Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ the young man whispered under his breath in Greek. As he stepped into the street and nodded to the two ‘converted Moor’ heavies outside, it occurred to him that he’d not asked the location of the Medici house, and what to do next was therefore a matter of some haziness. Of course, he was far from pushed for time. Things needed to unfold at the natural pace and if he forced events forward, he might end up the prey of a heartless slaver once more, or launched into a voyage into the unknown with no turning back. Patience. It was all about patience and planning, as he continually reminded himself. After all, as he’d had his tattoos applied, Inamoca of the Taino had been adamant that three full cycles would occur before Skiouros’ fate came to pass, and with some calculation, that placed it some time in fourteen ninety five, still well over a year away.

  His hand went involuntarily to the colourful image of Bayamanaco on his upper arm, hidden beneath a good grey doublet. Inamoca had warned him that the restlessness in the face of ‘old man fire’ reflected his own feelings on his end-goal, and Skiouros had been trying hard not to think on that for months now, particularly when his arm seemed to burn for no reason.

  Taking a cleansing breath of the warm, dry Spanish air, he tucked the valuable monetary draft into the hidden pouch on the second neck thong beneath his doublet and walked out of the side-street and into the main thoroughfare once more.

  Today he would spend the rest of the afternoon and evening getting used to this place, since it would clearly take some getting used to. Although he knew he’d have to move on from Malaga soon enough, he couldn’t do so dressed and equipped like an impoverished sailor. He would need new clothes. And possibly to sell the curved Arab blade. Or probably just discard it, since no Spaniard would likely buy such a weapon in this atmosphere of religious intolerance.

  A horse, too. He would need a horse, and a good one. And before all that he would need to cash the draft in the Medici house and draw some coin, and then there was the need to catch up on all the news and gossip since he’d left the old world. Was the usurper Cem still in Rome, even? He sucked on dry lips. Despite that mug of frothy beer before he visited the Morisco, he was still hungry and thirsty, and for all his planning and the need to change his appearance, the sign of a tavern in one of the other side streets close to the Puerta de Granada caught his eye. It showed a pair of crossed swords - one straight, one curved. Pausing, wondering whether this place might be a better class of tavern than the dreadful ‘hanged Jew’ one in the old centre, Skiouros decided to risk it and strode across the threshold and into the interior, patting the hidden pouch and its contents for peace of mind as he did so.

  His heart lurched as his eyes adjusted to the light and he realised that the tavern had a good level of custom already, even at this time of the day, and more importantly that each and every occupant wore the uniform of the guard he had seen wandering back and forth on the wall’s parapet and standing by the Puerta de Granada. But then what had he expected of a tavern marked with swords so close to the city gate? Soldiers came off-duty at all times, and it was in their nature to make a bar their first port of call.

  Conditioning was a curious thing. For years he had lived as a thief, relying on his wits for survival and keeping out of sight of the authorities, for they had been his enemy and would be his downfall. For almost three years now he had eschewed his thieving ways on a promise to his brother, yet even now, with no reason to fear legal reprisal, he still baulked at the presence of guards.

  Foolish, really.

  They turned to regard him as he entered, and he picked up a few curious glances, but nothing more than one would expect as a civilian stranger entering a soldier’s bar. Once they took in the fact that he was clearly a recently arrived sailor and his only weapon in evidence was a wooden stick, they nodded a polite greeting to him and then went back to their conversations. Skiouros began to relax. He was quite clearly no Jew or Moor, and had no reason to feel uneasy here. Wandering over to the bar, he ordered a glass of the same cheap local wine that the soldiers appeared to be drinking and a plate of lamb and bacon (a confirmation of his Gentile nature, just in case) in a cider broth with bread.

  Despite the busyness of the tavern, there were still a few tables free, and Skiouros took a seat at one near the bar with his back to the wall. Dropping his bag next to him, out of sight and secure, he took a swig of his wine.

  Moments passed as the sharp-yet-sweet tang of the wine flowered on his tongue, and imperceptibly the activity in the bar seemed to fade into a dull, almost-muted background. He could hear the ‘thump, thump’ of the blood rushing in his ears and felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  He looked up, half expecting to see that familiar disapproving face, and felt a strange mixed rush of relief and disappointment as his eyes fell upon the empty chair opposite. No matter what his senses told him, he knew it wasn’t really empty.

  ‘Lykaion?’ he whispered in disbelief.

  The group of four soldiers standing at the end of the bar nearby turned to look at him in surprise, and Skiouros quickly delved in the visible purse at his belt and pulled out a folded piece of vellum - the names of a few people he could rely upon in Barcelona, Sevilla, Cadiz and Lisboa apparently. Flattening it on the table before him, he made as if to study it, running his finger up and down the list and tapping it repeatedly as if memorising. Best not to look like a lunatic if he could avoid it in a bar full of soldiers.

  With the list as his focus he muttered again and the soldiers turned back to their conversation, ignoring him.

  ‘Lykaion?’ he breathed again. He had last spoken with the shade of his brother in a sickened fever deep in the unforgiving brown lands of North Africa. Not in all the months of sea voyage or that strange, lush, green land beyond had he felt the familiar eerie presence of the departed son of Nikos. He had begun to think that Lykaion’s spirit finally rested, but then he would have no need to pursue his vengeance, and he could feel in the pit of his stomach that that was not the case - that his journey was far from over. Perhaps he had simply been too far away?

  He could still sense his brother’s presence somehow, though there was no sound from that lost soul. Shivering, Skiouros blinked in surprise. The world came back into aural focus suddenly and Lykaion’s shade dissipated like mist as his brain replayed the word that had shattered the spell.

  ‘Sorry,’ he turned to the soldiers at the bar. ‘Did you say Teba?’

  The four guardsmen halted their discussion and turned as one to look at the foreigner at the table. ‘What?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Apologies,’ Skiouros held up a hand. ‘I was not deliberately eavesdropping, but I thought I heard you mention Teba?’

  He tried not to smile as the image of his former sword-teacher on Crete flitted into his mind, all elegant dress and graceful moves and haughty nobility, yet covered in white dust as he put a Greek youth through his paces.

  ‘You know Teba?’ one of the soldiers enquired - a man with a neat beard and a face that spoke of a veteran’s wisdom.

  ‘Actually no, but I used to know someone from there and I had often wondered where the place was.’

  The guardsman shrugged. ‘It’s up in the mountains north of Malaga. Past the cracked rocks and the old bandit road. Shit-hole of a place, really. A small town and a run-down castle lying empty. Place is a hive of scum nowadays… bandits and murderers. We get sent up there every now and then to put things in order, but it’s like trying to dam a stream with a fork.’

  Skiouros nodded as he remembered Don Diego de Teba and his unwillingness to talk about his home and why he was so far from it and working for a living as a martial instructor.

  ‘An empty castle? What happened to the lord?’

  Another of the men, also a veteran and with bear-like shoulders, took a swig of his wine and scratched his chin. ‘The Don’s family have been gone more than a decade. They ruled there ever since we took it from the Moors, but they say there was more than a streak
of Arab blood in the Don’s family. This isn’t a good time to be displaying such traits, so the family moved away, out of the reach of the damn priests.’

  Skiouros nodded again, almost smiling to himself. He could quite imagine how Crete would look good when faced with the ‘new Spain’ of Ferdinand and Isabella, especially for a man with Moorish ancestry. Someday soon, when this was all over, Skiouros would return to Crete to retrieve Lykaion’s head. And when he did, he would seek out Don Diego, the exiled lord of Teba.

  ‘And you, lad? You’re new in Malaga, else you’d be in one of the sailor’s bars near the port, and not out here with us. And you’ve a weird accent. Portuguese, yes?’

  Skiouros tried a pleasant smile. ‘Actually, I’m originally Greek.’ No good would come of mentioning the Turk here, so he glossed over the events between his days on the farm and his time on the Pinta. ‘Just returned from a half-year voyage and still to get used to a floor that doesn’t move.’

  One of the soldiers laughed. ‘Couldn’t do it myself. I hate boats more than I hate my wife!’ The others laughed aloud.

  ‘In truth, no one hates boats more than me,’ grinned Skiouros. ‘Never had a good journey in one yet.’

  ‘So you’re not hurrying back out to sea then?’

  ‘No,’ Skiouros took a sip of wine. ‘Actually, I’m headed for Italy next, but I plan to go by land.’

  ‘Good idea,’ muttered ‘bear-shoulders’. ‘That Turk pirate Kemal is at large between here and Italy, sinking and enslaving every Spaniard he can find.’

  ‘You off to sign up with the new Pope,’ sniggered the first veteran, and the other three chuckled.

  ‘New Pope?’ Skiouros asked in surprise.

  ‘Of course,’ the soldier said, slapping his hand on the bar. ‘You’ve been away half a year, so you won’t know. Old Innocent, the lunatic, passed on last year. They say he bled himself to death trying to cure whatever ailed him, the prick. Now they’ve put a Spaniard on the throne of Saint Peter. Well, a Catalan, anyway!’ The four men laughed aloud and Skiouros waited politely for them to finish.

  ‘He was archbishop of Valencia,’ the man resumed, ‘and they say he doesn’t trust the old Pope’s men, so he’s got himself a Catalan guard. Men from the north are flocking to sign up with him, ‘cause he pays better than the crown.’ The older veteran’s face took on a serious expression and his voice lowered. ‘Not content with a united Spain, and still having a claim on the Kingdom of Napoli, now their majesties have got a son of Spain in the Vatican.’

  ‘And that worries you?’ Skiouros frowned.

  ‘Only because the more power their majesties accrue, the more the French turn to look at us, and they’ve been itching for another good war since they kicked the Englishers’ arses at Castillon. Forty years is a long time for a Frenchman to go without a battle.’

  Skiouros could find nothing to say on that matter, having yet to meet a Frenchman, and simply smiled. After a moment the soldiers seemed to decide the conversation was over, nodded to Skiouros, and with a bawdy comment they returned to their own conversation and laughter. Skiouros waited for a long moment and then studied his list again.

  ‘No, brother,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘No good will come of another voyage.’

  There was a pause as he listened to the faint words in his head before he answered. ‘Because I have no desire to meet Turkish pirates again, even if Etci Hassan is no more.’

  ‘No, it is not because I am frightened of boats,’ he hissed - a little too loudly, since the soldiers glanced at him again. In response to what appeared to be an increasing mania in this young foreigner, the four men moved away down the bar.

  ‘I will buy a horse and go by land.’ He leaned back and narrowed his eyes at the perceived reply from the shade of Lykaion. ‘Whether the French are belligerent or not, they have nothing against the Greeks as far as I know. Spain should be safe, so long as I don’t spout Arabic, and France should be easy enough.’

  The dispute seemed to be settled, and Skiouros looked at the empty chair - truly empty once more - and heaved out a sigh. Lykaion was ever argumentative. In the absence of his brother, his mind turned to his other erstwhile companions. He dredged his memories of those endless days and nights in the African hills, seeking out a single conversation he’d had with his Italian friend. It had been as they left that land and were moving on to Spain, he recalled, that they’d spoken of the future. Orsini would return to Genoa, to the palace of his relatives. The Visconti. The Palazzo Visconti. If he was not still there, then the occupants might at least know of his friend’s current location. And almost certainly, if he found Orsini, he would find Parmenio and Nicolo, too.

  Genoa, then. First a good night’s sleep, then the Medici house, re-equipping and purchasing a good steed, and then with care and ease, a couple of months’ journey round the coasts of Spain and France and to Genoa, seeking out more information as he travelled.

  By the time the barkeep arrived with his meal, Skiouros had decided on his plan of action and was already picturing the faces of his friends.

  CHAPTER TWO - Genoa, Summer 1493

  The one thing that was clear about the great metropolis of Genoa was that it was a city and a state that revolved entirely around its naval empire. It was not so much a city with a large port at its heart, but more a huge port with a city crammed around its edge and spreading up the hillsides beyond. The numerous harbours and docks and jetties that filled it played host to more docked ships than Skiouros could ever imagine seeing in the same place and time. So many different shapes and sizes, each with different colourings and flags, and surprisingly little of the water’s surface to be seen between them.

  The road from the northwest led down through sloping land dotted with farms and to a gate in the heavy, impressive walls, marked by two tall, elegant towers and the stream of carts and pedestrians passing beneath in both directions.

  Despite his original plans, Skiouros found himself thinking more about the port than about the Palazzo Visconti, given its clear size and importance, and settled on the thriving naval hub as his first port of call. The horse he rode huffed in the warm morning air and shook her head. Sigma, he had named her, and she had become less of a possession and more of a companion throughout the protracted journey from Malaga.

  ‘I know, girl. It’s been a long haul. But soon we’ll rest. If Cesare is at the palace, he’ll see us to good accommodation and fodder. If not, I’ll find us the best inn in the city. Come on.’

  Urging Sigma forward again, he walked her down the slope and soon joined the queue for the gate. A continual stream of vehicles, horses and pedestrians issued from the city and most of those carts were empty. The majority of the vehicles rolling down the gentle road to the twin towers were heavily laden with goods, mostly fruit or veg or livestock. Perhaps today was a market day and the local farmers flocked to sell their produce? Slowly the line edged forward and Skiouros examined the powerful walls as he closed on them. Clearly Genoa felt exposed and the need to protect herself. Such walls could vie with the great cities of the east and south for their strength. Genoa could withstand a siege for some time, he decided.

  And then he was beneath the shadow of the gate, watching as the local farmer in front allowed the gate’s guards to poke through the bags and bundles in his hand cart. With a nod they waved him into the city and then peered up at the man on the horse. Skiouros had shaved and trimmed back his facial hair before leaving Spain, adopting the current fashion of a neatly-tended goat-like beard. His travelling clothes were of plain, yet good quality and hardwearing browns and greys, and his horse was bedecked in good leather harness, saddle and bags, but nothing ostentatious.

  ‘What’s your business in Genoa?’ the guard asked, holding up a hand and grasping Sigma’s bridle.

  ‘I have business at the port and at the Palazzo Visconti,’ Skiouros said calmly. No point in dissembling now. The truth would do no harm, and might buy him quick passage.

  ‘From
where do you hail?’

  This was, to Skiouros, such a complex question these days that he found it difficult to decide on an answer, but found himself saying ‘From Spain,’ before his brain had bothered to get ahead of his mouth.

  The two guards looked at one another and shrugged. The first turned back to him. ‘Two denari tax for foreign entrants, payable upon arrival.’ He let go of Sigma’s reins and held out his hand, palm-up. Skiouros could see the falsity of the tax and the guard’s apparent corruption in his expression, but such a small sum was simply not worth arguing over. Fishing in his purse and making sure to keep it positioned so that the man could not see the glint of gold from within, he produced two of the small coins he had been acquiring in change since he had crossed from France a few days ago. The guard looked down at the money produced with such a lack of argument, clearly wondering whether he could have got away with charging more, but nodded and stood back with his friend, allowing Skiouros to ride past and into the city.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me where to go to enquire about vessels in the port?’ he asked as he walked Sigma slowly past. The second guard threw his arm out and pointed down one of the streets leading off towards the port.

  ‘Go down there and when you get to the dock area, look for a long arcaded building with three stories between two sets of warehouses. That’s the port authorities. They’ll be able to tell you whatever you need to know. If you get lost, ask anyone down there. It’s hard to miss.’

  Skiouros nodded his thanks and crossed the busy area inside the gate, making for the road the guard had indicated. The street led between tall buildings housing shops and taverns and professional residences and more than one bawdy house, and he felt quite ‘city-blind’ by the time he reached the end of the road and it opened out into the wide space of the port, with its endless ranks of warehouses, official buildings and yet more and more taverns and brothels.