress, emerald green and velvet, scraping the floor. She settled onto one of the thrones, lifted her head and deigned to make eye contact with the assembly. She furrowed her brow in pensive curiosity at the sight of John and he startled her with a wink.
One young man with a black goatee and flowing moustache seemed to notice the gesture and let out a cackle. He was leaning languidly against the wall, wickedly smirking and touching his palms together in a silent clap. The queen glowered at him but far from acting apologetically, he too winked at her then ran his hand through his thick, unruly hair.