The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  "It started with a fight, sir," said Massimo.

  "And I suppose they will keep fighting until someone stops them." He sighed. "We will bring peace between them, but peace does not come without a price. We hear that the son of Gaiole has been killed."

  "I had no idea," said Massimo.

  "Gaiole has no other son. What do you imagine he will want as a price for his peace. Now that he has lost his son? Tell me, young Massimo, how will we resolve this feud between the families?"

  Choke

  The smoke had thickened to the point where Tilly had to stop running. For a few seconds she could not see her hand that was covering her face.

  Theirs had been the second car to arrive at the scene. Hazard lights on the signal gantry across the road flashed yellow, but the pall of smoke rising from the tunnel mouth was all the warning needed to stop anyone driving in.

  The truck driver lay on the ground, rolling back and forth as waves of pain from his burns flashed through him. The first driver to have arrived stood looking on helplessly as Sparke jumped out of his car and ran to the rear where the small fire extinguisher was stored. As he rushed towards the injured man, a ball of smoke rolled out of the tunnel, engulfing everything in its path and blinding everyone. The moment she realized what Sparke was doing, Tilly leapt out of the car and followed him.

  It was the noise of the small fire extinguisher being used that told Tilly which direction Sparke was in. She took a step towards the sound of rushing gas and the oily smoke cleared just enough for her to see him leaning over the writhing figure of the truck driver, engulfing him in a steam of CO2. She saw him, slowly working his way along the man’s left arm, then moving to his right. The pain made the man throw his arm across his face, so Sparke simply stood on the man’s upper arm to hold him still as he played the stream of cold gas onto the burns. The extinguisher ran for longer than Tilly expected, but eventually sighed to a halt. Sparke did not look up until it was empty, then he glanced at Tilly.

  “There's a bottle of water in the car, can you bring it?” he said, reaching for his phone. She was back in seconds, the smoke now reduced to a steady steam which created a perfect vertical column from the tunnel mouth.

  “Try and pour it into his mouth a little at a time, don’t touch his burns… No idea what is on his arms and it might react with water.” He looked up from his phone, his face a blank. “I don’t know the number for the fire brigade,” he said.

  Tilly looked back helplessly, but turned her head as she heard a faint sound in the distance. “Somebody’s already called them, listen.”

  The sound of the siren was only just audible over the roaring noise from the burning truck in the tunnel, but it quickly grew in volume, to be joined by another, then another until the early morning air was filled by wailing sirens.

  The first fire truck arrived and the crew spilled out, pushing past Tilly and crouching around the stricken driver. Sparke laid the empty extinguisher on the ground so that that crew could see what he had used, and stepped out of the way.

  The crew leader walked past the injured man and peered into the mouth of the tunnel, lying flat on the ground to try and see inside at the point where the smoke would be thinnest. He stood and spoke to Tilly who raised her hands helplessly.

  “No French,” she said. “Can you speak English?”

  “Did you see what happened?” he asked.

  “No, only the driver running out and the smoke.”

  The crew leader nodded. “Please go back to your car.”

  Tilly looked towards Sparke who nodded his head towards the Range Rover and they both walked back along the motorway. Several cars were now backed up and Sparke maneuvered his own vehicle onto the emergency lane.

  “You all right?” he said to Tilly.

  “I’m fine. That man’s hands are in a hell of a mess though. What can cause that?”

  “Smells like bitumen. Your clothes are probably ruined with the smell.”

  Tilly lifted her own arm and sniffed her sleeve, wrinkling her face. An ambulance drove past and the firemen stepped away from the man on the ground to give the paramedics room.

  “We’re going to be here for a while, I think,” said Sparke. “That tunnel is not opening anytime soon and we need to wait for the cops to escort us back the way we came.”

  “There was a crash inside the tunnel,” she said, flatly. “How can anyone crash in a clear tunnel?”

  “Well it wasn't the tunnel’s fault and it probably wasn’t down to the truck just bursting into flames all by itself.”

  The pair watched events slowly unfold through the windshield.

  “Ever been involved in a tunnel fire?” said Tilly.

  “No. Read about a few though. If anyone can deal with an incident like this it’s the Swiss. They must have more tunnels per mile of road than anyone in the world. Unless there’s anyone trapped in there, they’ll probably wait it out, sending people into places like that is something to be avoided at all costs. Bad things happen in tight places like that.”

  The two sat in silence for a moment, then Sparke reached back for his jacket and rummaged in the pocket.

  “Just thinking,” said Sparke. “I ran into the head of the Federal Emergency Management team the other day. He’s probably already in the loop, but I'll give him a call anyway.”

  Tilly watched as a sudden flurry of activity erupted around one of the fire engines. A number of firemen leaned their heads together around a radio set, then one of them sprinted back to the, still smoking, tunnel holding what looked like a pair of oversized binoculars. He was soon joined by two of his colleagues, who took turns peering into the gloom. At the fire truck, two men now struggled into breathing apparatus.

  She heard Sparke talking on the phone, but paid no attention to what he was saying. A helicopter buzzed low over the site and more emergency vehicles were arriving.

  The firemen in the breathing apparatus walked slowly into the smoke as fire crew clustered around the entrance, only to return a few seconds later. Tilly could see their boots were black with what looked like tar. She turned to speak to Sparke, but he was engrossed in his phone call. She paused to look at him, noticing that his normal calm expression had been replaced by a look of almost total concentration. He spoke in short sharp sentences, his eyes fixed on the tunnel and the men crowded around it. For some reason, looking at Sparke now seemed even more interesting that the events at the tunnel.

  “Yes,” she heard Sparke say. “Of course. It’s not too much to ask. Of course.”

  Tilly saw Sparke hold the phone away from his ear and turn towards her. There was something in his look, something she had never seen before. He looked at her as though she was almost a stranger. He was talking to her, but his mind was somewhere else, somewhere very far away.

  “You should stay in the car. There is nothing to be concerned about. I just need to go and talk to these people for a few minutes. I'll be right back.”

  Tilly watched as Sparke stepped out of the car and, still talking on the phone, walked towards the firemen. One of them turned and waved him back to his car, but he held up his phone up and pointed to the man who was obviously the team leader.

  For a moment the fireman continued to wave him away until the team leader noticed Sparke and walked towards him. Tilly saw Sparke hand his phone to the man, who took it, after glancing strangely at Sparke.

  For several seconds the leader of the fire squad talked on the phone. Then he passed the phone back to Sparke, who spoke into it briefly and put it into his pocket as he and the fireman spoke.

  Tilly watched as Sparke turned away from the knot of emergency workers and walked back to the car. He opened the door and looked at Tilly.

  “I’m just going to be chatting to these guys for a while. Just observing really. They've got things under control. I might be able to give them a little bit of advice.” He looked at Tilly. “Totally nothing to be concerned about.”

  Peace

  "That was a ba
ttle?" asked Salvatore.

  "What did you expect, Hector and Achilles fighting shield to shield? Your brother won a battle by excellent maneuver and judicious use of weapons," said Falco.

  "My brother was bait."

  "He was more use than most nobility are in a fight. Usually they run around trying to get killed."

  Salvatore rode alongside the English Captain on their return to Radda. Rosso, who had ridden next to Salvatore on the journey to attack the mill, now rode slightly ahead, alone.

  "Is it always like this?"

  "No," said Falco. "Sometimes it's a bloody mess. Sometimes nothing happens at all. Today, the outcome was obvious, so there was no point in them getting killed in a fight they could never win."

  "What will happen now?" said Salvatore.

  "They will raid your lands and we will raid theirs," said Falco. "We will burn a few farms, kill some peasants, and take whatever trade we can find on the roads. It will probably not come to anything much more than that. A siege of a place the size of Gaiole would cost over two hundred thousand and the whole town is not worth that."

  "You sound like a merchant."

  "Of course I do. You think these men fight for glory?" Falco gestured towards his men with his thumb.

  Salvatore turned in his saddle and peered at the mercenaries. "I think they fight because there is nothing else they can do."

  "Really?"

  "Really. They produce nothing. They have no master except you, and that's only for the term of their contract."

  "True,” said Falco. "But you won’t see them bow in the dirt when a noble walks past and if any man insults them they'll have to answer for it."

  Salvatore turned again to look at the troops. The leading rider noticed his stare and returned it without flinching.

  The small army wound its way into Radda. Already the news had spread. A battle had been won with no deaths on the Radda side. Better, this might be a short war.

  Rosso accepted the cheers of the crowd like a hero. As they wound their way through the narrow streets he stared fixedly ahead, the model of knightly grace.

  "Praise be to God for our victory," shouted the family priest as they rode through the castle gates.

  "Don't praise God for the work done by our crossbows," said Rosso.

  The priest shot Rosso a furious glance, but said nothing.

  The courtyard was a chaos of horses and men as the troops dismounted. Podesta was waiting and spoke briefly to Rosso. A few moments later, Lord Radda appeared at the top of the steps. At this, Rosso dismounted and walked slowly up towards him. No words were exchanged, but Rosso and his father stood side by side for a moment before turning back inside the castle together.

  "I assume," said Falco to Podesta, "that somewhere in this town we can find wine to celebrate this famous victory?"

  A victory, no matter how small, was a victory and had to be celebrated. The mercenaries had money and deep thirsts, and Radda had wine to sell, so the morning after the Battle of the Two Hills found the town head-sore and weary. Salvatore was still sound asleep late the next morning when Massimo shook him awake.

  "The Bishop and I..." Massimo began.

  Salvatore yawned deeply. "Oh, it's you. The Bishop and you what?"

  "The Bishop and I have spoken about this foolish war and have decided to bring peace."

  "I'm pleased you have allowed the Bishop into your confidence,” said Salvatore. “He's on his way to save us all, I assume?"

  "Tomorrow. He arrives tomorrow and has summoned our father and Lord Gaiole to meet at the bridge."

  "How was Siena?" said Salvatore.

  "Sublime."

  "Good, well welcome back to Radda, and now that you've told me all about your big adventure, I would like to go back to sleep."

  When he eventually rose and walked through the town, Salvatore could not help but be infected by the excitement of the people. The arrival of the Bishop of Siena was the only thing that could possibly eclipse the feast of Fra Muratore and the rumor was that the Bishop would celebrate the coming peace in the church at Radda. For most of the year, the only thing that changed in Radda was the weather, but lately, in a short space, Salvatore had seen his town decorated for the Feast of Fra Muratore, then girded for war and now dressing itself for a possible visit by the Bishop.

  Early the following day, the Radda party headed for the location chosen for the peace parley, with Salvatore and his brothers in the lead. Since they expected peace to be brokered, they had to arrive dressed for war, with every man on both sides arrayed in the best armor they could find or borrow.

  The site was by the bridge below the watch tower. The Bishop's Guard had arrived at the site early and tried to create as much pomp and dignity as possible. A gleaming white canopy was erected to provide cover for the parley table, but all sides were left open to the winter air so that the Bishop's good work would be witnessed by all.

  Shortly before the arrival of the Bishop, the Lords of Gaiole and Radda approached, followed by their armed retinues. They stopped fifty paces either side of the bridge, their horses shivering and stamping in the winter breeze as the Bishop approached.

  The Bishop's carriage was built for comfort, not style, and it lurched over the rough roadway in sharp contrast to the harsh military glamor of both parties.

  Salvatore watched as the Bishop descended and walked, slowly, to one of the three chairs set out around the table under the canopy. After a moment's contemplation, he stood and stretched out one hand towards each of the parties. At this, the Lords dismounted and walked forward. Radda was accompanied by Podesta, Gaiole by his Captain of the Guard.

  There was no way that Salvatore could hear what was being said by the five men now gathered under the canopy, but it was plain that neither Lord was speaking yet. Podesta seemed to be doing a lot of the talking from where Salvatore sat and at one point he was clearly agitated.

  Eventually, Salvatore and his group saw the Bishop stand and reach towards the Lords of Gaiole and Radda with his hands held high in blessing. Both men bowed their heads briefly.

  After a moment, Lord Radda stood, bowed again to the Bishop, then briefly to Gaiole and walked towards his horse. He lifted himself easily into the high saddle and rode back to Radda without looking back.

  Salvatore glanced towards Rosso, who shrugged. Neither knew what was expected of them. As they had done for most of their lives, whenever they needed guidance, they turned towards Podesta who was still at the canopy, deep in discussion with the Gaiole Captain of the Guard.

  He bowed to the Captain and walked up from the bridge toward the brothers. He passed Rosso and Massimo without a glance until he stood next to Salvatore.

  "The family is stronger now," he said, his face grey with shock. "You should think about the good that has come from this."

  Salvatore looked at Podesta, trying to relate the caring words he had just heard to the horrified look on the family retainer’s face.

  “We have peace?” said Salvatore.

  “Yes.”

  Salvatore kept looking at Podesta's face trying to read the message it contained.

  “And do we keep the mighty Watch Tower?” he said, trying to show a lightness of spirit he did not feel.

  “The Tower will not go back to the family of Gaiole. It becomes the property of the Bishop, but taxes from the bridge are ours.”

  “So why so sad?” said Salvatore.

  “The property is a simple thing,” said Podesta, struggling for the right words. “The issue is the death of the son of Gaiole. Gaiole feels, and the Bishop agrees, that he cannot be the only one to suffer loss from this adventure.” At this he cast a furious look towards Rosso, who was watching the discussion with interest.

  “So, he wants our father to lose a son? One of us needs to die?” said Salvatore, still holding his forced smile.

  “No, not death.”

  “If not death then what? Tell me Podesta.”

  “The family of Radda must lose a son. Ros
so will be Lord. Massimo is for the Church. Salvatore, it is you. You are to be banished.”

  “Banished?” Salvatore tried to understand what he was hearing.

  “From the lands of Radda and Gaiole. The family will know the loss of a son, and it will be you, Salvatore.”

  “Banished?”

  Podesta reached up and grabbed Salvatore by the hand. “Listen to me. You are to leave and never return. You will be sent away.”

  Salvatore thought for a moment. He was being sent away, banished from Radda. To where? Would he live in Siena? Was he to go to the north? His mind immediately filled with the question of how he would find a way of bringing Mellissa to wherever he was to be exiled to.

  “To where?” he asked, eventually.

  “The Bishop commands that this feud began with the sword and was ended by the church. He says that if there is such violence in the blood of the family, then it should be used for the good of the Church”

  “I am to join the Church?” said Salvatore, horrified.

  “You are to join the military arm of the Church. You will be sent to become a member of the Order of the Knights Templar.”

  “A Templar?” shouted Salvatore incredulous. “I am the worst man in the world to become a Templar.”

  Observer

  The voice in the earplugs of his cell phone was suddenly loud, blocking out the noise of the emergency trucks and their squawking radios. His call to Pascal had been largely a professional courtesy, but almost immediately Sparke had become aware that the situation was more serious than he had thought at first. He listened as Pascal spoke in rapid French to someone else on the line before realizing that the other person was, in fact, the leader of the fire team standing in front of him. They looked at each other as Pascal switched back to English.

  “Mr. Sparke has extensive experience in catastrophic incidents. His advice should be considered carefully in this situation. You are the incident commander, but listen to what he says.”

  The fire leader looked a Sparke.