Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  If he had thought the port of Malaga busy and chaotic, it seemed provincial beside this. The port of Genoa was like a seething anthill full of sailors, officials, dockers, teamsters, traders, guards, whores, drunkards, vagrants and the occasional religious zealot haranguing the passers-by from the top of a barrel.

  Trying to ignore the chaos of it all, Skiouros made his way around the dock until he spotted his destination. Two sets of large, featureless, functional looking buildings flanked an older, more palatial structure with delicate arcading and leaded windows. Smoke poured from four chimneys at its roof, and the port guards by the door had long since given up challenging the endless stream of officials and workers and merchants that poured through the entrance in both directions.

  Skiouros rode closer and, spotting the tethering rail, slid from the saddle and walked Sigma over to the long hitching post, where he carefully affixed her reins. The attendant, wearing the same colours as the guards - denoting his official capacity - but devoid of weapons or armour, took two small coins from him in payment and gave him a chit marking how many bags the horse held. Their contents were not checked, and Skiouros had little choice but to trust him.

  Inside, the place was no less busy and chaotic than the main harbour. Visitors and workers thronged every hall and corridor, shouting to each other, creating a din that made it extremely hard to think. Skiouros tried to shut out the noise and focused on using his eyes. Signs pointed down each corridor and marked each individual office, and Skiouros ignored the ones that were clearly dedicated to specific nationalities. Scouring the ground floor he found a number of potential rooms, marked by signs, but once he crested the stairs, his gaze picked out the sign ‘Registered owners - Genovese’ and he pushed through the throng towards that door.

  Inside - and getting through the entrance had been a feat in itself - a desk sealed off most of the room. Three men stood at the counter, each with a large, leather tome. The rest of the room was filled with endless rows and racks of journals and books. With a breath of warm air, infused with distant wood-smoke and all-too-near body odour, Skiouros joined what could charitably be called a line and waited. Every minute or so, the queue shuffled slightly and the ranks of folk standing in it fought to be a little closer to their goal.

  Skiouros’ mind filled him with images of local thieves - there would undoubtedly be hundreds in a port like this - going through his saddle bags while the attendant’s back was turned. Nothing he could do about it now, though he struggled forward with a little more force as a gap in the mob opened up.

  After what felt like an age, he found himself at the desk, alongside a short man in a stupid green hat who had been behind him moments before. The official looked up from his journal, his eyes playing across the two men.

  ‘Name?’

  The short man opened his mouth to go first but the Greek dropped his boot heel on the bridge of the man’s foot, and his jaw clamped shut in shock as Skiouros spoke. ‘I’m looking for a captain named Parmenio. Not sure of his ship’s name, but I believe he’ll be based in this port.’

  The official gave him a long-suffering look, weighted with boredom, and said ‘bear with me,’ as he returned his ledger to a shelf and went in search of another. The short customer recovered quickly and gave Skiouros a hard look. ‘There was no need for that!’

  ‘I disagree. Where I come from, pushing past a citizen like that could get you a broken nose. Be content with a bruise.’

  ‘Oaf!’ sneered the small man, but he recoiled a little as Skiouros turned a fierce glare on him. Moments later the official returned with his book.

  ‘I’ve checked. No captain Parmenio registered here. Are you sure he’s an owner, and not just an operator?’

  Skiouros furrowed his brow as a thought struck him. ‘Could be under Orsini. Cesare Orsini?’

  The official cast that same bored look at him, sighed and stumped off to the racks of ledgers again. Skiouros occupied himself glaring at the small man in the ridiculous hat who had now shuffled around just behind him, and muttered a few derogatory remarks about his parentage in Greek.

  ‘Orsini,’ said the official, returning. ‘Cesare Orsini. Yes, he’s registered.’ The man tapped his lip with the first expression of remote interest Skiouros had seen from him. ‘Didn’t know the noble houses were bothering with such small concerns. Usually the big families deal through factors and circumvent the authorities.’

  ‘He’s not your average nobleman,’ Skiouros smiled.

  ‘Well you’ll find his ships currently in port at berths fifty seven and fifty eight, opposite the church of San Marco by the Pier. There’s the Isabella II and the Dream of Carthage. The latter’s just been commissioned. The first is…’ his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth, ‘yes the Isabella II is under a captain Parmenio. The Carthage is under one Nicolo di Siginella. That all?’

  Skiouros grinned and tossed a coin onto the counter. ‘Perfect. Many thanks.’

  As he turned and left, the official looked down in distaste at the paltry coin on the desk and flicked it off to the floor with a fingernail before looking down at the short man with the green hat.

  Quarter of an hour later Skiouros, somewhat relieved at still being fully burdened by his possessions, located the church, after some judicious enquiries, and found the twin berths either side of a jetty. The Isabella II wallowed heavy in the water, loaded with cargo ready for a voyage. She was clearly only a couple of years old, and still had a sheen of newness to her. Conversely, the Dream of Carthage opposite was so new she still smelled of carpentry and paint. Skiouros smiled as he looked at the pair of good caravels. It was hard to picture those days - not all that long ago - when the captains of these two ships had languished in a Tunisian slave cell alongside he and Cesare, having lost everything to pirates.

  Dismounting again, he led Sigma along the jetty, pleased that the roan seemed not the least perturbed by the wooden walkway, the two huge, hulking ships and the water swirling around and churning beneath them. Neither vessel had a ramp down, and the lack of goods on the jetty made it clear that neither was currently busy loading or unloading.

  Catching sight of a man coiling a rope as he walked along the side rail of the Isabella II, Skiouros cleared his throat and gestured to the man.

  ‘Ho there, fellow. I’m looking for captain Parmenio.’

  The man stopped and looked over the side but before he could speak, a voice from behind Skiouros said ‘Then you’re looking on the wrong ship.’

  The young Greek turned and looked up at the deck of the Dream of Carthage. Parmenio leaned on the rail. His clothing was little better than Skiouros remembered, still worn and business-like, but there was about the captain an energy and a presence that he’d not seen since they first met.

  ‘Parmenio.’

  ‘I’m a busy man. What’s your business?’

  Skiouros experienced a crestfallen moment, but recalled how different he must look even after so short a time. ‘Am I that unrecognisable?’

  Parmenio narrowed his eyes as he peered down and a moment later the familiar face of Nicolo appeared at the rail beside him. ‘Rub your eyes you old fart, it’s Skiouros!’

  Parmenio burst into a broad grin. ‘By the saints, I do believe you’re right. You’ve been gone a time, lad. And in bright sunshine by the look of it. You’ve changed colour almost entirely.’

  Nicolo disappeared and a moment later a small group of sailors appeared further along and slid out a wide boarding ramp. ‘Best bring your horse aboard. Can’t leave animals alone around here,’ Nicolo grinned. ‘It’d be braised and eaten in an hour.’

  As Parmenio wandered along the rail to join him, Skiouros led Sigma up the ramp, noting again how calm she seemed in the strange circumstances. Whatever she’d done before he bought her in Malaga, she had clearly been aboard a ship more than once. ‘Have you somewhere to stable her?’

  Nicolo gave him a sour look. ‘And here was I telling Parmenio that I’d be doing no livestock ru
ns and my ship would stay cleaner than his. If that beast drops a steamer in my hold, you’ll be shifting it and scrubbing the boards.’ He sighed. ‘But yes, we’ve got a berth for her.’ He turned and waved to a man tightening ropes at the ship’s side. ‘Giani, can you take my friend’s horse down below and make sure she’s secure and comfortable. And see if you can find her an apple.’

  The sailor nodded and wandered over, grasping the reins and leading the horse away. Nicolo gestured for Skiouros to follow and the two men joined Parmenio, who had shuffled along to the rear rail. They were alone at the ship’s stern, surrounded by the background noises of the port and its avian life.

  ‘Some voyage you went on by all accounts,’ grinned Nicolo.

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘Anyone in the maritime world has heard, my young friend. The news has been racing around the ports of Europe for a month and more now, and captain Colombo is from Genoa you know? Out towards the edge of the world, eh. A whole new land, they say?’

  ‘And a green, lush one at that,’ Skiouros replied. ‘Although given that there were people already living there when we arrived, I’m not sure that ‘new’ is the right term. Colombo and the Pinzon captains congratulated each other at their discovery and slapped backs and all that, but a sailor got beaten for pointing out that the people we met there had obviously discovered it first. Apparently, if they don’t follow the ‘good book’ they don’t really count as people. Makes me sick to the stomach really. Glad I left Spain in short order. That country is a dangerous place to think too much.’

  The two captains smiled warmly and Parmenio draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘I really thought we might have lost you for good when you disappeared off in that boat at Palos.’

  ‘I was lucky to live through it. Damned pirates.’ He paused and frowned. ‘Though one of them also saved my life there, funnily enough…’

  Nicolo tapped the side of his nose. ‘’Damned pirates’ is a sentiment shared by many these days. The old Turk we met in Palos is the scourge of the seas now, though he’s fairly careful in selecting his targets. Few Italian ships have fallen to him recently - Bayezid is in constant talks with Pope, you know - and those the pirate takes are generally ones with ties to The Spanish crown or the Kingdom of Napoli, but woe-betide a Spaniard who comes within range of his guns.’

  Skiouros nodded. ‘So I’d heard. Kemal, they call him.’

  ‘He’s not so dangerous in Ligurian waters, though,’ Parmenio added. ‘He’s careful to avoid entanglements with the Pope’s allies - apart from Spain, of course. Anyway, are you here for a while? We’ve a few more chores to complete before the sun sets, but between us, Nicolo and I know every tavern worth a visit in the whole sorry place, and I for one want to hear every last detail of your voyage.’

  ‘Such as where you got this,’ added Nicolo, tapping the coloured design rising from Skiouros’ doublet neckline and almost touching his chin.

  Skiouros smiled. ‘I’m certainly not rushing off. I have a lot of thinking and planning to do, and then sometime in the next month or two I will be heading south. I was hoping I could count on you for passage to Rome when the time comes? I’ll try to fit in with your business of course.’

  The older captain gave him a knowing smile. ‘The false sultan’s days are numbered, then?’ he asked in a low voice.

  Skiouros, surprised almost to the point of panic, glanced this way and that for anyone who might have overheard, but they were apparently alone. ‘I don’t know how you heard that, but it’s not something to speak about in the open.’

  ‘Agreed,’ admonished Nicolo with a disapproving look at his former captain. ‘Your mouth runneth over, Parmenio.’

  ‘Ah calm, now. No one is listening, and anyone who might be within earshot’s one of mine or one of yours. Still,’ he added, rolling his neck, ‘it might be a subject better discussed with Cesare.’

  ‘He’s here then? In Genoa?’

  ‘And has been this past half year, making a packet and a small name for himself as a mercenary captain with a small but effective group of professional soldiers. He ended a contract with the Sforzas a few weeks back and he and his men are back in the Palazzo counting their loot and recovering from their efforts.’

  ‘It was Cesare who told you of Cem?’

  Nicolo nodded. ‘He’s a perceptive one, young Orsini. He’d pieced together most of your story before your ship was even out of sight. When Parmenio and I filled in a few blanks in your past, it all fell into place. Cesare has been keeping tabs on the Turk prince through a few family members and contacts in Rome. He said you would want all the information we could provide when you resurfaced. He was always convinced you would turn up here on the way to your revenge.’

  ‘We could provide?’ Skiouros repeated.

  ‘Yes. Parmenio and I do runs down the coast to Civitavecchia and Ostia quite regularly, and you learn a lot by keeping your ears open in a port.’

  ‘So you have no objection to giving me passage to Rome? Even though you know my goal?’

  Parmenio laughed. ‘Hardly. Unless you want to go late in the year, of course. Then the currents change, and so does the wind. Sailing south after September is like trying to piss into a gale. Nothing much happens but you end up wet through and miserable. But rest assured, whatever you decide to do you won’t have to do it alone, even if we have to ride rather than sail.’

  Skiouros shook his head. ‘This is my task, you two, and mine alone. It’s a very personal thing, and so risky it’ll almost certainly end in my death or my incarceration by the Vatican.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ grinned Parmenio. ‘Cesare and Nicolo and I made the decision months ago. We survived Hassan’s slave trade together and crossed half the Muslim world with nothing but our wits and the shirts on our back.’

  ‘And the odd case of the shits,’ grinned Nicolo.

  ‘We’re not about to abandon you now. Anyway, Cesare will never let you go alone, and we owe him our livelihood now. With Orsini money behind us, we can afford to hold off the runs for a while. Nicolo? Can your chores wait? We should get up to the palace and let Cesare know he’s reappeared.’

  ‘Just got one or two urgent things to do first. Give me twenty minutes.’ Nicolo slumped. ‘But if we go there straight away we’ll end up stuck in the Palazzo all night and we’ll miss all the best taverns.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Parmenio laughed. ‘The Palazzo’s wine cellars are better stocked than any inn, and their larders packed with food. Come on, Skiouros. You and I will share a jar in Nicolo’s cabin for half an hour while he finishes his work. Then we’ll go and find Cesare. Stuff the rest of the jobs. They can wait on the morrow.’

  Skiouros looked back and forth between his friends. Though he would never have asked them to join him in his murderous task, he could not help but feel relieved and grateful that they had offered their swords to his cause. It would make matters much easier.

  The Palazzo Visconti had once been a grand affair - as its name suggested. It had clearly been one of the more imposing monuments of the city some years previously. Standing in a square, hemmed in on all sides by tall town houses and mercantile establishments, it displayed all the grandeur of a royal residence, with delicate balconies hanging outside decorative windows, heavy walls which betrayed its original martial nature redesigned and painted pale yellow and with a heraldic shield above the door which drew the eye: a giant blue snake swallowing a man.

  However, the paint was now peeling. Stonework was chipped and crumbling. Balconies missing struts on their railings. Scaffolding climbed up one quarter of the building with workmen repairing the more run-down parts. No guards stood by the door, and no flags, banners or drapes were in evidence.

  ‘Looks like Cesare’s family are feeling a pinch in the purse,’ noted Skiouros.

  Parmenio shook his head. ‘Don’t be deceived by appearances.’

  Strolling across the open ground to the main doors, with Skiouros walking Sigma, Parmenio reache
d up to the rope that hung from the heavy bronze bell to one side and rang with four deep clangs. Townsfolk paused in their work to glance across at the visitors, but immediately went back to their business.

  After perhaps half a minute the door creaked open and a cadaver in black with a thimble-shaped hat and a cold grey gaze stared out at them.

  ‘Master Parmenio,’ he nodded. ‘Master Nicolo. Ser Orsini is in his study. Shall I show you up?’

  Parmenio grasped the reins of Skiouros’ horse and walked her forward a little, smiling. ‘It’s alright, Caruso, we know the way. Could you see to the stabling of this fine mare and then rustle us up some good wine and a plate of something pleasant?’

  The pale, skeletal retainer arched an eyebrow but gingerly took the reins, looking with suspicious interest at Skiouros at the back of the line.

  ‘He’s with us, Caruso. An old friend of Cesare’s.’

  The servant nodded as though he couldn’t care less and once they were inside, led the horse into the palazzo behind them, the hooves echoing hollowly on the marble floor. Leaving him to his work, Parmenio led the small group through the arched entrance vestibule and out into the courtyard at the centre of the palazzo.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Parmenio smiled as Skiouros took in the sheer beauty and delicacy of the courtyard with its triple-storeyed arcades on all sides, the hanging banners and the attractive willow in the centre. It reeked of old-fashioned and understated opulence.

  ‘Why such a poor exterior then?’ he asked.

  A voice from above called down. ‘Because the Visconti used to rule Genoa before the Sforza,’ Cesare said from the next floor, leaning over the balcony. ‘Now those of them who are left descend from bastards and offshoots who cling to a name not rightfully theirs. Given the hubris of the Sforza it suits the last scions of the Visconti to keep themselves as low-key as possible and not rile their successors.’ He touched his forelock. ‘Well met once more, Skiouros of Constantinople. Bring him up, you two. We have much to discuss.’

  And without further ado he was gone. Skiouros blinked. Cesare had always been so sharp he could cut through silk, but he almost sounded as though he had expected them.