Assassin's Tale
Page 14
And then they were passing through the second doorway and out into the brightness of the Piazza San Pietro. Skiouros felt the breath torn from his lungs as he beheld the grandeur of the Pope’s worldly realm. The Piazza was huge, dominated by the great eastern face of the basilica of Saint Peter, with its twin rows of three large coloured windows and the rose one above, all rising over a claustral arcade that surrounded the piazza on all sides. That colonnaded veranda itself - and the square it surrounded - was fantastic, each column the height of six men and with a ceiling covered in painted images. At the centre of the piazza, which was continually crossed by men in fine clothes, in red cassocks, or in armour with crimson cloaks, was a great statue of Saint Peter himself beneath a gilded canopy, and behind that a wide, exquisitely carved fountain, jetting water up into the warm, hazy summer air.
‘Perhaps we should take time to explore a little?’ he prompted Cesare, but his friend shook his head. ‘Do not mistake the apparent easiness and unconcern of the people you can see for what it seems. Be assured that we are being watched. We are expected by Cardinal Borgia and have been admitted on that basis and directed to the appropriate office. Should we deviate from our course, I have absolutely no doubt that a couple of men in armour will be at our side in moments. Search the Vatican with your eyes and commit the place to memory, but keep your feet pointed toward our destination.’
Skiouros frowned, his eyes now picking out more than mere architecture and occupancy, but also trying to spot anyone who might be watching them. For a moment a man in plain buff-coloured leathers standing by the fountain seemed to be looking directly at him, but as he was about to point the man out, a second figure joined him and the pair fell into easy conversation, laughing.
By the time the six mercenaries, with Girolamo and Helwyg bringing up the rear, had passed beneath the colonnade off to their right and made for a door that led into the next part of the complex Skiouros had counted five people he thought might have been watching them, though he could be certain of none of them. If Cesare was right and they were being carefully observed, then it was likely the same would happen any time they came here, and that would add a further level of complexity to their main task.
Even these corridors and rooms into which they now passed, the directions given to Cesare by the guards at the steps, were decorative and rich. That the bureaucracy and the low officers who oiled the wheels of the Papal machine should go about their business bathed in such opulence seemed over-extravagant to Skiouros, and he found himself beginning to become jaded by the constant gilt and masterful imagery.
Finally, his eyes having picked out little he could imagine ever being of use, they arrived at their destination and Cesare rapped on the door. A small painted sign beside it proclaimed it to be the office of the clerks to the captain general of the Vatican forces. A voice bade them enter and Cesare pushed open the door and led them inside. Skiouros had half expected to see Cardinal Borgia himself seated at the desk but instead was treated to a view of a man in the guard’s crimson uniform, unarmoured and seated at a desk with a stack of documents before him. He looked up, sharp eyes beneath a sheltering brow studying their faces and apparently finding them of passing interest at best.
‘Yes?’
‘We are here to sign our condotta contract for Cardinal Borgia.’
The officer, clearly uninterested in the extreme, waved them over to a second, longer desk at the side wall behind the opened door. At this second desk sat two men in less impressive garb, presumably lesser clerks. One of them, a man with a crooked nose and a pale, elongated face, sat back.
‘Ser Cesare Orsini with one lance of men, consisting page, squire, crossbowman and two men at arms, yes?’
Cesare nodded. ‘We have not yet been offered the condotta terms. The cardinal left the matter to you, I presume?’
The clerk withdrew a document from a stack of identical ones on a shelf behind him and smoothed it out with a pale, bony hand before turning it on the desk to face them.
‘It is a standard contract but amended to allow for the somewhat generous terms of Cardinal Borgia’s service. You will sign on for a one year contract, which can only be terminated early in the event that you or two of your men suffer a debilitating wound or if the Cardinal is dissatisfied with your service. Contract will be considered breached if you fail to deploy promptly when required by your employer, if when deployed there are fewer than six men - unless by prior agreement, if your men are not kept well equipped and at an appropriate level of fitness, or if it comes to our attention that you are also contracted to another individual. In any engagement, captives or captured estates and castles will become the property of your employer, but any portable goods taken from the enemy are yours to keep, unless by prior advice from His Eminence. Do you understand your part in these terms?’
Skiouros blinked at the speed and efficiency with which the bureaucrat had rattled off the details. Of course, only a small proportion of Papal forces were volunteer militia or paid guard. The vast bulk of the pope’s might were condottieri, and these clerks must have dealt with the hiring procedure a thousand times before. Cesare simply nodded contentedly.
‘Good,’ replied the man, who reminded Skiouros curiously of a vulture. ‘In return, Cardinal Borgia will pay you four hundred florins a month to divide in any manner you wish between yourself and your men. This figure is not open to negotiation and is already noted upon the condotta.’ He gestured to a figure visible in the second paragraph.He g ‘An initial payment upfront of six hundred florins will be made once your signature is committed to paper, in order to secure lodging and to make sure your men are appropriately equipped.’
Skiouros started at the words ‘secure lodging’, and he cleared his throat to interrupt, but Cesare flashed him a warning look and nodded to the clerk, who continued in his dead monotone.
‘Pensions and lump sum options for various wound compensations are detailed in paragraph seven of the contract, though I will not list them verbally in full. You may examine before signing. Bonuses or extra rewards are not set in figures at this time, and will be paid by the Cardinal at his discretion. At the contract’s conclusion, you may be given the option to extend for a further year but if not, you will receive a final payment of eight hundred florins in return for an agreement not to serve any of the Cardinal’s enemies - who shall be detailed at that time - for a further year. Do you understand His Eminence’s part in these terms?’
Again, Cesare nodded.
‘Then take a moment and peruse the contract. Be sure that you are happy with the conditions and then sign or make your mark, and our business will be complete.’
Cesare began to pore over the neat text on the page as the others stood passive behind. Finally, apparently satisfied, Cesare nodded and marked his name at the bottom of the page. The clerk checked it, notarised it, applied a wax seal to it and then returned it to the shelf in a different pile of documents.
‘I will have a copy of the contract prepared for you to collect on the morrow. Any further questions and details you can direct to your commander, who will be waiting for you in the corridor when you leave. He will take you to the fiscal clerks to arrange your initial payment.’ Skiouros frowned. If someone waited outside for them with the clerk having sent no word, it lent a great deal of credence to Cesare’s belief that they were being watched carefully whilst on Vatican grounds.
Cesare straightened and inclined his head politely. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘God be with you,’ the clerk replied with as little feeling as the rest of his monologue, returning to his work without paying them any further attention. Cesare gestured to Girolamo, who stood close to the door and turned, making his way outside once more. As the small party emerged into the corridor, they were surprised to see that the ‘commander’ who waited for them was garbed in grey and black doublet and hose, but covered with a draped red cloak displaying the white cross of the Knights Hospitaller. He was not a young man, perhaps fi
fty summers old, and his hair and beard were as much grey as they were black. His eyes, though, were alive, alert and every bit as sharp as the blade in his hand along which he ran a whetstone while he waited. He looked up at them.
‘Ser Orsini, I presume?’
Cesare bowed politely. ‘I am he, sir. And you are Cardinal Borgia’s man?’
‘I am. Sir Antonio de Santo Martino of the Order of Saint John. You’ve signed on with His Eminence, then?’
‘Yes. Can I enquire what comes next, commander? In my previous contracts we have regularly served with standing armies, usually on direct campaign. The Cardinal does not wish us quartered to hand, then?’
Sir Antonio shook his head as he sheathed his sword and stood straight, revealing his full height to be a good head taller than Cesare and rivalling the impressive size of Helwyg. ‘Since you are clearly neither cardinal nor whore you have no place within the halls of the apostolic palace,’ he smiled, ‘and the main barracks and military wings of the Vatican are reserved for the standing Papal forces and His Holiness’ Catalan guard. You are one of four small, unique condottieri units His Eminence now employs, and all are expected to quarter themselves independently using their pay. Need I point out that the inflated rates His Eminence pays should easily cover such expenses?’
Cesare smiled as he shook his head. ‘Hardly. The cardinal’s terms are more than generous. So where would you advise we look for quarters, and what else do we need to attend to? How will we know if the cardinal requires us?’
‘Accommodation is entirely your own affair,’ the Hospitaller replied easily, gesturing for them to make their way along the corridor and back towards the piazza. ‘His Eminence’s only stipulation is that you be able to attend his office within an hour of his call. As soon as you have set upon your quarters, inform the same clerk you met just now and the information will reach myself and His Eminence promptly. You will need to return tomorrow for your contract and I expect to have an address from you then. As for the next step, keep yourself busy and train your men as best you can and wait for our call. You will find service in the cardinal’s employ sporadic and… shall we say interesting?’
‘Oh?’ Cesare smiled. ‘How so?’
‘His Eminence rarely requires the service of his condottieri but when he does, the tasks he will have for you will be unusual, often dangerous, and always vital. You may find that months will pass before he calls for you, but do not become complacent. When he calls, be ready.’
Skiouros felt his shoulders slump. Months? Months of sitting around impotently waiting for a call. And in that time they would languish somewhere with no more chance of meeting the usurper Cem than before. Somehow he felt as though their step forward had brought them nothing but responsibilities.
He sighed as they made their way back through the corridors of the Vatican towards that grand square. The idea of living in the rat-runs of Rome among the filth and crime appealed less the more he thought about it. As Sir Antonio stepped out ahead, Skiouros motioned to Cesare, who dropped back a little, and the young Greek whispered.
‘Do you think brothers Bartholomew and Alexander could find it in their heart to extend our stay in their guest house?’
‘Trying to save me money, Skiouros?’ Cesare grinned, but his face quickly became serious again. ‘No, I agree with you. Rome is not a good choice, and Sant’Agnese is well within an hour’s walk. Moreover, His Eminence is familiar with it.’
‘Looks like we’ve gained nothing from our signing, though,’ sighed the Greek.
Nicolo nudged him, and Parmenio leaned closer. ‘Time will tell. At least we can enter the Vatican now whenever we need to speak to the clerk. That’s a sight closer than before, Skiouros.’
The young Greek nodded a weary acknowledgment and picked up the pace again with the others. He would have to think positive, and in the meantime, they would settle in like the good mercenaries they were, take the money and wait.
Weeks turned into months as Skiouros and his friends languished daily in the claustrophobic complex of the monastery. Within a week of signing the condotta, the young Greek was already convinced that they had made a tremendous mistake in joining Cardinal Borgia’s force. His mantra - the one that had kept him in control and had seen him through seemingly endless days since his return from the western seas - was wearing thin. Patience. Patience was everything. But the interminable waiting eroded the edges of that patience more with every passing day.
The cardinal had called upon the six of them just three times since Cesare had signed the document. The first had been only a week later, and though it had been but a simple task of collecting a package from a minor Lord in the Romagna region, in an area infamous for banditry, Skiouros had felt a surge of hope that they were at least moving and active. Then, upon the completion of that task, they had spent a little over three weeks trying to keep themselves busy, wallowing in impotency. Skiouros had explored every brick and blade of grass of the monastery and its ancient ruins. He had walked the imposing walls of the city of Rome five times in various directions and explored the great sprawl for its monuments, trying to ignore the poverty, corruption, crime, impiety and evil so evident in its streets. He had even taken to sketching a few of the buildings after seeing some of the artists for which Italy was becoming renowned doing the same in the forum. Apparently art seemed not to be his forte, though, and most of his sketches were immediately discarded.
Then had come their second call, and they had hunted a spy belonging to the Colonna family throughout the city’s darkest alleys, delivering him intact, spitting bile and issuing threats, to His Eminence. Skiouros had baulked a little at the mission, but the improprieties of the man were self-evident, and he had infiltrated the household of the cardinal’s sister for nefarious purposes. What had later happened to the man in the cardinal’s cellars they did not know, but Skiouros could hardly imagine his end being a happy one. The Colonnas’ reputation was one of wickedness anyway.
Then finally, as the heat of the summer began to wane and the dusty dung-filled air that stifled the streets settled under a thin coverage of leaves, they had gone to war. It had been but a small engagement with that same Romagna lord from whom they had retrieved the parcel in the late spring, but the man was familiar enough with their employer that he had prepared thoroughly and the fight had been a hard one.
Girolamo had broken an arm - a potentially critical wound for a crossbowman - and had been offered the chance to pension out by both Cesare and the cardinal, but had chosen to take a lump sum in compensation and stay with them. His arm was on the mend now, but whether he would ever recover his excellent marksmanship remained to be seen. Parmenio had taken a sword wound to the shoulder, but it had been a glancing blow and he was fast recovering. In truth it seemed to have given him something to keep himself entertained, complaining bitterly about the lack of compensation he’d been offered for his pains.
Skiouros’s self-assuredness and confidence had gradually waned over the months since his return, taking a knock with every innocent he had been forced to harm, and he was beginning to feel more than a little uncertain of his ability to carry out his task in full. Not that he would ever reveal such a thing to his companions, of course…
Now, as September began to clutch Rome in its russet grip, they had been inside the Vatican precisely five times, each time only to the offices with which they were already familiar - with the single exception of a quick visit to the great basilica once to attend a mass given by their employer himself.
Skiouros sighed and flipped through his surviving amateurish sketches of the ruins of the forum in the dim candlelight of the room he shared with Cesare. Nicolo and Parmenio sat at their table playing dice, the latter periodically grumbling and accusing his friend of selling his soul to the devil in return for luck at dice.
‘Perhaps it’s time to move on?’ Skiouros said quietly.
Cesare looked up from where he was buffing a black enamelled shoulder plate with gilt edging and
shook his head.
‘We signed a year-long contract and we’ve served less than half of it. To break a condotta agreement would be to acquire infamy the length of Italy. We would become effectively unemployable. Also, we would have to break our word, and you know how I feel about that.’
Parmenio, rubbing the itchy healing wound under his bandaged shoulder, nodded his agreement as he reached for the dice again. ‘More to the point you’d piss off His Eminence and Cardinal Borgia is not the kind of enemy to make lightly. You’d be setting us up for a huge fall.’
Skiouros settled unhappily back into silence, flicking through his folio of sketches, and opened his mouth after a brief pause to try another approach when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ called Cesare, laying the gleaming pauldron and his polishing rag down on the table. The door clicked and creaked open, revealing the familiar shapes of fathers Bartholomew and Alexander - the friends who, to Skiouros at least, had helped make their time in this place that bit more bearable with their good natured banter and generous nature.
‘Good evening gentlemen,’ the smiling clerics greeted them in a friendly tone. ‘I trust you are well?’
Father Alexander nudged his companion aside slightly. ‘Come on Barty, make room.’
‘No need to barge, old thing.’
Cesare smiled at the pair. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘There is a visitor for you in the gardens, but he is not one of His Eminence’s men so we did not like to admit him to your quarters unannounced. He comes armed and informs us that he bears a message for ‘the Greek’.’