Skiouros’ blood ran cold through him and he placed his garlic sausage half-eaten back on his plate, his appetite entirely deserting him. When Charles and his French army reached Rome, they would take Andreas Palaeologos and Cem son of Mehmet and make them client kings, raining righteous holy wrath down upon Bayezid II and his empire. Three years had passed since Ottoman traitors and Mamluk assassins had threatened to destroy the peace that Bayezid nurtured in the city, and now that harmony was about to be threatened once more. Not this time by the plotting of a circle of power-crazed zealots, but by an invading army of Christians. Catholic Christians, no less. No one in the eastern world had yet forgiven Rome for sacking the great city and bringing rape, fire and destruction against their fellow Christians almost three centuries ago. Skiouros’ own father could not speak of the Pope without spitting a curse and warding against evil.
No. This could not happen.
He felt his anger and determination burn like a fire in the belly after months of stagnation. Without Prince Cem as his pretext for war and crusade, Charles surely would not dare move against the Turks? Without Cem, he had no legitimate cause and his fellow monarchs would fail to back him. Would the Pope even lend support then? No. It was critical: Cem had to die, not just to assure Lykaion of eternal rest any more, but also to prevent a religious apocalypse that could engulf the east and scorch the land black.
For the rest of the meal, which lasted perhaps fifteen more stifled minutes, Skiouros made small talk, changing the subject entirely and laughing as lightly as he could about the frivolities of court life. In the end, Palaeologos seemed to become aware of Skiouros’ failed appetite and his lack of enthusiasm but if he was disappointed, he hid it well.
When the bells rang out for compline across the city, Skiouros finally leaned back and sighed with fake repleteness.
‘I must take my leave now, I am afraid, your Majesty. It has been pleasant to speak of the old country for a change, and I hope we have the chance again in the coming months, but for the moment I should return to my companions.’
Palaeologos rose slowly, dabbing his mouth with his napkin and stretching. ‘It is a shame to leave such a feast barely touched, but I daresay my entourage will be more than pleased to help demolish it for me, and the various Hospitallers who wander the corridors from time to time look upon me kindly as a source of snacks to help guard duty pass more comfortably.’
He smiled and continued. ‘My time here is somewhat rigidly measured by my host and the good bishop, but when the opportunity arises I will attempt to invite you to accompany me again, or perhaps I will visit you outside this glorious building. I would suggest we ride or hunt in the Caffarella valley to the south, but His Holiness has a standing order that Vatican residents should not leave the confines of the city walls without both permission and appropriate military support. After all, not only are the French marching south, but many of the notables and city governments of Italy are already wavering in their allegiances, preferring to support Charles’ massive army than the endangered Papacy.’
Skiouros nodded. He could well imagine the nobles of Italy flying the Valois banner in a move of supreme self-preservation. ‘Once again, Majesty, thank you for the meal and the company. I look forward to a time when we can hunt and ride as you say. Shall I find my own way out?’
Palaeologos shook his head. ‘The palace is still carefully controlled by His Holiness’ men. You would find yourself under guard in short order. Paregorio will escort you.’ Walking across to Skiouros, he gestured to the door. The Greek wandered over to the stand upon which his black and grey cioppa robe hung and struggled into the heavy, unfamiliar, restrictive garment. The scion of Byzantium waited patiently and when Skiouros was once again suitably attired for the streets of the city, escorted him out through the double doors to where Paregorio lounged on a chair by the outer door, cleaning his fingernails with a poniard. The man-at-arms rose to his feet at his master’s presence and bowed from the waist.
‘Master Skiouros will be returning to his residence, Paregorio. Would you accompany him?’
The man nodded, and Skiouros added ‘as far as the outer piazza will be fine, thank you. I can find my way from there.’ Palaeologos accompanied them to the landing outside the suite and as Skiouros gave a short bow and said his goodbyes, the exiled emperor suddenly smiled, looking over Skiouros’ shoulder, and held up a hand in greeting. The young Greek turned and his spirit sang out with dreadful recognition.
The man standing on the matching landing at the far side of the three-storey drop was bedecked in Ottoman robes of the finest quality, with two clearly Turkish attendants. Three men in red robes with white crosses stood a few yards ahead of them, and a matching trio lurked behind.
Cem!
His mind immediately committed that face to memory: unmarked skin crossed with faint lines of wear, thin lips beneath the shadow of well-tended drooping moustaches, chiselled, even jutting chin, thin angular nose and tired, careworn eyes. He was a morose reflection of the great Bayezid the Just.
After three years, Skiouros was finally face-to-face with the last of the conspirators for whose crimes Lykaion had paid with his life, and yet there might as well have been a thousand leagues between them. He had a brief, mad moment where he estimated the distance of the gap between landings - not even a demigod of ancient legend would make that jump - or the speed he could achieve racing round the periphery. But he was unarmed and too far away. And the six Hospitaller knights accompanying Prince Cem were veterans of numerous wars and carried heavy, sharp blades at their hips.
He was impotent in the face of his enemy.
Oh for a crossbow… and the skill to use it!
Cem sultan held up a hand, returning Palaeologos’ greeting, and gave a smile beneath sad eyes and Skiouros resolved that the next time he saw that face, he would leave those eyes bereft of life.
CHAPTER SEVEN - Castel Sant’Angelo, late autumn 1494
Skiouros shuffled forwards in the queue behind Orsini and in front of Parmenio, the others tagging along at the rear. Their small party formed a line snaking in the wake of Sir Antonio de Santo Martino of the Order of Hospitallers - Cesare Borgia’s man - along the bridge that crossed the raging Tiber.
Ahead, the great bulk of the Castel Sant’Angelo - the Pope’s earthly fortress - loomed powerful and ancient. Once a Roman emperor’s tomb, it had been successively strengthened and fortified over the centuries into a castle of impressive proportions. Indeed, work had been carried out at His Holiness’ command these past few months to reconstruct the parapet and provide an extra defensive wall and tower between the bastions… hurried work in the face of French aggression.
And aggression it truly was, gaining the support of self-serving Italian nobles and councils the length of the peninsula. While the bulk of the French army marched slowly, inexorably south over the summer and the autumn, meeting crumbling will and minimal resistance en route, the Colonna family had declared for King Charles, delivering their castle at Ostia - Rome’s main connection with the sea - into the hands of a French advance garrison. The French king had issued bold statements that he would celebrate Christmas in Rome and the way things looked, the chances were high that he would.
The armies of the Papal States had been withdrawn from their defensive positions to the north and now garrisoned the Castel Sant’Angelo, the Vatican, and the borgo - the newly-walled suburb of Rome that connected the two. The populace of Rome lived in perpetual anxiety, fearing the coming storm, and all signs in the city pointed to a siege which nobody believed they could withstand.
‘I don’t understand why the Pope and his cronies are moving to the Castel now.’ Nicolo mused. ‘The French are still months away, apart from the small Ostia garrison. Seems a little previous. At this stage anything could still happen.’
Orsini shrugged. ‘They say there’s been word of plots against the Pope and Prince Cem - letters from Firenze. Probably fictions cooked up by the Colonna family to put the fear of
God into His Holiness, but apparently they’re being taken seriously enough that the focus is shifting from the church to the castle. Can’t say I blame the Pope, given the state of affairs in Italy now. The bigger the battlements surrounding him, the safer he’ll be… until the bombards arrive, anyway.’
Skiouros looked around to check how attentive the mass about them were being. No one was paying the small party of mercenaries the slightest notice. Between the line of supply wagons to their left, bringing provisions to the castle, and the ordered ranks of Papal soldiers to the right, shouting out orders and suggestions and complaining about their feet, no one cared to examine a few condottieri under a cardinal’s escort fighting for space in the middle. He leaned closer.
‘I for one am all for it. After all this time it puts us and him under the same roof. We come ever closer.’
‘It’s just a shame we have to be besieged by the most dangerous army in Europe just to achieve a little proximity to your friend,’ Parmenio sighed. ‘It’s starting to look as though even if you do achieve your goal, we’ll all end up spitted on a French pike.’
Skiouros ignored his friend’s gloomy appraisal in favour of his own optimism. After months of waiting, their chances had looked to have improved immeasurably when Cardinal Borgia had sent his Hospitaller friend to tell them that they should pack up their gear for a move into the Castel Sant’Angelo.
Orsini had quizzed Sir Antonio in surprise. It transpired that the bulk of the Hospitaller order resident in Rome were the scions of French noble families and, given the approaching French threat, the Pope had judged it imprudent to maintain a guard within the Vatican or even the borgo that might be given to sympathy for the French king. Consequently the entire Hospitaller presence in the city had been dismissed and sent back to their fortresses on the eastern islands and the Anatolian coast, with the exception of Sir Antonio who claimed only Catalan leanings, distrusted the French himself, and enjoyed the personal patronage of the cardinal.
And so the various units of condottieri and a small Catalan guard had been assigned positions in the Castel, and some directly to the entourage of Prince Cem himself. Of course, the latter duty had gone to the Papal Catalans and the longer-standing of Borgia’s men, but even the newest among them were now in the same building as the exiled Turk. Chances would never be better.
Suddenly Skiouros found himself staggering into the back of Orsini, who recovered his balance easily and turned a questioning look on the Greek. Skiouros had already spun to face the pikeman in the Papal uniform who had bumped into him, calling him a clumsy oaf and threatening to find a new place to sheathe the pike.
The soldier sneered and emptied the contents of his nose with one nostril thumbed shut, muttering something about mercenaries. Skiouros was about to launch into a fresh tirade when his angry gaze picked out something unusual behind the careless soldier’s shoulder.
‘Look there!’ he hissed, nudging Orsini. They had all slowed as they neared the arch of the castle gate in the recently constructed river wall beside the heavy circular tower. The gate was acting as a chicane for the three lines of traffic filtering through it from the bridge, and giving the men guarding it more than a slight headache.
Orsini turned at the comment, peering around. Skiouros pointed to the figure just beyond the insolent pikeman, perhaps six bodies down the line towards the gate. Cesare frowned and finally settled on Skiouros’ pointing finger, just as the figure slipped from sight among the crowd.
‘Damn it.’ Skiouros craned his neck, but his short stature did him no favours among the press of people. The figure was lost among the press of grumbling bodies.
‘Come on,’ urged the nobleman, stepping forward and closing the gap with their guide. But Skiouros was still trying to reacquire his target, craning and jumping to no avail.
‘Damn. I swear that was one of the Hospitallers.’
Orsini shook his head. ‘They’ve taken ship for the east.’
‘Not this one.’
Parmenio, catching the conversation, leaned forward. ‘It’s possible there are other Hospitallers in the city that aren’t French, I suppose. Not all of them could have been guarding the Turk.’
Skiouros shook his head, still trying to see. ‘Not this one. I’ve a good memory for faces and the last time I saw this particular sallow face he was a few steps ahead of Cem with a hand on his sword hilt. He was one of the pretender sultan’s guards, I tell you.’
‘What would he be doing here?’ Parmenio said disbelievingly.
‘If it was him, then you can be sure he’s here on Papal business,’ Nicolo shrugged. ‘Don’t forget His Holiness is a patron of their order.’
As Skiouros continued to crane, Cesare tapped their escort on the shoulder. ‘Sir Antonio? Might I enquire if there are others of your order in the city?’
The Catalan rubbed his chin as he shuffled slowly forward in the press. ‘None that I am aware of. My brothers rode out for Brindisi yesterday to take ship for Rhodos.’
‘And none of them had been retained for service in Rome?’
Suspicion crossed the man’s features. ‘No. Had I not been in the service of the cardinal and a good son of Catalonia, I’d have been with them. Why?’
‘Just satisfying the curiosity of one of my more imaginative men,’ Cesare smiled and turned back to Skiouros as they neared the gate and the Hospitaller fished their documentation from his belt ready to show the gate guard.
‘I don’t care what he says,’ Skiouros whispered adamantly. ‘I saw him. One of them is still here. And if he’s not supposed to be, then something strange is afoot.’
‘You’d recognise him again?’
Skiouros allowed his expression to answer the question, and looked around furtively. ‘When we get inside, can you cover for me?’
‘Are you mad?’ Parmenio hissed from behind. ‘With threats of assassination and an approaching French army this place will be shut up tighter than a fish’s fart-hole.’
‘Not in the grounds,’ Skiouros countered. Look at this place. With all the supplies and so on it’ll be chaos inside. The security is all here at the gate or inside the main keep.’ He pointed at the huge drum shape that was formed from the ancient mausoleum itself, battlemented in new brick and surmounted by the squared tops of the Papal apartments.
Orsini shook his head. ‘You step out of the line and our escort will have both your balls and mine. We only have a few minutes until we’ll be led to our quarters.’ He mused for a moment. ‘Unless… give me a moment.’
He turned to their escort and waited patiently as Sir Antonio cleared their documents bearing the Borgia seal with the guard, who counted off the bodies to confirm that all were present to enter. As soon as the group shuffled through the gate arch and into the utter bedlam of the courtyard, the Hospitaller paused, rubbing his head as he contemplated their route through the madness, and Orsini cleared his throat.
‘We’re going to be on duty here, Sir Antonio?’
‘Yes. In the courtyard and outer ambulatory and on the walls and the bastions. You will probably occasionally have duty inside on the lower levels too.’
‘Then since we’re all new to the castle, before you show us to our quarters would you submit to a brief tour of the place, so that we’re a little more familiar with our duty?’
The Hospitaller gave a sour look as he took in their surroundings, clearly weighing up the value of a grounding in the castle’s layout against the difficulty of navigating the total chaos of the court. With perhaps twenty to twenty-five feet between the drum keep and the surrounding defences, the courtyard was packed with carts and men, soldiers going about their various duties and workers loading, unloading and ferrying supplies. Any kind of tour would be a little like trying to swim in tallow. And with the almost deafening cacophony of a thousand competing voices, the chances of Sir Antonio making himself heard would be minimal. Eventually, with a sign of resigned regret the monkish knight nodded his acquiescence. ‘But let’s get u
p onto the walls where we can move. I’ll take you round the perimeter and point out everything important - shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Then we’ll come back to the gate and I’ll take you into the places assigned you in the Bastion of San Matteo.’
Parmenio thanked Sir Antonio with a smile and as soon as the Hospitaller stepped forward to demand a man shift his wagon full of grain so that they could get to the stairs, he leaned close to Skiouros. ‘Make your move, but you’ve got less than ten minutes to be back here and fall in with us.’
The Greek nodded and, straightening as Sir Antonio flashed an exasperated look at them while they waited for the wagon to roll a couple of paces forward, he paused. As soon as the Hospitaller looked away again, he stepped back behind a trio of crossbowmen in some unknown livery arguing about their billets.
Left or right? It was an arbitrary choice. His quarry had been ahead of them in the queue and must be inside the walls by now, but where he had gone was an unguessable question. Left or right? Or even straight into the keep? Or up onto the walls?
He allowed his seething mind to calm and looked around. Another set of four men stood guard at the entrance to the great cylindrical keep, and they looked a little less flustered than their counterparts on the outer wall. Doubtless few men would be given access to the interior. Certainly it was unlikely that his prey would. And the tops of the walls were relatively clear of men, apart from the guards at their regular positions. So, yes: left or right.
The decision was made for him by simple expediency. To the right, Sir Antonio was pushing his way past the cart to lead them all up the wall stairs. Less chance of being noticed by their escort if he went the other way.
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