The man’s eyes suddenly seemed to focus and he gave a weak smile as he reached up and clasped Skiouros’ shoulders. The Greek stared into the eyes of his enemy, surprised to see none of the disdain or wrath in them that he had expected. Even so, he easily calculated that the man’s hands being so raised left his armpit wide open to the deadly point of Skiouros’ dagger. He could quite possibly kill him and wipe the blade before anyone saw what happened.
The strange slow silence that had followed the collapse exploded into a blur of noise and motion.
Parmenio and Nicolo were there with mouths open in surprise. Behind them a third figure approached. One of the courtiers in the group had lowered his hood, and Skiouros was somehow not surprised to see the intelligent, dangerous features of Cardinal Cesare Borgia, nodding his gratitude. And there now, with Palaeologos watching fascinated from the step, Paregorio watched the events unfold. It seemed that all the world had witnessed Skiouros save the man’s life!
All was noise and confusion, and there was still a whining in Skiouros’ ears from the crash of the wall’s collapse. As the cardinal spoke, he had to force himself to concentrate even just a little over the rush of blood, noise and dust and the mind-destroying enormity of what he had just done. Something about good reactions, Borgia announced. Something about quick thinking. Something about good men. Skiouros lowered his head respectfully, his misericord returning to his belt. Something about hostages and the king. Something about missions.
His head was still whining and spinning a little.
But once again, his mind was focusing through the mess. The wall had collapsed just as Prince Cem walked past. The wall that had been weakened a little several months ago by a rogue Hospitaller who had previously served as one of that same prince’s guards. It was no coincidence - couldn’t be. But how had the man timed it to collapse on that specific moment?
Simply: he couldn’t. So how had he managed it? He had to have been there to trigger the collapse at the right time.
As the cloud finally settled completely, Skiouros’ eyes slowly slid upwards. The remnants of the wall were lying in heavy chunks of masonry across the ambulatory amid the dust and rubble. Sections remained up to more than the height of a man, but the parapet was missing for some ten feet. Skiouros was no engineer, but he could see how perhaps the wall could have been weakened over time and then given a final, hefty nudge at the right time.
One of the wall guards had been at the collapsed section and had had the foresight to jump as the walkway fell away. He was now leaning, wide-eyed, against the nearest intact merlon with his neighbour holding his spear as they stared down into the ruins.
Then Skiouros noticed the other figure. It shouldn’t have stood out - just another cloaked figure on the walls along with all the others. But it didn’t take a thoroughly academic mind to work out the spacing between the guard posts and see that there was one too many figures on the wall.
He was running again quickly, his feet pounding up the steps to the wall top, where he doubled back and made for the collapsed section and the extra cloaked figure crouched by the parapet. His heart sped for a moment as he realised who it had to be, but then his spirits sank. He could just see the white-blond hair poking out from the base of the helmet, revealing it to be the renegade Hospitaller. But the figure was motionless. And that fact was equally eloquent.
As he reached the man, he slowed and moved into a crouch. The Hospitaller was dead - of that there could be no doubt. The glass jar he had been carrying was shattered and what remained of its corrosive, deadly contents had spilled out across the wall walk, eating into the gaps between the stones. But it had also eaten into the man who carried it. As Skiouros grasped the man’s shoulder gingerly, being careful where he placed his feet to avoid the dissolved sections and the danger of the Aqua Regia on his own boots, he closed his eyes in shock and held his breath until he could pull his scarf up over his nose.
Had it not been for the hair, he’d not have recognised the man. More than half his face had collapsed in on itself as had most of the chest cavity, as well as the arm that had been wrapped around the jar. The smell was appalling, and the sight was even worse. Behind Skiouros, the duty officer, who had scurried along to find out what had drawn his attention, suddenly took a sharp breath and then vomited copiously onto the wall walk.
Skiouros turned, his face stony, and made for the stairs once more, where Orsini had appeared from somewhere and was now standing with Cardinal Borgia, Parmenio and Nicolo, being brought up to date on events.
It was a simple enough explanation. The man had been waiting for his prey to pass and had poured the corrosive liquid into some weak spot. Likely he’d spent the past few months using a small vial at a time, burning a hole down from the wall walk, between the paving slabs until he had a weakened area that was almost hollowed inside. And just as the party passed below, the renegade had poured his Aqua Regia into that hole in bulk and stepped back from the dangerous spot. But in the confusion as the wall collapsed, he had accidentally fumbled the bottle and ended up reaping the sick harvest of that mistake.
But while any guard or officer passing might believe that, even without the evidence of the weakened spot, Skiouros didn’t. The sort of man who planned this, went against his own honour and holy orders and the commands of his Pope, and who had been so careful over so many months, was not the sort of man to fumble at the last minute and melt himself to death. How he had managed to do all this without being questioned by the other wall guards was another deep question, but the whole thing added up to there being a second man. One who helped distract the guards, possibly? One who disposed of the Hospitaller when he was no longer of use, almost certainly.
But there was no evidence. There were no leads, even. And Prince Cem would hardly be a man short of enemies. After all, had he known about the thing from the first, Skiouros may well have helped the rogue knight in his quest to kill the Turk and thereby avoided accidentally saving the man’s life! And the Hospitallers had more cause to hate the sultan than most - a heretic follower of a heathen God, a man who had been captive of their own order but they had lost to the pope, a Muslim they may be made to support in a bid to recapture Constantinople? And now that the order had effectively been branded untrustworthy and dismissed from Papal service and sent to the east again? It would hardly be surprising to find one or more of them holding a grudge.
But then, who was the second man…?
As Skiouros, his ears finally returning to normal, closed on his friends and their employer, Orsini nodded to him without breaking his conversation.
‘But was the collapse aimed at Prince Cem or at you?’ Orsini asked quietly. ‘Who knew that either of you would be passing, let alone together?’
Borgia took a deep breath. ‘Enough people to make investigation extremely difficult. I and Sir Antonio were escorting the Turk to His Holiness and the French king. Cem is not yet aware of his fate, but he is to be passed over by my father to the king for a period of six months to aid Charles in his crusade. After that, he will be returned to Rome and to Papal custody. Charles will not need him now that he has the deeds to the Byzantine crown, while His Holiness holds the Turk in rather high regard.’
‘Someone who does not want the French to have him?’ Parmenio mused.
‘Or just someone with a reason to hate Cem specifically, or the Turks in general,’ Skiouros added. ‘And that opens up your suspects to most of the world’s population west of the Morea.’
Cardinal Borgia nodded irritably. ‘Well done on your efforts, Skiouros the Greek. You and your men, Orsini, continue to prove yourselves of the highest value to me. And I believe that I have at least one more mission for you in the coming weeks - the most important of all. It seems that one of the conditions of this deal between His Holiness and His Majesty is that I accompany the French army as a Papal legate. A notable position, of course, and one that in other times cardinals would tear each other’s’ eyes out to secure. But in this particula
r case, I think we can all see the role for what it is: hostage to the French. I will be restricted in my retinue, of course, and certainly in the manner of military escort. However, I will be able to push through one or two lances of condottieri in my entourage. Pack your gear ready and stand by. I have no set date for our departure yet, but I cannot see it being more than a week away. And whatever agreements have been made I have no intention whatsoever of playing humble hostage and accompanying the French army to Napoli and then to Istanbul.’
Orsini bowed his head in acceptance and Borgia paused only long enough to look Skiouros up and down and smile his gratitude before taking the wall stairs two at a time and returning to the small gathering below where Cem Sultan - half-brother of Bayezid the Just - and his courtiers and a few Catalan soldiers stood staring into the rubble.
Peering down, Skiouros was disheartened to see what had to be the body of Sir Antonio, the Cardinal’s own Catalan Hospitaller among the dead. One of the few men here he felt he could almost trust.
As soon as they were safely alone, out of earshot of all others, Nicolo shook his head in wonder. ‘How maddening is that? You were close enough to put a knife into the man, but instead you saved his life!’
Skiouros nodded, a bitter expression on his face. And yet, as he went back over that moment of dust and noise and confusion, he was not entirely convinced it was the danger of being seen by the others in the thinning dust that had stayed his murderous blade and moved it to free the man from his entangled robe instead. In the darkness of his own soul, late at night, he would wrestle with the worry that he had not actually been able to deliver that blow after all.
On his arm, the etched image of dreadful Bayamanaco burned with both anger and shame.
And now Cem Sultan would head south along with King Charles and his army. And Cardinal Borgia. And him. It seemed that this might not be his last chance to test his will, after all…
CHAPTER EIGHT - Velletri, January 1495
Skiouros crouched in the ditch, swiping irritably at the fronds and leaves and other plant life that seemed insistent on imposing itself upon his evening.
‘Stop wafting your hands around like a fish salesman with a deficit and get dressed,’ hissed Parmenio. ‘I’ve never seen anything with less than four arms do such a perfect impression of a windmill!’
‘You’re alright,’ Skiouros snapped irritably. ‘You got given the right size. A miracle, I’d say, given that you seem to have grown a belly size every month since summer. I got given a child’s one, I assume. Do they give you a toy sword as well, since I’ve had to leave my macana with the gear?’
Parmenio, glowering darkly as he tested his waistline in the face of such criticism, straightened the white tunic with the ‘triple-towered castle’ livery of Velletri over his doublet. The tunic seemed voluminous and had had to be cinched up at the waist with Parmenio’s belt. He ripped the sword from his sheath, spun it in the light of the torch burning on a pole rammed into the turf and then slid it back.
‘No. My sword seems all grown up.’
Nicolo stepped up next to him in an identical tunic, this one a mite too long so that it had to be doubled at the waist. Orsini, moving from where the horses grazed on the roadside grass, adjusted his own tunic. ‘Everyone received one that was as appropriate to their size as possible. If you think you have trouble, my Greek friend, you should see Helwyg trying to squeeze into his! And he has the rope round his waist too.’
Without further comment, but sporting a face like thunder, Skiouros finally appeared from the ditch, trying to shuffle his tunic into place. Clearly whoever had given the ‘procurer’ - as Borgia’s man had called him - the required dimensions, had assumed Skiouros to be the size of a twelve-year-old. The tunic fit him like a sausage skin, his own doublet squeezing out of all the gaps despite his leanness and narrowness of torso.
‘The moment I try to do anything other than walk as though I just shat myself, this thing is going to rip in ten different places. Are you sure I didn’t get someone else’s?’
‘Perhaps you’d like to exchange with Helwyg?’ Nicolo grinned.
‘This thing wouldn’t cover Helwyg’s buttock! It barely covers mine!’
Orsini chuckled in the shadows. ‘It only has to pass at first glance. Do not panic about the grander scheme of things. Bear in mind that so many things could easily trip us up that costumery is really at the lower end of the scale.
Girolamo suddenly appeared from behind a tree with his tunic in place and his crossbow slung across his back, looking so entirely natural in the uniform that he could easily have been a town guard in the service of the podesta of Velletri. His healed arm was strong again now, and regular practice with the weapon was helping him recover his impressive aim. ‘Nice to see that this one only has one small slash and a pink stain in the armpit.’ The archer shrugged. ‘I think that adequately answers my question as to how these were acquired.’
Behind him, Helwyg appeared, looking like a giant wearing a child’s clothes, the wool tunic stretched so tight around his chest that the triple castle looked more like a massive mountaintop fortress, each arrow-slit wide enough to drive a cart through.
‘This not work.’
‘Yes it will,’ smiled Orsini. The six men, each dressed in a tunic of the Velletri guard, stepped out onto the narrow cart-track, the only light in the damp night air the single torch burning on the verge. The sky sat heavy and thick with cloud the colour of a banker’s heart, threatening a fresh cloudburst at any moment. No one had seen the moon or a single star for almost a week now and the sun was missing, presumed drowned.
‘If we’re to risk our lives against the French army to get to a man, why are we here and making for the cardinal in Velletri instead of a little further north and going for Cem Sultan in Marino?’ grumbled Skiouros, the stitching at his shoulders already giving way. In truth, the diversion in the service of their master was a welcome one. In the past week, Skiouros had entirely failed to come to terms with his apparent inability to carry out the one act that had become his heart’s desire, and he was none too sure that he wanted another opportunity to test his resolve quite so soon.
‘Because we need to honour our contract with the cardinal,’ Orsini replied calmly, almost as if reading his innermost thoughts, ‘and because here we have help from the cardinal’s contacts that we wouldn’t have in Marino, and because while Borgia is all-but a prisoner in Velletri, he is accorded certain freedoms and is under the watchful eye of a couple of dozen French soldiers at most, while prince Cem is secured tighter than a nun’s underthings in Marino with half the French army surrounding him in a circle. If you’re going to complain, Skiouros, at least think through your arguments first. We had plenty of time to discuss things last night in Albano and we all agreed to this course.’
‘Let’s get it over with,’ Parmenio sighed. ‘The sooner we get going, the sooner we can all rest comfortably in our nice silk-lined coffins back in Albano.’
‘If they can find one to fit you these days,’ grinned Nicolo, pinching his friend’s ribs painfully.
‘I am not fat!’
‘You’re not thin!’
‘Come on,’ Orsini said with an almost paternal patience, and gestured to the torch, to which Helwyg crossed and extinguished with the jug of water resting nearby. As soon as the six were gathered on the path, Girolamo untied the sheaf of pikes that leaned against an overhanging branch and passed them one at a time to the others. Skiouros handled his rather inexpertly, but then so did everyone except the powerful Helwyg, who seemed perfectly natural with the weighty, top-heavy weapon. They watched as the big Silesian settled the shaft comfortably against the hollow of his shoulder and hooked his arm over it to balance the weight, and gradually achieved the same with varying degrees of success. Helwyg wandered among them, adjusting their grip and the pikes’ angles and once he was satisfied he nodded to Orsini.
‘Come on,’ the nobleman smiled, jamming his cheap ‘kettle’ helmet on his h
ead, the others following suit so that their features were shadowed by the iron brims.
With Orsini in the lead, they fell into their assigned places, Skiouros and Girolamo side by side behind him, Parmenio and Nicolo after them and Helwyg bringing up the rear. They had not had time to watch the patrols sent out by the podesta - the justice - of Velletri to see if they matched the standard format of such a unit, but had had instead to trust Orsini’s knowledge of such matters, in which he was confident.
They were lucky, really. Velletri had high, strong walls and a lot of men, and under normal circumstances it would be extremely difficult to gain access. But with the entire French army in the locale, the podesta had not taken a great deal of convincing by Borgia’s contact to send out regular patrols into the lands beyond the walls.
The party, to a casual glance one of the numerous patrols in the area, rounded the corner from their hiding place and beheld the strength of Velletri.
The city, once a rival to Rome - in the days before the Caesars - sat on a hill among the numerous ridges and craters of this unstable region, its golden walls and red roofs a jumble and muddle, though all rather hard to make out in the gloomy darkness. Even the heavy, many-towered, walls that ringed the city and separated the civic area from the vineyards and orchards that covered the land were hard to make out with any clarity. Their position and size were mostly gleaned from the flickering light of the torches that stood along them and atop each turret at regular intervals, almost inviting an attack, as though to proclaim their confidence in their own strength.
Their destination, the Porta del Portone, stood powerful and impressive, two heavy drum towers with a solid gatehouse between, the only aperture the gate itself, which stood closed like all the others, the towers not even decorated with arrow slits. It was an imposing concern, and Skiouros was glad that he wouldn’t be able to see it with any clarity until he was too close to back out.
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