Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Skiouros nodded, drawing his sword and hefting it in his good hand, wincing at another throb in his left. Helwyg tensed his fingers, his knuckles white on the grip of his great German sword. Orsini and Parmenio both prepared their blades, the former with his dripping, crimson parrying dagger in his offhand, the latter reaching his free hand down to the door handle. Parmenio glanced around at his friends and at Orsini’s nod turned the handle and swung the door inwards.

  The four men burst into the room at speed, Parmenio at the rear closing the door behind them to dampen any sound for the rest of the castle. Skiouros had not realised until this moment that he had been half-prepared for this to be the wrong room - to find some French captain asleep within. He had also not realised that he’d been partially hoping for that to be true, so that he did not have to confront his greatest dread: actually completing his task.

  But his fears - his hopes? - had been unfounded. Even had the occupants been absent, the room was so clearly the apartment of the Turkish exile. Strangely, even the momentary glance as they entered was enough to send a huge pang of homesickness through Skiouros. It looked like the chamber of any opulent Ottoman. Delicate wall-hangings showed scenes of turbaned pashas hunting rabbits with hounds. Silk and velvet cushions lined the floor and the couches around the periphery of the room, and the polished wood floor was covered with thick, warm, exotic rugs. Somehow it even smelled like Istanbul. The whole effect combined to startle Skiouros and he paused as he took everything in.

  Cem’s small group of loyal countrymen were in the room, some seated on the couches, others on the floor, all of them staring in silent, numb shock at this sudden intrusion, and thought to cry out extinguished by the points of so many swords waving at them. One attendant sat at a desk near a window down to the courtyard, busy with a letter of some sort. Near him, a fruit bowl and a platter of bread were kept company by a bottle of wine and four crystal glasses. Clearly Cem’s western captivity had led to him breaking his religious abstinence, then.

  In the centre of the room stood a large bed, its elegant wooden corner posts almost touching the ceiling and holding up a canopy from which swathes of fabric fell, forming a curtain of privacy all around it.

  Parmenio hovered by the door that he had closed. Helwyg moved into the centre among the companions, his huge threatening bulk enough to cow the seemingly gentle courtiers into continued silence. Parmenio moved for the man at the table, making threatening gestures with his sword as he drew the curtains on the two windows of the room for added privacy.

  And through this strange tableau stepped Skiouros, son of Nikos the farmer, child of Hadrianopolis, and of Istanbul that had been Constantinople, former thief, saddened brother, false priest, intrepid explorer of the western lands, reluctant sailor, condottiere and now, by a twist of fate, assassin.

  His heart beating so hard he could feel every thump in the roof of his mouth, his pulse racing like the horses of the ancient Hippodrome, he stepped up to the bed and used his bad hand to brush the curtains aside, climbing onto the bed with his sword raised and poised to strike.

  Albano, not Sant’Angelo…

  Inside all was gloomy, the thick drapes blocking out the light of the room.

  Skiouros paused for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. His heart was cold and fiery all at once. His mind rolled in a sea of turmoil. Castel Sant’Angelo. Cisternone. Lykaion. Nicolo. Vengeance. Goodness. Hope. Fate. Just what was Skiouros, son of Nikos capable of?

  The gloom resolved into shapes. The figure of Cem Sultan, half-brother of Bayezid the Just and claimant to the Imperial Ottoman throne resolved among the sheets, as did the shape of a well-dressed Turkish woman who had to be his wife, kneeling at one corner of the bed within the drapes.

  Skiouros’ arm came up, the sword point dipping towards the figure of Cem, his elbow bending, muscles tensing. He could feel the sweat on his brow like liquid fire, nothing at all to do with the temperature. He faltered, and then pushed down his uncertainty, preparing his arm for the blow.

  And then he saw Cem, son of Mehmet the Second, El-Fatih - the conqueror.

  Cem was an unhealthy grey colour, dappled with plum-tinted patches. His eyes were pink with burst blood vessels. His lips were purple and he sweated heavily, drenching the sheets from his cold, rubbery skin. Skiouros stared at this thing and his heart lurched. Only now did he realise that the strange, peripheral noise he’d been trying to block out was that of weeping. The woman in the corner was in tears. Even as Skiouros stared at the would-be sultan, he saw the man’s chest suddenly rise and fall with a shudder, dragging in a troubled breath. He waited far too long for comfort for the next one.

  ‘What happened?’ Skiouros whispered in a shaky voice, his sword still raised in the killing position, despite its apparent redundancy. The tip wavered for a moment. He turned his head with difficulty from the sight of his mortal enemy and fixed the shivering woman with his gaze.

  ‘What happened?’ he repeated in a forceful hiss, realising suddenly that the woman probably spoke no Italian. He switched with remarkable ease after so long into Turkish.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  The woman recoiled, startled at the unexpected use of her own tongue from this foreign killer. She simply stared at him in horror, and Skiouros felt himself flinch as though she had struck him. Carefully and slowly, he lowered the sword and slid it into the sheath at his waist. Nursing his wounded hand as drips of blood from the saturated scarf wrapped around it fell to the bed clothes, he nodded at the woman in what he hoped was an encouraging and comforting manner. He could feel very little through the whirlwind of emotions whipping up his insides.

  ‘What happened?’

  After a long moment, the woman tried to talk, her voice cloyed with sobs and grief. She paused, taking a breath, and tried again. ‘My prince has been ill for too long, beyefendi. We hoped he would recover, but it is clear now that this will not happen.’

  ‘Illness?’ Skiouros felt cheated and saved at the same time, and the combination did little to calm him.

  ‘He fell ill on our journey south, Lord, after we left Rome. By the time we reached a place near Capua… Thino, I think…’

  ‘Teano,’ Skiouros corrected, numbly.

  ‘Teano, yes. By the time we reached Teano, the sultan could no longer walk or ride. He was given a carriage by the king, to allow him time to recover. But he will not recover, I am thinking. Allah is about to claim him. His light will fade and leave my life in darkness in hours now, or perhaps days.’

  Skiouros shook his head in shock. What should he do now? He could almost feel Lykaion looking over his shoulder. He could feel the ghostly forms of Nicolo and Vincenzo and Girolamo wisping on the very edge of his senses, perhaps demanding he complete the task for which they had given their lives, perhaps simply observing as the scene played itself out.

  ‘His Majesty says that when my husband recovers he will be freed,’ the lady whispered. ‘I think he makes this generous promise because he knows he will not be required to honour it.’

  Skiouros was still reeling, unable to think straight. The figure of Bayamanaco on his arm burned with rage at this turn of events. His hand trembled.

  Illness!

  After everything they had fought through and overcome… all the sacrifices and hardships. All the effort they had put into this almost sacred task. And nature had done the deed for them. In fact, if they had all sat still in Genoa for a year and a half drinking Orsini’s wine, it seemed likely that they would have heard news of the Sultan’s death in the coming days anyway.

  Skiouros found that he was chuckling with a borderline hysterical tone. The woman stared at him. He straightened his face with some difficulty as his friends from the room beyond the drapes shouted for him to hurry up, asking what was going on.

  ‘No,’ Skiouros said to the woman. ‘His condition is not funny, Sultana,’ - it felt strange to use the honorific for her after denying Cem’s own Sultanhood for so long - ‘but the path
God sets out for me is a darkly humorous one, I fear.’

  One thing was clear: his revenge was pointless. Indeed, if he killed Cem now, he was certain it would be a kindness.

  Taking a strange, sad, elated, panicked, hollow breath, he bowed his head to the lady. ‘You have my sympathy, Sultana.’

  Turning, he slid from the bed, wafting the curtains aside and returning, blinking, to the brightness of the room.

  ‘Is it done?’ Parmenio asked, his eyes sparkling as he kept his sword levelled at the courtiers in the corner of the room.

  Skiouros could not find the strength to answer him. Instead, his eyes wandered, lost, around the room. They took in Orsini, poring over the letter the man had been reading. They took in Helwyg, polishing the apple he had taken from the fruit bowl on his doublet. Reaching up with it.

  Skiouros felt the blood drain from his face as he whipped out his blade and leapt from the bedside.

  Helwyg stepped back in shock as Skiouros’ sword tip sliced deep into the apple, nicking the big man’s finger. Skiouros raised the sword, lifting the apple away from the big Silesian. As the giant stared in surprise, blood dripping from the cut on his finger and splattering onto the priceless carpet below, Skiouros brought the offending fruit close and sniffed at it, recoiling at the bitter aroma he had entirely expected.

  ‘What?’ Helwyg frowned.

  Skiouros, things falling into place in his beleaguered mind, turned his blade again, presenting the apple beneath Helwyg’s nose. The Silesian took a sniff and lurched back, giving a sharp sneeze.

  ‘Treated with oil from the Poison Nut tree,’ Skiouros explained, ‘all the way from India.’ He moved the deadly orb away from Helwyg and tipped it from his blade next to a half-eaten one on the table. ‘It is a rare and expensive poison, little known in Europe. Yet I have smelled it once before, in the Vatican itself no less, in a similar fruit bowl in the apartment of Andreas Palaeologos. It was how he dealt with those who threatened him.’ Skiouros shook his head. ‘I should have seen it coming.’

  Orsini rose from the letter, a look of understanding crossing his face. ‘You mean…?’ He pointed his sword at the bed.

  ‘Yes. He has hours to go. Days at most. Palaeologos had me fooled! I truly believed he sympathised with Cem. But now… when the wall fell on Prince Cem, Andreas was there on the stairs. He had been acquainted with Cem’s Hospitaller guards, and I presume found it easy to persuade one to help after they had been summarily dismissed. Paregorio wasn’t with the emperor on the stairs, because he was busy killing the Hospitaller, tying up loose ends! And when that failed, he ran out of time. He sent his favourite poisoned fruit away with Cem when he left the Vatican.’

  Parmenio’s face took on an unreadable expression.

  ‘No. It can’t be that,’ contributed Orsini, shaking his head.

  ‘What?’ Skiouros felt a tiny moment of hope thrill through him.

  ‘This fruit would never have lasted. It’s been over a month since Rome. Any fruit the Greek emperor managed to get into Cem’s presence would be rotten by now.’

  He and Skiouros made the same connection at the same moment and turned to Parmenio in time to see the fact dawn on him too. His blade steadied, still pointing at the Turks.

  ‘So he had an accomplice. Someone who’s travelled with Cem from Rome. Couldn’t have been a Frenchman, as he had to have been in the Vatican to begin with. And it can’t be a Roman, as they never left the city. So it’s one of his own.’

  ‘Come,’ called the female voice from the bed, its tone almost dulled to inaudibility by the drapes. Skiouros looked at Parmenio and Orsini, and they nodded. Helwyg retrieved his big sword as Skiouros sheathed his, parted the drapes once more and climbed onto the bed. His eyes fell upon the Sultan’s wife and she gestured instead to the still form of prince Cem on the bed. The prince’s eyes had focused - apparently with great effort - and his head had turned slightly to face Skiouros.

  ‘You,’ the Turk breathed with a crackle. Skiouros frowned.

  ‘You... saved me… in Rome.’

  Skiouros shook his head in wonder. It was true. Astounding, as was everything about this situation. ‘It was a matter of blind luck.’

  ‘Then the Prophet… guided your hand.’ He suddenly exploded in a burst of coughing, which seemed to drain him to the edge, blood infusing the spittle that it produced.

  ‘It may… it may not look that way… but this is a blessing.’

  Skiouros’ frown returned.

  ‘I… I have prayed that… if the king of France… wished to use me…’ Another pause for a coughing fit. ‘If Charles wanted… to use me as an excuse… to exterminate my people…’ his head slumped back. ‘Then Allah take my soul… before that can happen.’

  Skiouros stared.

  He waited for more, but Cem appeared drained utterly, barely able to breathe now, let alone speak. The Greek’s confusion was clearing. The whirlwind had slowed to a drift. His mind was focusing. He had learned time and again these past few years never to take things at face value. He had refused to be tricked into blind acceptance of any man’s creed since his travels began. And yet he had been blinkered by his revenge. He had seen Cem as a hateful usurper and a monstrous conspirator. Of course, quite possibly the man had been just that years ago when this all began, but clearly he was not that now. And if Skiouros could step back and look at himself and see the changes that five years had wrung in him, why should Cem not have experienced the same?

  And through all the strange emotions and revelations, two things came to the surface:

  The pure nobility of what Cem had just said.

  And how much that reminded him of Lykaion.

  An unbidden tear welled up in his eye and trickled down his cheek and he leaned over the pain-wracked body of the dying Turk.

  ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he whispered. Despite living among Muslims for much of his life, and travelling with the Tuareg across Africa, he had never experienced one of their funerals and knew nothing of the requirements and customs beyond those a passer-by might discover by observing from the outside. Understanding that all he could do was provide as much comfort as possible, he smiled weakly. ‘May Allah and the Prophet grant you rest, Cem, son of Mehmet.’

  Somehow all the force of his vengeance had drained in the face of this poor, broken creature and his dignity in death, placing his people above himself. Skiouros sighed. ‘Know that I wish you only peace.’

  Skiouros looked up at Cem’s wife. He wanted to ask her something, but had absolutely no idea how to go about it. Possibly she understood, or perhaps misunderstood, but whatever the case, she nodded gently.

  Skiouros reached to the top of the bed and picked up a bulky, down-filled pillow, lifting it in both hands. Cem muttered something inaudible, but Skiouros took a deep breath and gently lowered the pillow over the pretender sultan’s face. He had expected a struggle, even with the man’s weakness, but Cem simply lay limp and immobile as Skiouros gently, compassionately suffocated the last dregs of agonising life from his bitter enemy. His eyes drifted up to the man’s wife, but she was simply watching, tears dripping from her cheeks. If a year ago in Roccabruna someone had told him that his last act against Cem sultan would be one of mercy and respect, he would have laughed in their face.

  Skiouros closed his eyes as he held the pillow there to be certain.

  ‘I bear witness that there is no god but Allah…’ Possibly the whispered voice was in his head. Possibly it was muffled out from beneath the pillow, or did the girl say it? Whatever the source, it sounded a great deal like Lykaion’s voice to him.

  After what seemed an eternity, he lifted the pillow once more and threw it back to the top of the bed, his eyes on the dead pretender. For confirmation, he held his hand to the man’s nose and mouth and sensed not the slightest draft of breath.

  Skiouros felt empty.

  ‘Rest, Cem. And rest, Lykaion. It is done.’

  Slipping to the edge of the bed, he reached up and threw open the
drapes, dropping to the floor and staring at his hands as if they belonged to another man.

  ‘Murder!’

  Skiouros blinked at the shout and his drifting thoughts pulled back in as he focused on the source. The call had been in Turkish and one of the sultan’s companions towards the back of the room was standing, pointing at the bed.

  ‘Murder! The Borgia’s men have killed the Sultan!’

  Skiouros blinked again. And again. And suddenly the room exploded into activity. The prince’s entourage started to shout and wail, shock and horror evident on their faces, pointing at the bed and at Skiouros, calling him a killer. One of the men even started to shout in Italian.

  Somehow, through the numbness of his senses, he noticed the man who had first shouted, along with two others, making for the door to the corridor, taking advantage of the grief and shock of their companions to attempt an escape. They did not look shocked.

  Skiouros narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You!’ he pointed at them. ‘You are Andreas’ men! You killed your own prince!’

  The three men reached the door just as Orsini stepped in to block it, both blades held forth, threateningly. Parmenio and Helwyg were moving on them now, too, ignoring the wails and shouts of the other Turks, pushing them aside. Skiouros drew his sword. Whether or not these men presented a threat, their shouts must have roused the French by now.

  ‘We have to leave!’ he barked out, wondering whether he could still wield his macana club with his missing finger. With a last, regretful glance at the dead sultan and his wife, the Greek assassin ran across the room towards the others. One of the three Turks near the door reached out and pulled a tall candelabrum from beside the wall, the burning tallow candles falling to the floor as he wielded the huge, iron furnishing as a weapon, threatening Orsini with it. Unwieldy it might be, but it was also large and complex and might well break a sword if handled well. As Orsini shifted his feet to make ready, the second Turk pushed the third towards Parmenio and Helwyg, using his human shield to escape the closing ring of death. He reached the smaller of the two windows and slammed his hand into it, pushing it wide open, leaning through the curtains. He began to bellow out in Italian with a heavy Turkish accent, warning of a Papal assassin in the sultan’s chamber.