Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Again, the young Greek studied the rooms and stairways as they passed through the palazzo, noting the paintings, the tapestries and the exquisite marble statuary that looked so like the ancient Greek and Roman figures back home in Istanbul. Before he had sailed into the unknown, when they were still being hunted by Hassan the butcher, Orsini had told him that money was no concern. Now he understood - he’d never seen anywhere so richly appointed. This must be how kings lived. Until now he’d had no concept of the kind of wealth of which his friend talked - the three golden statues he had brought back from the Taino and he’d considered a king’s ransom were probably worth less than one of the delicate vases lining the corridor. Truly, money was going to be no concern!

  Up the stairs to the next floor his friend led him, along the balcony from which Cesare had spoken to them in the courtyard, and finally to a room, more austere than he had expected, given the rest of the building. Lit by one external window and an oil lamp, the room’s frescos had faded somewhat and were mostly covered by hanging maps of Liguria, Italy entire, the Duchies of Milan, Florence and Modena and the Papal lands. A table was stacked with neat piles of maps and documents, and a single chair sat before it. As they entered the empty room, Cesare reappeared behind them, carrying two chairs, which he shuffled past them and dropped to the floor.

  ‘Take a seat, my friends. You look well, Skiouros. Sea travel apparently sits well with you.’

  ‘I heartily disagree,’ smiled the Greek. ‘But yes, I am well. Better than ever, in fact.’

  ‘Good. As I said, we have much to discuss, but first I wish to clarify two things. We can speak plainly here. Only Caruso might drop by and the man is as loyal to our family as could be hoped for.’

  Skiouros wandered over and fell into one of the chairs as Cesare gestured for them all to sit while he himself leaned against the table. ‘You are somewhat more prepared than I expected,’ the young Greek noted.

  ‘I know you well, Skiouros, for all our brief acquaintance. I could not envisage a future that did not include you arriving at my door as part of your quest. But as I say, there are two questions of import before we go any further.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The Skiouros I travelled with across Africa I do not think was capable of murder, whatever the cause. For do not be mistaken about this: no matter what your grand thoughts of revenge and justice, what you propose is basically murder. It is against the law of man and God, and a man has to have a darkness in his heart to achieve such a goal - a darkness with which I am unfortunately rather familiar, given my family. Do you truly have that shadow in your soul, Skiouros? Can you kill a man in cold blood?’

  Skiouros remained stony faced and silent.

  ‘We will come with you,’ Cesare said quietly. ‘We will do everything we can to aid you - we have already agreed on this - but when you reach your goal, it will fall to you to complete it. This is not our vengeance to enact... it is yours. So before we embark on this great and dangerous task, I want you to be sure that this is what you wish and that you can actually do it.’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘Again. Revenge is a hollow achievement. It as oft destroys its perpetrator as its victim. Think about what you’re saying and tell me again.’

  ‘I can take the life of Cem sultan, in cold blood, with malice and even if the man cowers naked and unarmed. Is that enough?’

  ‘No,’ replied Cesare flatly. ‘Look me in the eye while you say it.’

  Skiouros fixed his friend with a direct look. ‘I can kill the pretender sultan.’

  Orsini paused, watching his friend’s eyes. Finally he leaned back and folded his arms. ‘I remain not entirely convinced. But you seem to believe it, so I accept it as the truth.’ He rolled his head, his neck clicking. ‘Secondly, this is not a quick jaunt. You are talking about assassinating a man in the custody of one of the world’s most powerful rulers in a land that is almost constantly at war with itself. Getting to your target will be difficult and almost certainly a long, involved job. You were ever urgent and impetuous in Africa. A man with those traits going into this task is fated for failure and capture. Are you capable of the patience and attention to detail required?’

  ‘I am, Cesare. I am not the boy you remember. I know the value of patience, and I am prepared for a long haul. I suspect it will take more than a year, perhaps nearer two. Are you satisfied?’

  Cesare nodded. ‘Fair enough. Now let me give you some information before we get down to the deepest business.’

  He paused as Caruso appeared in the door with a wheeled trolley containing cups, glasses, drink containers and a variety of breads, cold meats, cheeses and platters of olives, vegetables and fruit. Once the servant had bowed and retreated, Cesare poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip.

  ‘By now, unless you’ve been travelling with blinkers on and your ears muffled, you will have heard that we have a new Pope?’

  Skiouros nodded and Cesare rubbed his temple as he talked. ‘The Spanish cardinal, Rodrigo Borgia, became Pope Alexander the sixth mere weeks after we last saw you. Since then he has been carefully weeding out his enemies in the Vatican and replacing them with supporters or ‘bought men’, even bringing in his own guards from home. If the rumours are true, and I see no reason to disbelieve them, Borgia basically bought, bribed and tricked his way to power and has brought his illegitimate children and his mistress into the circles of power with him, in flagrant disregard to Church law.’

  ‘And yet your voice carries little disapproval,’ Skiouros noted with a frown. ‘I remember you telling me with distaste how much his predecessor sickened you with his immoral behaviour, yet you talk so matter of factly about a church man with a penchant for bastardy and bribes?’

  Cesare smiled. 'You're not Italian. If you were, you'd realise that being a profligate usurer with a string of bastards doesn't even put a man in the top half of the list of deficient Popes! Anyway, while old Innocent was happy to leave the exiled sultan to languish in Vatican custody and claim the annual stipend from his brother, this Borgia Pope seems to actually like the prince and involve him in matters. He is often seen at social affairs and has his own apartments. It is said that the Pope treats with the Turk, despite the fact that Kemal Reis is sinking Spanish ships wherever he can find them and Bayezid’s armies busy themselves rolling across the borders of Croatia at this very moment. I think that probably secretly pleases the Pope, since Venice holds a lot of the land that lies in the Sultan’s path, and the Venetians are hardly Borgia’s biggest supporters.'

  Skiouros huffed and poured himself a drink. ‘Italian politics is never simple, is it? So, will that make getting to Cem easier or more difficult, do you think?’

  Cesare shrugged. ‘That is yet to be determined. One thing is certain: our task will be a lot easier if the Vatican remains blissfully unaware of any threat, so we must be circumspect and subtle. Cem commonly resides in lavish apartments in the apostolic palace of the Vatican, under the Pope’s own roof. However, a few months back there were rumours circulating concerning two plots - one to murder Cem, and one to free him. The moment the news reached the Pope’s ears, our quarry was spirited away in the blink of an eye to the powerful Castel Sant’Angelo, where he was protected by high defences and a veritable army. Getting into the Vatican would take planning and subtlety. Getting into the Castel Sant’Angelo would take an army. You see my point?’

  Skiouros nodded.

  ‘What about guards?’ he asked.

  Parmenio cleared his throat. ‘Interestingly, Cem is not in the custody of the Pope’s own Vatican forces, or even his personal Catalan guard. You see, as a cardinal, Borgia was a great supporter and patron of the Knights Hospitaller of Malta, and so they are now Cem’s guards. Ironic, really, since it was they who first took him captive after his failed coup, and who kept him hostage in France for so many years. Their involvement will make our task a little more difficult, I fear. Spanish mercenaries could probably be bought or bribed, and Vatican g
uards tricked or reassigned, but I know the Knights of Malta of old, from my trading in the eastern islands and they are unlikely to bend or be corrupted.’

  Skiouros sighed. He could remember quite well the old priest in Tunis who had saved them from slavery and who had turned out to be just such a knight. Indeed, he could see that same knight’s sword now hanging in its sheath from a peg in the study wall, brought all this way by, and still in the possession of, Cesare Orsini. If that old man was anything to go by, the sultan’s guard would be troublesome indeed. Moreover, even if he had now decided he was capable of killing in cold blood, the idea that he might have to take a blade to one of those holy knights seemed very definitely wrong.

  ‘There’s his entourage, though,’ Nicolo mused. ‘If there is a way into his presence, it might be through them.’

  Cesare nodded, noting Skiouros’ questioning look. ‘Cem is allowed many comforts. He corresponds with his mother, who resides in Cairo, and it is said he is even to bring one of his wives to the Vatican. He has an entourage of perhaps half a dozen of his countrymen who tend to him like the slaves of a sultan. They are the only people with continual access to Cem, apart from the Knights and the Pope himself… and the Pope’s eldest son, of course. My namesake. Cesare Borgia is a man to watch carefully. They say he will have a knife in your heart before you even know he’s in the room. A dangerous and extremely intelligent man. And wearing the robes of a cardinal to boot, as he carves his own little empire out of the body of Italy.’

  Skiouros took a swig of his wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and coughed. ‘So far I hear very little that is encouraging.’

  ‘There is nothing encouraging. Listen, my friend: this is not a simple task. Be prepared for setbacks and disappointments at every turn. But with the grace of God and the luck of the Devil, we will manage.’

  ‘You have contacts in Rome, Parmenio tells me?’ enquired Skiouros, trying to grasp for a sliver of hope in the face of all this negativity.

  ‘Yes, but few we can rely on for more than a little gossip. And fewer all the time. The various branches of the Orsini family only avoid all-out war with one another because we hate - and are hated by - most of the other noble families, so there isn’t time to fight among ourselves. That means that despite there being two noble Orsini landowners in the Rome area, neither would help us. More irritating still, I have a distant cousin who is a cardinal with feasible access to the prisoner, but he would rather help Cem sultan assassinate me than the other way around. Add to that the fact that most of the Orsini branches are currently on poor terms with the Pope and you can see how fruitless the majority of my contacts will be.’

  He took an olive from a plate and tossed it into the air, catching it in his open mouth.

  ‘But...’ he smiled as he chewed and swallowed, ‘our luck might be in. My former confessor and theology tutor left our family pile after my own departure and now resides in Rome as a member of the Canons Regular of the Lateran. He and I are still in semi-regular contact and it is he who has provided much of what I know of the situation in the city and the Vatican. On him I feel we can rely. He is certainly no lover of the Turk, as he came to us as a refugee from Shkodra in Albania, where his family had died at the hands of the Sultan’s army.’

  ‘The Ottoman war machine is a thing to be feared,’ said Skiouros darkly, remembering the Janissary Ortas he had met in his time in Istanbul, which in turn flashed an unwelcome image of his lost brother into his mind.

  ‘So that is where we stand.’ Cesare announced. ‘We have one solid trustworthy contact in Rome. We have access to good sea transport, courtesy of our friends here. We have a small force of men we can rely upon, to whom I will come shortly. We have funds enough to do whatever we wish. Cem is well-kept as a distinguished guest in the Vatican unless there is word of danger, when he is shipped to the safety of the castle. He is guarded by the Hospitaller knights and has a private entourage.’

  Cesare paused and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You any good with that stick of yours?’

  ‘Fairly good. I was taught by the natives who use them, though I still carry a sword too.’

  ‘Good. They could be useful. Now show me your tattoos.’

  Skiouros blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘I can see the marks at your neck, but most of them are hidden. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he presents himself. Only sailors tattoo themselves without profound reasons, and for all your recent voyage, you are no sailor. That tells me that your marks carry meaning, and I would like to know what they are. Will you oblige?’

  Skiouros thought for a moment and then with a shrug began to unlace his doublet and remove his shirt. The other three helped themselves to more food and drink as they waited and when the young Greek stood naked to the waist, his muscled torso sun-browned and decorated, they examined him with interest, Cesare raising the oil lamp to help illuminate the designs.

  ‘Your shoulders have filled out,’ Cesare noted, ‘and your arms are more heavily muscled.’

  ‘Sailor traits,’ Parmenio nodded. ‘That’s the build of a man who’s been hauling on lines and rowing boats for months.’

  Talk me through these,’ Cesare said, gesturing at the colourful tattoos that began on Skiouros’ right forearm and rose to his neck, extending even to part his right pectoral.

  ‘Most of it is decorative,’ Skiouros said, turning to show his upper arm and shoulder more clearly in the flickering light. ‘These are the important parts.’ He pointed with his free hand at two circular shapes surrounded by swirling patterns reminiscent of stylised knotted vines. One resembled a snarling face with hollowed eyes and bared teeth. ‘This is the guayza. This is the living spirit of my brother, who is yet to rest.’ The other circle was blank, but similar in shape. A hole in the tattoo. ‘This is where the opia will go - the spirit of the dead. I will fill this in when I believe Lykaion is at peace, when Cem sultan rots in hell. Until then it remains blank.’

  He moved his finger up to his shoulder, to another stretched face reaching up to his neck, where the top of the head became dancing flames. ‘This is dreadful Bayamanaco, eternally burning with the flame of wrath. I assume you can appreciate the significance of the ensemble.’

  ‘You’ve been hobnobbing with too many savages,’ snorted Nicolo. ‘You look like a bad tapestry. Got bored on the ship did you?’

  Parmenio however, bore a thoughtful expression. ‘I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot more gaudy and less meaningful tattoos on men who pulled ropes on my ship.’ He turned to Nicolo. ‘After all, there’s a man I saw on your deck yesterday who appears to have a dead surprised turbot on his back. And it’s the wrong colour.’

  Orsini tapped his lip. ‘It would appear that you take your goal extremely seriously. At least, I choose to believe so rather than that you have these permanent reminders purely to convince yourself and keep yourself on track. Good. Better get dressed. I’m going to take you somewhere in a minute.’

  ‘Won’t be able to go about pretending to be a priest now,’ grinned Parmenio. ‘Not with those inks up to your neck.’

  ‘It would be of little use dressing as a Greek Orthodox priest in the heart of Rome anyway,’ noted Nicolo scathingly. ‘But Parmenio is correct about those marks. Time to start wearing a high collar or a scarf. All too interesting and memorable, those.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Cesare shrugged. ‘For what I have in mind, something memorable and interesting might be just the thing. Perhaps you should unlace that sleeve and leave your decorated arm bare.’

  ‘You want to infiltrate the upper circles of Rome and attempt an assassination with us as interesting and memorable as possible? With Skiouros looking like an ancient mosaic?’ frowned Parmenio.

  ‘Come.’

  Cesare rose from his seat and left the room, replacing his wine on the table before he did so. Skiouros threw the rest of his own glass down his throat and followed suit. Parmenio and Nicolo exchanged quick glances and grabbed handfuls
of beef and bread and a fresh glass of wine to take with them.

  Back along the arcaded balcony and down the stairs they walked, back across the courtyard and into a corridor that was less decorative and more serviceable, flagged with stone rather than marble. The three visitors followed their host, occasionally looking at one another and shrugging in incomprehension. Once more they climbed, up a small spiral staircase that seemed to hearken back to the palazzo’s days as a fortress. Finally, as they arrived at the top, they emerged onto a similar balcony, though much shorter and overlooking a smaller courtyard. There, Cesare stopped and rested his elbows on the rail.

  The friends stopped next to him and looked down. In the courtyard, three men were busy sparring, stripped to the waist, their perspiring forms sun-bronzed and muscular. A huge titan of a man with braided blond hair was busy with a heavy sword hacking chunks from a wooden post. A thinner man with more traditional Italian colouring was stabbing and lunging with a pike at a wooden ring hanging from a rope, which swung in the breeze, while the third man - a stick-thin figure with jet black hair - wound a crossbow.

  ‘Your mercenaries,’ Parmenio shrugged. ‘Nice to see they’re keeping in shape between contracts. Didn’t you have four?’

  Cesare nodded. ‘Adolfo lost an arm last month at Faenza. He chose to take a large payment and retire. With the money I gave him he can buy a good woman to replace that arm!’ He laughed and then turned, his face taking a serious cast as he looked at Skiouros. ‘Yes, these are my men. With them we form a unit of Condottieri mercenaries - a ‘Lance’ is the technical term, though we are currently slightly depleted. I think that is about to change, though.’

  Skiouros looked at his raised brow and frowned. As he glanced back down at the soldiers and the details of the missing man sank in, he shook his head. ‘I’m no soldier, Cesare.’

  ‘Oh but you are. Remember I saw you fight more than once on our way across Africa, and you could hold your own in any Ducal army. And if you’re going to drive that pig-sticker of yours into the Turk’s heart, it would serve you well to numb yourself to the taking of life first. You want to move in the higher circles of Roman society? You won’t get there as a priest or a peasant, and you’ve not the name nor the blood to pass as a nobleman. You want access to the aristocracy of the Vatican? The only way I see that you can do that is to be hired by them. The Vatican army is often bolstered by large units of hired Condottieri on long-term contracts. The Pope doesn’t have the manpower to maintain a huge field army, but he’s never short of mercenary captains willing to sign on. Think on it, Skiouros. We could sign on in Rome and you might be working directly for the Pope. How much closer can you get to the top? How else do you see us gaining access to the Vatican or the Castel Sant’Angelo?’