Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Stepping ahead of the others, with a nod of respect to Andreas, Cesare made his way out of the tent. The officers gathered outside had dispersed and Cesare led his men by a roundabout route to their camp, waiting until they were out of earshot of all but the lowest soldiery before clearing his throat.

  ‘I am interested to hear what transpired between you and your emperor?’ He smiled at Skiouros. ‘But first, I will update you on some urgent matters.’ Looking around to be certain they were not overheard, Cesare stopped and placed both armoured hands on Skiouros’ shoulders. ‘My friend, the word is that Charles of France has a vast army massing on the northern borders, ready to move into Italy. Orvieto tells me that King Ferrante of Napoli has passed away, and that leaves us with the usual Neapolitan struggle for succession. The Spanish will be supporting their claim, hoping to bolster their ever-expanding empire. Ferrante’s own line will claim their right, but will need Papal support, and whether a Spanish Pope will give it to them is yet to be seen. And Charles of France is ready to ravage Italy on his way to conquer the place.’

  ‘The French have a claim?’ frowned Skiouros.

  Cesare nodded. ‘Not a particularly outlandish one, either. As good as anyone else’s. Orvieto tells me that His Holiness busies himself with communiques, trying to talk the French out of war, but if Charles has his mind set on conquest nothing short of the hand of God will stop him. The French ever love a fight.’

  ‘This country is almost as dangerous as Spain,’ Skiouros sighed.

  ‘When you’ve been here a little longer,’ Cesare grinned, ‘you’ll realise that it’s far more dangerous than Spain!’ He straightened. ‘Anyway, Orvieto recommends we move to Napoli. Work will be abundant there, with the threat of invasion.’

  Skiouros shook his head, but Orsini simply laughed. ‘I know. Rome. Be content. We shall leave for Rome as soon as possible, though I would like to visit a few family holdings on the way. Given the letter of recommendation I will collect in the morning, we will be able to secure a good position in Vatican circles. All is progressing as we’d hoped, my friend.’

  Skiouros stood, shaking his head - not in disagreement, but to clear it of the fluff of uncertainty. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Now let me tell you what I learned...’

  CHAPTER FOUR - Siena, April 1494

  Skiouros dropped his saddle bags next to the table and slumped into one of the seats. Somehow, while he was busy finishing up with the groom and settling their mounts for the night, Cesare and Parmenio between them had managed to secure a table large enough to seat eight in a tavern room that was already packed to the gills with locals. Without prying, the Greek sighed and took the weight off his feet.

  They were still only half way to Rome, despite having already travelled for more than three weeks, due to the strange, zig-zagging tortuous route that Orsini had selected in order to pay a visit to numerous holdings of his family as they passed.

  As he stretched the zemi figure on its leather thong caught in an uncomfortable position and dug into his collar bone. Leaning forward again, Skiouros fished out the figurine and peered at it. Maquetaurie Guayaba – Lord of the land of the dead. He who ruled over Lykaion’s restless spirit and would continue to do so when he was finally laid to rest. Months had passed since last Lykaion’s shade had come to him, with words like a silent breath from the otherworld. He shivered involuntarily and tucked the zemi back in a more secure position.

  ‘You really ought to take that off,’ Nicolo grimaced from the far side of the table.

  ‘It is a reminder for me. And of personal value.’

  ‘It’s pagan idolatry, and while I don’t give an Arab’s fart-flap whether you get struck down for blasphemy, I don’t like the idea of being around you when it happens.’

  Orsini shrugged. ‘I see no problems with it, but Nicolo is right to be cautious. We are bound for the bastion of God’s church on Earth - and the home of the inquisition - so it might be a good idea to keep it well covered.’ He smiled with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Oh and when you drop something or trip, try not to call up to Heaven in Arabic. That’s not going to make you many friends where we’re going!’

  Skiouros frowned. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘Yes you do. Under your breath, admittedly - but if I can hear it, then so can others.’

  Skiouros nodded. If he ever managed to return to his homeland, it would be a curious relief. In Istanbul you could call upon Allah and his prophet, or beg the aid of Christ - or even of Jehovah - without fearing a session in a dark room with some men in black that would leave you a foot taller. What was it about the western church that made it so rabidly self-important and unforgiving?

  Parmenio arrived at the table once more with Helwyg at his side, carrying a tray of glasses and mugs. Girolamo made a space for the drinks and everyone sat with relief.

  ‘I for one don’t understand how you can have any time for the heathen faith, let alone such idolatry,’ muttered Girolamo, gesturing at the thong around Skiouros’ neck. ‘The latter’s clearly pagan witchcraft, and the former… well you’re talking about a people who enslaved your own.’

  Skiouros pursed his lips. Girolamo was less fervent about his church than many Italians, but Skiouros’ openness of faith clearly unsettled him. He was a man to play cautiously around on the subject of religion.

  ‘No insult is intended to your own beliefs, Girolamo but I have, on balanced reflection, found a lot more acceptance of the Church among the Turk than I have of Islam among the Christian. But I may be viewing the matter from a strange angle. After all, my faith is that of the Eastern Church, and not founded in Rome. Perhaps the Sultan and his people are less accepting of your church than of mine?’

  ‘But we are all Christian,’ Girolamo pressed, ‘while the Turk are deniers of Christ’s divinity. Surely you would call us brother before them?’

  Skiouros glanced around at the table, well aware that this sort of discussion could very easily erupt into more violent disagreement. He had expected, even hoped, that the others would step in and defuse the matter, particularly Orsini who was ostensibly their commander now. Instead, all eyes were flashing back and forth between the two speakers with interest. Cesare in particular had a frown of concentration. Skiouros sighed and took a sip of the drink Helwyg had placed before him.

  ‘My faith is no simple matter, Girolamo. I have met and spoken with Muslims, Jews, pagans, and Christians of both faiths, and for all their differences the one thing that they all have in common is that they are men. Good men and bad men. Pious men and evil men. Fallible and complex, they are just men. Whatever name they give to God, they are either good and have his ear, or bad and have the devil’s. In the heart of the Maghreb live tribes who have no difficulty melding their own beliefs with the teachings of Mohammed. If pagans can manage such a fusion, why cannot we who at least acknowledge the same God?’

  Girolamo shifted uncomfortably. ‘Hardly the same God,’ he muttered.

  ‘Pshhh,’ hissed Nicolo and inclined his head toward the door. The others turned and glanced across to see another party enter the inn, travel-worn and bearing saddlebags. A small group of guards in drab travel clothes and bearing no noble’s livery accompanied a man in a voluminous cloak with a deep cowl. Skiouros was about to question Nicolo’s silencing of them when he spotted the red robe between the shifting folds of the cloak. The table’s occupants turned back to one another, judiciously ignoring the new arrival and initiating small-talk, though their privacy seemed to be at an end since the cardinal’s companions strode across to a table by the fire, which happened to be next to the one the friends occupied. As the cardinal’s guards approached the table, the old local seated there and warming his bones rose and vacated, leaving his cup half full and making his way to the bar. It appeared that even this far from Rome, the crimson robe commanded plenty of respect and fear.

  As the guards cleared off the table and repositioned it, dusting down the chair, the cardinal removed his travelling cloa
k, revealing a spotless robe of red and a pale, aquiline face that had likely not seen a smile in a number of years from the lines upon it.

  Orsini nodded encouragingly at his friends as he rose and gave a small half-bow to the cardinal who looked up, apparently unimpressed.

  ‘Good day, your Eminence,’ Cesare smiled. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: I am Cesare of the house Orsini, condottiere and lord of Carloto. I hope the evening finds you well?’

  ‘The evening finds me abhorrent, uncomfortable and more than a little put out, thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps I could buy you a glass of wine and help temper your woes?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ responded the cardinal, removing his scarlet gloves and rubbing his hands vigorously. ‘Never trust the muck in a common inn. I will partake of water, and even then only that which we have carried with us from the aqueduct basins of Rome.’ Skiouros tried to catch Cesare’s eye, but the nobleman was paying close attention to the cardinal alone.

  ‘It is a strange time for a member of the Sacred College to be travelling north? Mayhap you are bound for King Charles with letters from His Holiness?’

  The cardinal narrowed his eyes suspiciously and Cesare gave an easy smile and shrugged. ‘We have been in service to the Papal forces of the lord of Orvieto. Word abounds of the French army hovering at our northern borders like a bird of prey watching a hedgerow, and of the Pope’s attempts to divert His Majesty from his current course.’

  ‘Pah!’ snapped the cardinal as he held out his hand and one of his lackeys placed a glass in it, uncorking an earthenware jar and filling the vessel with crystal clear water. ‘His Holiness,’ - Skiouros could hardly fail to notice the dripping contempt with which the cardinal infused the title - ‘is bound on a course of self-destruction and is determined to topple the throne of Saint Peter. You are bound for Rome?’

  Cesare nodded. ‘We are seeking a contract with the Papal forces.’

  ‘Then you are clearly mad. The Pope has agreed against all my urging to confer the crown of Napoli upon the young prince Alphonso, the fool.’

  Skiouros frowned. ‘Is he not the legitimate heir of the King, your Eminence?’

  Shock rang through his system as Cesare reached across the table and gave him a ringing slap across the cheek, causing him to bite into his lip.

  ‘Forgive my insolent men, Eminence,’ Orsini asked the cardinal quietly. ‘He’s newly arrived from the east and has much to learn of good manners.’

  The cardinal gave Skiouros a look that contained mostly scorn, sewn with a little superiority. ‘He will probably go far in the Rome of Alexander the Sixth! Where was I? Ah yes. Well with that quasi-Spanish runt on the Neapolitan throne, there is no longer any doubt that the French will march on Napoli and, given the insult of being denied the crown, there is every likelihood that Charles of Valois will pause on his journey long enough to flatten Rome and everything in it. Had His Holiness gifted Charles with the Neapolitan throne, we would have an ally in France.’

  ‘And an enemy in Spain,’ noted Cesare with a frown.’

  ‘Spain is no concern,’ dismissed the cardinal with a wave of his free hand. ‘They are busy with their new lands and with rooting out heresy. They are too reliant on the Pope’s continued goodwill to make trouble. But the French…’

  He sighed. ‘So in truth, the answer to your question is yes: I am bound for Genoa and then the French King, though not with letters of peace and conciliation. I go to try and keep the homicidal lunatic from destroying the throne of Saint Peter in his passing. To attempt to limit the damage the Borgia Pope has done to our standing.’

  Cesare, giving a meaningful look to Skiouros, who was wiping the blood from his lip, leaned closer to the cardinal.

  ‘Surely, your Eminence, even the warlike French would not make a direct enemy of the Pope? To sack Rome is unthinkable for a Christian monarch, whatever His Holiness might do?’

  ‘How little you seem to know the French, Orsini. And less: the Pope. The French King could be the saviour of Christendom if matters were played correctly. His Majesty intends a crusade to recover the east. He marches on Napoli and will use it as his staging post when he takes sword and fire to the heathen. Had His Holiness given the crown and that Turkish sack of faeces to Charles, the French would settle for Vatican blessings, use the pretender prince as a pretext for war, and march on the Turk.’

  Skiouros’ eyes widened and Cesare flashed him a dangerous warning look.

  ‘The exiled Ottoman prince?’ the young nobleman asked of the cleric.

  ‘Yes,’ the cardinal spat. ‘The French King would hold him up as a banner and march on Constantinople, waving him in the face of Bayezid the demon-Sultan. But His Holiness has a liking for this heathen. Indeed, for all heathens, it would seem. While he mutters of a potential Holy crusade, instead he treats with the Turk. The Sultan has had ambassadors in our court for months. In defiance of all that is legal and holy, the Borgia monster even invites the Turk to the Neapolitan coronation! Can you imagine?’

  Skiouros was almost trembling now with the difficulty of keeping himself uninvolved in this debate. He chewed on his bloody lip as the cardinal resumed.

  ‘So now Charles will march on Napoli and he will crush Rome on the way - if not for the Pope’s insult, then to take the exiled prince for his own.’ He turned a sickened face on the rest of the group. ‘If you seek a contract, try Napoli. They will shortly be needing men desperately, I fear. Better still, come north and sign with the French if it is victory you seek. If you make for Rome, you march into the arena and wait for the lion of Valois to savage you.’

  ‘Such a war would pay well, your Eminence,’ Cesare shrugged, ‘and better to fight for the vicar of Rome than for the French.’

  ‘Then I wish you all the gold, blood and death you could hope for, Orsini; and I am certain you will find it.’ The cardinal turned to the man next to him who was trying to pour more water into the glass. ‘Be still, you imbecile! I have warmed sufficiently and have no interest in staying in this nest of filth and rats any longer. I will retire to my chamber. Have my food cooked, tested, tasted and then sent up.’

  As the cardinal rose from the table, acknowledging the mercenaries with a faint nod of his head, Orsini stood and bowed in return. The rest of the cardinal’s entourage scattered like leaves in a strong wind, rushing to their tasks in an effort to keep the cantankerous cleric content. As soon as they were gone from earshot, Cesare leaned forward.

  ‘Try not to be so outspoken, Skiouros. Remember that Italy is a place of complex manners and etiquette. Apologies for the blow, but courtesy demanded it.’

  Skiouros nodded his understanding, but his eyes were angry and cold. ‘Our task just became far more difficult, though, didn’t it?’

  ‘How so?’ Cesare sat back.

  Skiouros looked around to check they were not being observed too closely and leaned forward, talking in a low tone. ‘Well it was a difficult enough proposition gaining access to a prisoner in the Vatican in the first place. Then I discover he is being guarded by the Knights Hospitaller, which complicates matters. Now we learn that Sultan Bayezid has emissaries in the Papal court and that, to top it all, the King of France is bound for Rome to snatch Prince Cem and remove him from my grasp, probably forever!’

  ‘I will grant you that things seem more difficult in a surface appraisal,’ smiled Cesare. ‘But what appears to be a setback could instead be an opportunity. If the French intend to take Cem from the Pope, then he will be drawn from the tight protection of the Vatican and may, consequently, actually be easier to reach.’

  Skiouros frowned at the idea. ‘I suppose that’s possible. But whether the King takes Cem or not, I think we need to reach Rome quickly and secure our position.’

  Orsini smiled. ‘No more dawdling, you mean? No more dropping in on distant relatives? Straight for Rome?’ He pulled an offended face and Skiouros rolled his eyes. ‘You are correct, of course,’ Cesare laughed. ‘We must ride for Rome in the morn
ing and seek out a good contract. I estimate a journey of five more days if we do not delay.’

  Skiouros nodded, satisfied, wondering how long it would take a massive French army to travel half the length of Italy and knock at the Pope’s door.

  Patience, he reminded himself. Everything in appropriate time.

  CHAPTER FIVE - Rome, May 1494

  ‘I have to admit,’ Skiouros noted wearily as Sigma clumped heavily down the flagged road beside Cesare’s horse and at the head of the group, ‘despite the danger and responsibility of what we’re here for, I am rather looking forward to seeing Rome.’

  ‘It is a great city full of marvels and glories and hope and beauty,’ replied Cesare, peering off into the distance ahead. ‘But do not let that fool you. It is also a stinking cesspit of whoring, villains, corruption and decay.’

  Skiouros tried not to be too disheartened by his friend’s words. Brightly, he replied: ‘I hail from the second greatest city of the ancient world. Constantinople was the capital of a great empire for centuries, and yet Rome was its predecessor. A man cannot help but be impressed by that!’

  ‘Wait ‘til you have the flux and the pox and are having to defecate in an alley while a local cutpurse takes everything you own. Rome is not a place for the innocent.’

  ‘Then it’s a good job I’m no innocent.’

  Cesare gave him a look that suggested otherwise and gestured ahead. The Via Nomentana climbed a long low slope to the edge of the city, and Skiouros could just make out the blur of the urban sprawl but this area was still extremely rural, all rolling fields and vineyards and small orchards and streams. It was hard to believe they were as close to the greatest city in the world as Cesare suggested. Then, Skiouros’ eyes picked out what his friend was indicating: not the city on the distant crest of the slope, but a complex of buildings just ahead of them, on a small rise of their own.