Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Suddenly his back struck stone and he realised they had reached the wall. Risking a momentary glance behind, he saw Parmenio struggling to open the door, but denied the space to do so as the fight had now pressed right back against him. Girolamo was fighting to give him room, but the enemy were too strong and too numerous.

  ‘It’s unlocked but I can’t open the benighted bloody thing!’ fumed Parmenio, hauling at the door and trying to open it into the press of bodies.

  A muted voice called something from beyond the door, and the unheard words were repeated louder with a German twang: ‘Stand back!’

  There was as much chance of them standing back as of them leaping gracefully over the wall, but in response Girolamo and Nicolo joined him in attempting to heave the men at arms back. The Roccabruna men had taken on a sudden edge of desperation, realising that the postern gate was close to falling.

  And then the door burst suddenly inwards, throwing Parmenio against the stonework and catapulting Nicolo forwards onto the forms of the desperate enemy. Helwyg barrelled through the gate, freed of its resistance, like a bull in full charge, his sheer momentum shattering the defence of the men at arms, who were knocked aside like children’s’ toys as the Silesian titan swung his huge blade, hacking off any protrusion in its way, be it weapon or limb. In the wake of this huge nightmare came the gleaming black and gold armoured figure of Cesare Orsini, sword in one hand, parrying dagger in the other. The steel-encased nobleman waded into the enemy like some sort of machine, cutting, jabbing, flensing and stepping between the fallen as though the heavy plate mail he wore were nothing more than a nightshirt. As always in the midst of combat, Skiouros was given cause to admire the sheer martial skill of his friend. A better swordsman he had never met.

  The tide had momentarily turned. The arrival of the knight and the giant had collapsed the attack, but they were still horribly outnumbered and more and more men were hurrying towards them.

  ‘Cesare?’ he called.

  The shining helm turned towards him. ‘Hold for just a moment, Skiouros. Captain Cinozza is almost here with his men. We’ve done it, my friend. We’ve done it.’

  Laughing gaily like a madman, Cesare waded off among the enemy, whirling blades and stamping down among the fallen. Skiouros paused for a moment and smiled. His ears picked out the sound of hundreds of men scrambling up that icy scree outside the gate. Cesare was right. Against all the odds, they had succeeded.

  Captain Cinozza laughed with Parmenio at some joke the pair had shared, their arms draped across each other’s shoulders and both spattered in the lifeblood of their enemy. Skiouros walked along behind as befitted a mercenary under his condottiere, Girolamo and Helwyg flanking him, Parmenio and Nicolo between them and the commanders as was suitable for Cesare’s page and squire. Nicolo had taken a bad arm wound and a glancing blow to the hip when the big German had pushed him into the enemy line, but had announced that he would live, at least long enough to take Helwyg for every coin he owned at cards in recompense. Parmenio was undamaged. Girolamo had taken a blow to the head that had produced a sizeable blood flow but seemed to have left him with both life and wits intact.

  Around them the camp of the lord of Orvieto was jubilant. Not a shot had been fired and the majority of the army had remained in position and watched the castle fall without a major engagement. A few people slapped them on the shoulders in appreciation as they passed, and Skiouros found it difficult not to feel smugly proud of their achievement. He tried - and failed - not to think of the figure of Vicenzo trampled into the mess by the enemy, his unseeing eyes failing to comprehend the thoroughness of their victory.

  Ahead, the striped blue and white pavilion of Orvieto loomed ever closer, and as they passed the last of the military units, they moved between groups of officers and knights who were struggling with the effort of eyeing them with distaste while still smiling their congratulations.

  Cinozza said something to the guard at the pavilion, and they were granted entrance, though a small group of serfs attended to collect their weapons before they entered the presence of the army’s commander. Skiouros baulked for a moment at letting go of his macana, but a meaningful glance from Parmenio made him hand it over.

  Inside, oddly, the light was dim but the air warmer, courtesy of the braziers burning at strategic positions. The huge tent was subdivided into rooms, but this - the audience chamber - was the largest, decorated with hanging banners displaying the arms of the lord of Orvieto, of Pope Alexander the Sixth, of numerous other smaller nobles in command of sections of the army. A large table sat at the far end of the room, behind which Orvieto lounged on his wooden throne, padded with velvet cushions.

  ‘Cinozza,’ the lord greeted them with a condescending slow clap of the hands. ‘Well done. Your men are to be congratulated. Such an easy victory. I shall see to it that appropriate reward is made when we settle in tonight and I discuss the nature of ‘fealty’ with the dog of Roccabruna.’

  The captain bowed his head.

  In the brief silence that followed, Skiouros took the opportunity to look around the tent. Perhaps half a dozen noblemen, well-dressed for court life, stood watching them, as well as two men in cardinal’s crimson and others bearing the arms of the Papal court. Two ladies in the finest gowns seated with a hound between them watched the muscles leaping around in Helwyg’s arm with something akin to naked lust.

  Parmenio and Nicolo stepped back slightly, clearly feeling uncomfortable, and joined Skiouros and the others, leaving the two officers out front.

  ‘And Orsini,’ the lord of Orvieto smiled a lizard-like smile. Cesare had disarmed and removed his helmet, but was still in his near-priceless black and gold armour, liberally spattered with gore.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘Orsini, you are to be commended. Such daring and brazen heroism, heedless of danger. Bravo, sir, bravo.’

  Cesare nodded his head in acceptance of the praise. The lord briefly allowed his gaze to play across the rest of them but discarding them as unimportant he returned his attention to Cesare. ‘I am beginning to regret agreeing to such a short contract. I was seeking men only for this brief campaign, but I have the feeling that you would do well permanently attached to my house.’

  Cesare smiled. ‘My thanks, my lord. But we are bound for more southern climes. I have a mind to visit the eternal city. It has been many years, and Rome was ever a place for a clever man to make a pretty packet.’

  Orvieto laughed, but Skiouros noted the frowns of the cardinals at the idea of another Orsini in the city. ‘Well I shall be sorry to see you go. And when you return to the mountains, seek me out if you wish a lucrative contract.’

  Again, Cesare bowed his head. ‘Thank you, my lord. Might I risk a little impertinence?’

  Orvieto furrowed his brows but motioned for Cesare to speak.

  ‘Well, my lord, our pay is generous, of course, but we would be most grateful for a word of reference from a man of your standing. It would grease the wheels of the bureaucracy and might secure us a better contract in Rome.’

  Orvieto’s frown deepened as he fought with himself. These men were good, but could he be placing his own reputation on the line supporting them?

  Though Cesare and Cinozza were apparently unaware, Skiouros noted a curious moment, as the lord of Orvieto glanced across at one of the cardinals - a man with a neatly trimmed black beard and flowing mane poking out from beneath his crimson hat - almost as if seeking approval. Skiouros’ impression was proved right a heartbeat later as the cardinal gave Orvieto a nod of assent. His lordship turned back to the captains.

  ‘Very well. Agreed. In return for your outstanding service today I shall give you a letter of recommendation that you may present to your prospective employers in Rome. And I shall grant you early release from your contract. I see no reason for you to spend your remaining week travelling with us when your destiny may lie elsewhere. Now come. I wish to hear more of your fight, gentlemen.’

  Cinozza and Cesare
stepped forward to where a serf brought them seats and set them up across the table from Orvieto. The rest stood in uncomfortable silence as the pavilion’s other occupants watched them warily - with the exception of the Silesian giant. Helwyg was grinning at the two noblewomen and dropping into muscular poses, much to the disgust of a nearby nobleman. The ladies giggled and then retreated behind fans as they laughed.

  Skiouros, aware the common soldiery were no longer truly involved and were simply waiting to be dismissed, leaned closer to Parmenio and whispered in Greek ‘Did you see him look to the cardinal for permission?’

  Parmenio leaned in to reply but before he could, a voice from the side of the tent called out in a sing-song voice in perfect Greek. ‘A fellow child of Achaea? Good lord, how astounding?’

  Skiouros glanced around in surprise to see a nobleman, immaculately attired in white and grey, step away from the small group with whom he had been standing. It hadn’t struck Skiouros before as he’d initially dismissed the man as yet another nobleman, but his black curly hair, olive complexion and stubble gave him an unmistakably Greek appearance.

  ‘And from the accent, a man of Thrace, yes? Perhaps of Byzantium?’

  Skiouros felt a momentarily thrill of panic. His origins had remained unspoken, though for no good reason, really. He could hardly imagine the heritage of a mercenary soldier would raise even slight comment from the nobles of Italy. But this man was now stepping out towards him. The truth. Skipping certain facts, it was always easier to tell a version of the truth than to manufacture a lie.

  ‘Born of Hadrianopolis, my lord,’ he bowed as well as he could manage and was rewarded with a broad smile. As he straightened, Skiouros was aware that the rest of the pavilion had fallen silent and now every eye was on him. He felt that thrill of fear again.

  ‘Will you do the honours, Orvieto?’ enquired the Greek noble, with a lazy wave of his hand.

  Orvieto, clearly irritated at the interruption, and with a look of almost murderous contempt at the new speaker, cleared his throat.

  ‘Allow me to introduce his Imperial Majesty Andreas Palaeologos, true Emperor of Constantinople and Despot of the Morea.’

  Skiouros blinked as he peered at the short, swarthy man with a pronounced nose and a gently-curved, almost feminine jaw.

  ‘I know,’ smiled Andreas, sketching a brief bow. A grand title for a small man. Emperor of a land and Despot of a region both held by the Turk. I am a ruler ‘in absentia’. He gave a light, carefree giggle. ‘Sadly, in absentia of money as well as lands. You are from Hadrianopolis? I feel I should be honoured. You are the first of my titular subjects I have ever met!’

  Skiouros felt distinctly uncomfortable and smiled weakly.

  ‘With the permission of the lord Orvieto I will withdraw and enjoy the brief company of a countryman.’ He nodded at Cesare. ‘And with the permission of his commander, of course.’

  Skiouros found himself hoping Cesare would object, but to his irritation his friend simply smiled and nodded. ‘Be my guest, your Majesty. If you would be so good as to return him by mealtime so that he can scrub the pots.’

  Skiouros tried to aim a poisonous look at Cesare but his friend had already turned back to continue recounting his tale to the lord of Orvieto. Skiouros followed the beckoning finger of Andreas Palaeologos, trying not to think too hard on the fact that he was here in the man’s presence when, had the walls of Byzantium held against the conqueror Mehmet four decades ago, this man would now be his emperor, living in the glorious palaces of Istanbul. The very fact that he could come so far from home by such curious routes and find himself face to face with this man was, to him, proof not only that God existed in some form, but also that He liked a good laugh as much as anyone.

  As he considered the situation, stepping through into another room, he began to warm to the man. His initial panic had been the cause of his recalcitrance. But Andreas Palaeologos was to be pitied at the very least. He had been born to the last Imperial line of the Roman world. He was an echo of the power that had built Istanbul… the last echo of a fading call, admittedly, but he should be pitied… no he should be sympathised with rather than pitied. He was every bit the exile and in no greater position in the world than Skiouros, for all his titles.

  ‘Your Majesty?’ he began as the tent flap fell back behind them, but Andreas motioned him to silence. ‘I fear such a title is more burdensome than it is use. If you must stand on ceremony, then ‘my lord’ will do. But I am equally happy with Andreas. It is not as though the world is leaping to address me in any manner.’

  Skiouros smiled uneasily.

  ‘Thank you my lord… Andreas. If it is not a matter of extreme impertinence, could I ask what brings my emperor to the siege of Roccabruna? It is a coincidence I find difficult to wrap my wits around.’

  Palaeologos chuckled. ‘I can imagine. Not for me, though. My life has been a constant dance from one disaster to the next and coincidences are things to grab onto in the swirling eddies of fate.’

  Skiouros couldn’t help but laugh. It was as if the exiled emperor had described his own life.

  ‘Anyway,’ Andreas heaved in a breath, ‘I have been residing at the court of the delightful Pope Alexander and his even more delightful daughter for some time. My sponsor - Bishop Lando of Crete - is attempting to persuade His Holiness to announce a great crusade to retake Constantinople, though His Holiness is reluctant to commit to such an action, and instead treats with the Turk. Lando is the Latin Patriarch of Constantinople, you see, and I believe it irks him intensely being the patriarch of a city that worships Mohammed.’

  Skiouros shook his head. This was all earth-shaking news to him. A crusade? To remove the Ottoman Empire from Constantinople? It sounded too farfetched. It was surely impossible? The Turk now covered most of the Balkan region. No Pope had the strength to do such a thing. No wonder His Holiness was reluctant!

  Somewhere deep inside Skiouros, a nugget of something hardened in his soul. His memory of Bayezid the Second. The ‘just’ they called him. For all Skiouros’ Greek origin and the Sultan’s Turkish nature, all the events that had turned Skiouros’ life upside down these past years had been born of his belief in the justness of Bayezid. His father had called Bayezid the ‘only good thing’ about the Ottoman world.

  He remembered everything Cesare had said about the warring nobility of Italy, about the dreadful immoral behaviour of the Popes and the political games they played while paying scant regard to the religion they claimed to lead. Could such a thing be allowed? Should such a thing be allowed?

  And yet sitting opposite him was the man whose right it was to rule where Bayezid now commanded. Never had Skiouros felt more conflicted. But regardless of Andreas’ claim, if it came to a choice between the Papacy and Bayezid, Skiouros felt a strange pride that he knew heart-deep where his loyalty would lie.

  And it was not with this Spanish Pope who had bastard children and had bribed and cheated his way to power.

  Sorry, Andreas.

  ‘So,’ the exiled emperor grinned, dragging Skiouros from his troubled reverie, ‘Lando and the Pope have decided that if the time might come when I sit on the throne of Byzantium once more, then I need to be a leader of the crusading type. A Richard of England, or a Godfrey of Bouillon. Lando feels that I need to be considerably more ‘martially-minded’ if I am to play the role he has in mind. I am, quite frankly, as martially minded as my horse, who has an uncommon affection for flowers and tends to fall asleep if he’s not actually walking. But I am reliant upon Lando’s patronage and the Pope’s hospitality, and so I am here to observe an army sitting in idleness, scratching their backsides, while one of my own countrymen takes the castle for them. I am not sure precisely what lesson His Holiness is expecting me to learn from this outing, but it seems unlikely that it is the one that I am actually learning.’

  Skiouros couldn’t help but laugh again, and Andreas grinned an easy grin.

  ‘What is the city like… I’m sorry I don’
t know your name?’

  ‘Skiouros, son of Nikos the farmer, my lord.’

  ‘Well met, Skiouros, son of Nikos the farmer. I am Andreas, son of Thomas the Despot.’ He grinned. ‘Tell me of my city?’

  Skiouros sighed. ‘To be honest, I do not know where to start, Majesty? It is the greatest city on earth. Nowhere compares. And for all you might have heard of the Turk, I would be lying if I said they had ruined the place. They have embellished its grace and beauty with their own stamp. It is heart-breaking in its glory.’

  Andreas sighed sadly. ‘I may never see it. Even if the crusade goes ahead and succeeds - which is unlikely, given the Pope’s reluctance - the Morea may be my true destiny. But I would have liked to walk the lands of my father. God willing, I shall do so one day.’

  The ‘emperor’ paused, his head cocking to one side. ‘I hear Orvieto winding to a close. He is nothing if not predictable.’ He chuckled. ‘And dull, too. We should return to the meeting. But I wish we had had time to talk of my lands. Perhaps there will be another opportunity. Did your captain say he was bound for Rome?’

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’

  ‘Then when you are in Rome, seek me out if you can. I reside in the Vatican apartments.’

  Skiouros’ heart leapt momentarily.

  ‘If His Holiness were not so strict on his security around his other guest, I would introduce you to another exiled countryman who resides in the complex. The exiled sultan and I have much in common, particularly given that neither of us has ever seen Constantinople!’

  Andreas chuckled again and gestured to the tent flap.

  ‘You are friends with the Ottoman pretender?’ Skiouros had tried to hold the words in, but they tumbled from his lips as they moved back towards Orvieto’s audience room.

  ‘Oh I know we are enemies by heritage,’ Andreas laughed, ‘but we are brothers in exile. Necessity makes strange bedfellows eh, Skiouros, son of Nikos?’

  Skiouros was about to enquire further, but Andreas swept aside the flap and ushered him back into the main room of the tent, where things were clearly finished with. Parmenio and Nicolo raised their eyebrows questioningly at him, and Cesare was bowing to the lord of Orvieto and turning to leave. ‘Ah… Skiouros, good. I have a mind to veal for tonight’s meal. I wonder whether you could run a few of your thoughts on recipes by me?’