He sighed heavily and brushed past her to gaze out the small porthole. “I must do something quickly to prove my new commitment to the tsar. Otherwise—”
“Karevna has been talking to you.”
“Adrienne, you have powers I don’t begin to understand, usefulness which is undeniable. I, on the other hand, am a simple soldier, one among many.”
“Your place is secure if mine is,” Adrienne said.
He snorted. “Yes, as your lapdog, the popinjay captain of your guard. My aim is at a higher target, my dear. If I am to seek my fortune with the tsar, I must be bold.”
“You will be of no use to anyone dead, Hercule.”
He turned and leveled a dark gaze upon her. “I have considered that, of course, but it is of no matter.”
“And what of us? Is that also of no matter?”
“Yes, what of us, Adrienne? What does your heart say of me? Do you love me?”
“That is unfair, Hercule. Love has never been a part of our discussions before. Was it love you were pursuing in me? I think not.”
“No,” he admitted, “perhaps not. But it is what I have found. What have you found?”
Her chest tightened, and her next words felt labored. “Companionship. Happiness. A dear, dear friend.”
He nodded and turned back to the clouds outside. “But not love?” he asked.
“How am I to know what love is?” she demanded. “And why do you present me with this just before committing suicide?”
“I see you have little faith in me.”
“Hercule, I have every faith in you. But everyone who has loved me—and most particularly everyone I have loved—seems to desert me.”
“Nicolas did not desert you. He died that you might live.” He hesitated. “And there is Crecy.”
“You cannot be jealous of Crecy.”
“She is jealous of me, always a good sign that one should return the sentiment.”
“Enough, Hercule d’ Argenson. You presume far too much.”
He laughed bitterly. “Yes, I suppose that I do. And believe me, I feel foolish. I have always considered myself the cavalier, a rogue lover, a rake, and to find myself thus entrapped—”
“Entrapped?” Adrienne snapped, almost too angry to speak. She took several deep breaths to calm herself and continued. “I assure you, sir, you are in no way entrapped. Nor, I suspect, are you in love. You and I have been walking through graveyards together, surrounded by the dead. We sought life in each other’s arms and found it. Now you mistake that for love. When we have found a place of peace, a place where you have the opportunity and leisure to pursue other demoiselles, I’ll see your attitude change.”
“I thought you had faith in me.”
“By God, d’ Argenson, do not twist my words!” she shouted.
He lowered his head for a long moment. “I apologize, Mademoiselle. I misspoke.”
She bit back an agreement, approached him, and hesitantly touched his arm. “Do not do this, Hercule. I love you enough not to see you dead.”
He turned back to her. “I must think of myself,” he said. “I don’t have your heart, and so I must think of my advancement.”
“You rogue. You would think of your advancement whether you had my heart or not.”
Finally, almost painfully it seemed, he grinned. “You know me well. Do you wonder that I love you?”
“Do not speak of that again,” she said. “Do not.”
“Very well,” he said, tightening his lips a bit, “I shan’t. If you don’t try to dissuade me from the assault.”
“I have said all I can, I suppose.”
“In that case, Mademoiselle, I must bid you good day.”
“Is this all you came here for? It did not seem so when you kissed me.”
“Such are your charms, Mademoiselle, that all reason deserts me when I see you.”
“Perhaps you should discard reason, then.”
He grinned ruefully. “It’s said by some that only reason divides us from the animals. Would you have me discard that?”
“For the next hour or so, yes.”
“I thought you were angry with me.”
“I was. I remain so.”
“Then—”
“Your punishment,” she said simply. “When you find your foolish death, I want to give you one more regret to carry with you to hell.”
“Mademoiselle—” he began, as she pushed up his waistcoat and shirt, pressed her lips against his chest.
“Mademoiselle!” he repeated, in quite a different tone. She began working on the buttons of his breeches.
“By God,” he groaned, after a moment. “Your wrath is terrible!”
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at his glazed eyes. “You have barely begun to taste it,” she murmured, and pushed him over onto the bed. She shucked the loose gown Karevna had given her over her head and pressed herself atop him, almost shocked by the pleasure of her breasts against his bare stomach, the adherence of one damp skin to another. She began placing judicious kisses as he struggled the half-buttoned waistcoat over his head.
“Adrienne—” he moaned.
She paused. “No talk of love!” she cautioned. “Unless it is to deny you love me.”
“I—I—” He stuttered. She nipped at him, then crawled up his length until her lips were on his ear.
“Say you do not love me,” she whispered. “Say it.”
“Madame,” he managed, through choppy gasps, “if you would have it so, I despise you.”
“Say it again,” she said, pushing his breeches down his legs with her feet.
“I hate you.”
“Good.”
And for a time, she found her forgetfulness, her moment of motion and passion. But afterward, when Hercule kissed her and went on his way, she found that she was perhaps not as happy about getting her way as she should have been. She did something she had not done in a long time; fumbling to her knees, she knotted her hands beneath her chin and begged God to preserve Hercule in the coming battle. She found that she had enough faith left to believe God heard her, but no confidence at all that he would grant her wish. Troubled, she watched from her little window as the sun bloodied clouds and died a slow, gray death.
7.
The Divan
Ben regarded himself critically in the mirror, wondering if the outlandish clothes fit as they ought. The azure robe with its gold floral brocade was pleasing in pattern and color, but it hung straight and unpleated, like a stiff dressing gown. The pantaloons felt ridiculous. He determined to keep his hat tucked under his arm, both because it looked silly with the Turkish costume and because he didn’t know enough about Turkish rank to know who he should remain bareheaded around.
After shifting the coat this way and that on his shoulders, he finally shrugged, wondering what his father would think to see him preening so in front of a mirror—what his father would think of him. Was there a single thing the old man had taught him that he had not managed to unlearn? In three years he had replaced honesty, thrift, and humility with deception, vanity, and pride. What was left of Josiah Franklin’s boy? Did anything remain that his sire—if he was still alive—would find to respect?
He looked back in the mirror, and for a moment beheld a stranger, a doppelgänger mocking him, and felt a sensation almost of falling, of rushing away. Boston, which had seemed for so long like another life, a distant dream, suddenly came back to surround him, painting over his Oriental surroundings as if they were the shadows.
He set his jaw and pushed it away. He loved his father, and once he had respected him. But his father’s way was a naïve one, a philosophy that an older, kinder age might tolerate but that had no place today—not for those who would prosper. The meek were not inheriting the Earth, that was certain enough, and God—if there was a God at all—did not watch over Ben Franklin, eager to reward him for virtue or punish him for vice. In the days when he had striven for virtue, he had caused more harm than good. Now he u
nderstood that there was more honesty in healthy selfishness than in some pretended notion of doing good, and it was certainly less dangerous to those around you.
He had thought to save London and failed; so be it. He had thought to save Prague and failed; so be it. He had begun to think of saving Venice, too, but that thought now seemed absurd. What did he want? Really want?
And then he knew. He wanted Newton’s notebooks, and he wanted Lenka, and he wanted to be on board one of those English ships sailing far away from here. He gave not one damn what happened to Newton, or to Venice, or Charles XII. No he didn’t. He and Robert and Lenka safe and sound, and with Newton’s notes and his own ingenuity, he would soon make a place for himself. Let other idealists dig graves for the living from now on. He grinned as the stranger in the mirror became himself again, and was both astonished and pleased at how much wiser he looked, how much more the man.
He was just stepping away when Charles entered the room. The king looked haggard, though clad in a fresh blue-and-yellow uniform.
“And how do you fare, my friend?” the king asked.
“Not too poorly—ah, Your Majesty,” Ben answered.
“Good. You will attend the Divan. I had a better sort of suit sent to you, that you might make a good impression.”
“Yes, Majesty, and thank you. But I wondered if I might discuss a certain matter with you.”
“Be brief. We must go, and quickly.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that Sir Isaac has planted himself on a nearby island, awaiting your word.”
“Yes. The man is quite troublesome. I commanded that he be conveyed to me, but he refuses to leave his haven, insisting instead that I attend him. Obviously I have no time to do so.”
“May I suggest that I speak to him? I know him best.”
Charles frowned. “If all goes well, I have a battle to plan and if not, to flee in ignominious haste. Either way, Benjamin, I shall need you near me, for you are the only person I trust who can advise me of what I face in these Russian contrivances. There is no time, I tell you, to send you to cajole your old master. I am at the end of my temper with Sir Isaac. If he does not come to his senses, I shall order the island bombarded so that he can be of no use to the Muscovites should they triumph.”
“Sir, I can talk sense to him.”
“For which I have no time. As I say, if the Divan decides to fight, I shall need you with me.”
“Majesty—”
“No, enough. Don’t forget yourself, Mr. Franklin. As Peter Frisk, I stood silent before your impertinence, but now I have no inclination to do so. If all goes well, and we defeat the Muscovite here, then I promise you I will see to your desires. If not, there will be no point, for Newton will be dead and we will be flown.” A shallow smile touched his lips for a second. “I assure you, my young friend, that the age of kings is not yet over, no matter what you might wish. Now, we have a council to attend.”
What could he do? Ben nodded and bowed.
The chamber of the Divan was sheer hubbub, a hundred babbling men packed beneath its vaulted roof. As the guards at the door checked them for weapons, Ben could only goggle in astonishment. For him, the words “council meeting” evoked something more stately than a roomful of brightly clad thugs jostling one another and shouting.
When Charles entered and began pushing his way through the crowd, the commotion redoubled. Ben, Robert, and Hassim followed close, lest they be swallowed by the throng.
“I translate for you,” Hassim told Ben and Robert. “Heed; you may not use fist or hand here. You may kick.”
“Kick? What do you mean?”
But just then fierce clamor erupted as another group entered, led by a rather small fellow in flamboyant silks who raised his arms as some faction of the mob howled “Riva.” Though “Riva”—Ben knew not whether that might be a name, a title, or an insulting epithet—was clearly the one drawing the crowd’s attention, he did not hold Ben’s; for behind him, looking dazed at the spectacle, entered two men Ben knew on sight. The recognition was like two short, quick blows to the head as Cotton Mather—a preacher from his home town—and Blackbeard the pirate stepped into the hall. Together.
His knees weakened suddenly, and he worried that he had fallen back into a fever dream or simply gone mad. He put his hand on Robert’s shoulder, both to steady himself and point, when suddenly Robert shouted, in a voice that carried above the din, “Uncle!” And began plowing through the mass toward Mather and Blackbeard. Ben, scalp tingling, followed. They all converged at the base of the dais where Charles and the leader of the Turkish soldiers from the day before—Hassim’s father?—stood together. The Riva fellow joined them, and the tumult rose toward fever pitch.
“Uncle!” Robert repeated, and this time a fellow in a red English coat spun and gaped in astonishment. In the next instant the two were grappling in a hug. Ben hung back, trying to rebuild his understanding of what was going on. Blackbeard was frowning at the two embracing men, and then his gaze moved to Ben. For an instant, his fierce eyes held puzzlement, and then they passed on, dismissing him.
Ben released his breath. Teach hadn’t recognized him. That was good, as the last time they had met—three years ago—he had tricked the pirate into putting to sea in a sabotaged rowboat. Of course, that had been only fair, as Blackbeard had twice tried to kill him, but Ben somehow doubted that such would matter to Ned Teach.
Well, he was a head taller now, his features much more grown up, his dress entirely different. With any luck, Blackbeard would not make the connection. Of course, when the time for introductions came—as seemed imminent, the way that Robert and the red-coated fellow were hollering in each other’s ears—that would be a whole other pipe of brandy.
That discovery, fortunately, was delayed, for suddenly Charles’ voice roared above the din. “My brothers!” he shouted in German, and nearby a fellow with an equally powerful throat began spitting and hissing in Turkish. “Janissaries! The finest warriors that God’s earth has ever seen—well, save the Swedish, of course!”
As he said this, a huge shout erupted from some thirty men clad in Swedish yellow and blue, and a garden of fists sprouted all around Ben, waving. The din was awesome.
Somehow Charles fought above it. “We all know why we are met here. It is to decide your future, the future of your city, Venice. It is to decide what will become of your children, your wives, your businesses—”
A man screamed something from the audience, shrilly interrupting the Swedish king. Behind him, a group of what seemed to be supporters shouted some phrase in unison, over and over again.
Hassim leaned close as the fellow shrieked. “He say that this not about Venice at all, but about King Charles. He say only one at risk here is Charles. Charles want the Janissaries to defy sultan for his own reasons, not for Venice. His fellows chant, ‘Back to Sweden, Iron Head.’ ”
The general roar was suddenly supplemented by howls of pain, and Ben suddenly understood what Hassim had meant by kicking. The group that presently had the floor was engaged in a kicking match with the Swedes and presumably pro-Charles Janissaries, viciously stamping at feet and shins. One fellow had fallen, and two men were booting him in the ribs and head.
The speakers ignored all this, as a second Turk leapt up and began shouting as well. “Him say that Charles want us to fight a battle we can’t win, against djinn and peri, against flying ships—all to protect his own pride,” Hassim translated. “He say, who will pay us for this? The beylerbey and the sultan pay our salaries. Will Charles pay? Will he pay for all we lose if we fight the Russian devils?”
Charles held up his fists, and somehow, as if damped by the sheer force of his will, the pandemonium subsided. Perhaps it was the look of haughty fury on his face, the soldier set of his shoulders. “You weak-kneed women!” he shouted. “Where are the Janissaries that brought down matchless Constantinople, who swam up rivers of their own blood to the walls of Vienna? Where are you now? Counting your coins for
the day of your retirement? Waiting to watch your grandchildren grow old? But what will you tell those grandchildren, those Venetians, when they ask what happened on that day, on that day when you could have been warriors, but instead you chose to be old women, to let the Russians who murdered you at Pruth walk into your city without the slightest resistance, take your wives and your daughters to lie with them in your beds? What will your grandchildren hear of you, you brave Janissaries?” In two brief strides he was suddenly in the crowd, aiming a powerful kick at his last opponent. The man yelped and went down, and though his followers surged up to Charles, they did not strike him.
Behind Charles, the Turk took up the oration.
“That my father,” Hassim said proudly. “He say, the sultan tell us to leave our homes. Sultan tell us to leave our children, our wives, our business, our honor. Sultan should be ashamed, sultan has no honor. Maybe Janissaries no longer have honor either.”
Another man bolted up, pointing out that they would have no businesses if they rebelled against the Porte, no one to trade with. At that point, Riva joined the fray, speaking of Blackbeard and the others, explaining that not only did they have ships to throw into the battle, but that here stood men with whom they could negotiate a fruitful and exclusive trade with the Americas.
It was surreal, the way the shouting match became a mercantile meeting, with terms of trade suddenly added to the hot words about courage and cowardice. It seemed, for a time, that the discussion of whether to fight had been replaced by one of what to do after the battle.
But after perhaps half an hour, the argument suddenly swung sharply back to the central issue.
“We cannot fight them! Where are our sorcerers, to pit against these demons? What weapon have we that can fight against ships of the air?” someone shouted.
“Go, then,” Charles returned. “Scurry off to your holes! I will fight them alone! I will defend your city for you, keep safe your children and your women whilst you cower in whatever wilderness the sultan grants you. Go!”
“That is big talk! But explain to us—how will you fight them? How, Swedish King, how?”
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