by Tom Pugh
He had ordered his men to raise their deadly forest of pikes, feeling as if he might burst with pride. His men weren’t the best in that field, but they were motivated by more than just money. “You’ll see, my lord,” he’d told Il Medeghino the previous night, “honour and loyalty still count. The battle for Italy’s soul will not be decided by foreign mercenaries.”
Adrenaline and fear; the calm before battle. Nothing like it in the world. Fifteen thousand men welded into a single, lethal force. The drummer boys and fifers, toying with their instruments to stop the shakes.
Longstaff, in bright cuirass and iron skullcap, had raised his double-handed war-sword and given the order to march. Three thousand men followed him into a hail of musket balls. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, not a chink between them, setting the ends of their eighteen foot pikes against the hard earth to present a massive spiked wall. The enemy swept down from the hill. The long wooden shafts splintered. Men on both sides shut their eyes to avoid being blinded. Bodies fell to the ground. Survivors drew swords. The men in front fought hand to hand beneath the dipping pikes. Longstaff no longer stood on grass, but on the bodies of fallen soldiers, entrails hanging out, skulls smashed, fingers still twitching on severed arms. But his men were moving forward across the grisly carpet, gathering momentum as they went.
The enemy gave orders to reinforce the line. Longstaff had looked for a response from Il Medeghino’s platform. Nothing. A regiment of veteran French came off the hill, hit the line with a mighty crash. Still, Longstaff waited for the blast of trumpets – this couldn’t be a mistake – Il Medeghino was a superb tactician.
Trapped, consumed by the grunt and hack of soldiers wedged together, a tangle of limbs and steel, Longstaff remembered his boast – that his native irregulars would decide the battle for Italy’s soul – and the smile on Il Medeghino’s face. The press of bodies lifted him off the valley floor. He shook his shoulders furiously, jack-knifing his body, desperate to win a few inches of space.
Trumpets.
Now, the Spanish and German mercenaries began to march, shoring up the disintegrating regiment, to win the battle and collect the spoils. Later, Longstaff reckoned the cost of Il Medeghino’s deliberate delay at five hundred men. They’d served their purpose; the general had no interest in feeding and quartering part-time soldiers.
Longstaff felt his concentration waver. The day must have taken more out of him than he realized. He heard Sparrow whimper. Feebly, she snapped at the air, before sinking reluctantly onto her forepaws beside the empty cup. Longstaff reached for his sword and toppled to one side, a terrible lethargy pressing him into the hard earth.
The Frenchman loomed above, holding a small phial between his thumb and forefinger. “An infusion of belladonna and mandragora. I haven’t killed you, Matthew. I don’t envy you the headache you’ll have when you finally wake.”
He opened Longstaff’s jerkin and probed inside the shirt. He found the book, bound to the Englishman’s chest, sliced it free with a short knife from his sleeve. Durant rifled through the pages until he found Schoff’s letter explaining where to find the next book, then the Otiosi leader. The Frenchman smiled. “Comfortable?”
Longstaff’s oath echoed in his head.
Durant pulled him closer to the fire, arranged his limbs beneath blankets. “Nothing personal, but you nearly got us killed today, and I can’t stop thinking about our encounter with the Russians. Trailing assassins across half the world?” He shook his head. “No doubt you have your uses on the battlefield. But you’re a blunt instrument and Epicurus is too important. I won’t allow you to put the recovery of his work at risk.”
Longstaff couldn’t reply. He wanted to warn Durant that he was making a terrible mistake, but was too tired. He lost the Frenchman’s outline, the glow of the fire blurring as consciousness faded away.
CHAPTER 15
Strange dreams racked Longstaff throughout the night. A parade of faces stared at him with loathing; a man he’d cut down in single combat, a farmer he’d dispossessed gathering supplies for Il Medeghino. He saw corpses strewn across a battlefield, heard dogs fighting over the spoils.
Danger! Longstaff fought the unnatural sleep. Sparrow stood at his head, teeth bared at a trio of mountain wolves. They approached together, so close they might have been a single, three-headed beast. Longstaff tore the blankets away. His sword was there – he grabbed the worn hilt and charged on unsteady legs, scattering the scrawny animals; the pickings were slim at this high altitude.
Black fury kept Longstaff running, swinging the katzbalger above his head like a club. He imagined his hands around the Frenchman’s neck. Stupid, stupid bastard.
The wolves disappeared into the grey landscape. Longstaff knelt beside the stream, plunged his face in the icy water. The shock calmed him, but did nothing for the hard ball of anger in his gut, rising to his chest at the thought of Durant. Rage like he hadn’t felt since he was a child, ripped from his family, powerless in a cold city on the Baltic coast.
The horses were gone. There was only his sword and bedroll, a piece of black bread wrapped in cloth. Longstaff chewed mechanically. His arms ached with the need to inflict pain. He forced himself to his feet, strapped the bedroll across his back and ran. Sparrow bounded ahead. The dog was preternaturally sure-footed and Longstaff followed where she led. He ran for an hour, reaching the fringes of a forest before his strength gave out. He had to eat. The task consumed him. He raided birds’ nests – cracked the tiny eggs directly into his mouth – scoured the forest floor for rabbit trails, unwrapped wire from his sword hilt and fashioned a noose, suspended a hands-length from the ground. He built a fire several hundred yards away, then returned to find a plump doe in the snare.
Slowly, methodically, Longstaff skinned and gutted the animal, then set it to cook on the fire. There was nothing to do but wait. He stared into the flames. What now? Durant had the horses; there was no way of overtaking the Frenchman before he reached Il Medeghino’s bolthole. Did it matter? An image of the house at Martlesham appeared in his mind; oak doors guarded by the Italian general. Anger had driven Longstaff south as a young man, the same ungovernable anger that had seized him again today. Il Medeghino had placed a high value on his fury, shaping it into a weapon of devastating violence. Had Longstaff learned anything in the years since, or had he simply been running? He stared at the fire – he would learn the answer soon enough.
It took him two more days to reach the fortress. He peered up at the ramparts, narrowing his eyes against the sun. The place was old, built when this desolate crag had overlooked an important crossroads. Now, it was half forgotten, a victim of shifting borders and new trade routes.
Longstaff had seen several signs of Durant’s passing as he walked – flattened grass and cold fires, the earth beneath still holding a trace of warmth. The Frenchman was most likely dead already, swinging at the end of a rope. Had he talked before they strung him up? Longstaff pictured his old mentor, waiting with the palimpsest in his hands.
Il Medeghino had fed and sheltered him, taught him to fight, but any debt he owed had long been paid. Longstaff walked up the narrow ridge to the heavy, outer gates.
Faces peered down at him from the top of the wall. “New recruit?”
Longstaff raised empty hands. “Il Medeghino and I are old friends.”
The men on the wall wore iron skullcaps. One of them was horribly disfigured, his face a web of puckering scars. “The General doesn’t have friends.”
“That’s what he’d have told you.”
All the men laughed, except scarface. Longstaff spat – not even through the gates and already making enemies.
Sparrow flattened herself against the ground and set up a low growl as three guards stepped out through a narrow door, cut into the huge gate. Scarface, with two others. They scanned the bleak landscape, though there wasn’t a scrap of cover for a thousand yards, and cast a wary eye at Sparrow.
“Bitch shows a tooth and I’ll slit her throa
t,” Scarface held out his hand. “Sword.”
Longstaff unbuckled the katzbalger. “I’ll want it back.”
Scarface stepped uncomfortably close. “Strip.”
The man’s breath was foul and Longstaff fought the urge to take a backward stride. He took off his cavalryman’s coat and heavy jerkin, shivering in the thin air while the men searched him with expert fingers. Scarface confiscated the long stiletto from Longstaff’s boot, the blade strapped to the inside of his forearm and the knife inside his shirt.
“Get dressed. The dog stays here.”
One of the younger men produced a short length of rope. Longstaff let them bind his hands, followed obediently across a killing ground between the outer and inner walls. A low gate swung open; Scarface pushed him through, into a courtyard full of shouting, jeering soldiers.
A man swung a great-sword as if it were a rapier. He was taller than Longstaff by a head and clearly proud of his monstrous physique. A smaller man ducked beneath his own raised sword, using it as a shield to deflect the giant’s blow.
Longstaff stared at the uneven contest. The second man was just a boy – gasping for breath, bleeding from superficial wounds, hopelessly overmatched. He should have yielded. Instead, he threw himself forward. Belatedly, Longstaff realised he’d interrupted an initiation ceremony.
The giant parried easily. From habit, Longstaff examined his technique. Did he show the young man too much of his right shoulder? Perhaps, but the weakness was barely perceptible.
When it came, the end was brutally swift. The giant stepped inside the young man’s flailing sword and crashed a fist into the side of his head, disengaged and leant on the crossguard of his great-sword. His victim collapsed in a heap, blood running in a thin stream from one ear.
The crowd screamed at the young swordsman. Two hundred men, Longstaff guessed. Perhaps a few less, but it was always wise to estimate high – another lesson he’d learned from Il Medeghino – mostly young novices come to learn their trade at the hands of Italy’s acknowledged master.
The beaten man tried to lever himself to his feet, but his arms gave way and he rolled onto his back, blowing bubbles of blood and saliva.
The crowd groaned. Scarface jabbed a sword in the small of Longstaff’s back, pushing him into the circle of men.
“General,” he shouted, adopting the tone of a man about to deliver a joke. “This person claims to be your friend.”
The old man had aged; that was Longstaff’s first thought, as he waited for the laughter to die down. Il Medeghino sat alone on a high platform, a blanket round his shoulders. He wore a padded jerkin and felt skull cap, but the blue eyes were just as Longstaff remembered, washed of any human quality.
“Gottlieb,” he said quietly, “that person is a friend of mine. Matthew Longstaff, the Hero of Marciano. Cut his bonds.”
Longstaff was probably the only man present who knew the title was meant to wound as well as praise. Low whispers ran among the men. Il Medeghino stood, letting the blanket fall to the ground. He’d grown thin. Even from a distance, Longstaff could detect the sharp points of his shoulders. The general wore his breeches too high, as if refusing to see how his powerful body had wasted.
Longstaff flexed stiff fingers. “It has been a long time.”
“Yes, it has, Matthew,” replied Il Medeghino. “Eight years since Marciano.” He pointed at the young swordsman, twitching feebly on the ground. Two men jogged forwards, carrying a small brazier between them. The first had a pair of tongs in his free hand. The second held a milking pail filled to the brim with slurry and wore a short stick tucked into the waistband of patched, yellow breeches.
The young man’s body was covered in sweat and blood, ugly welts already darkening into bruises. As Longstaff watched, the man in yellow breeches removed an ornate cross from the brazier, pressed it against the boy’s bicep while the second man held him down. Smoke rose and the smell of burning flesh drifted on the breeze.
Il Medeghino waited for the screaming to end. “I know Roberto would count it an honour to have the Hero of Marciano complete the formalities.”
He knew how much Longstaff had loathed these ceremonies. Typical of the old bastard to offer honour and insult in the same breath, and set him a test. Had he come here in friendship? Longstaff took the pail from the man in yellow breeches. He plucked the stick from his waistband, kicked the initiate in the stomach, propped his mouth open and poured the slurry down his throat.
The boy soldier rolled into a ball to defend himself against stomach cramps, before flopping onto his elbows, retching as his comrades roared their approval.
Il Medeghino invited Longstaff to walk with him on the high ramparts of the fortress. He waved his bodyguard away. Gottlieb stepped back reluctantly, one hand on an axe, suspicion irritating the scars on his face.
Longstaff peered over the parapet. It was a long way down to the valley floor. It would only take a second, a gentle pressure on the old man’s back. Il Medeghino seemed to read his mind.
“I had a hand in making you, Matthew,” he said, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. “Whatever you’re doing here, you haven’t come to kill me in cold blood.”
Longstaff pretended not to hear. He craned his neck for a glimpse of the men at weapons training in the courtyard.
“Aren’t you bored of all this?”
A noise emerged from deep inside the old man and it took Longstaff a moment to realize he was laughing.
“After Marciano they wanted to load me down with another hundredweight of titles. Put me in a palace in Rome. But I am condottiero,” – he spat onto the flagstones, – “a free soldier, not a courtier. My place is here, even if my bones no longer keep out the cold.” He glanced at Longstaff. “Eight years since you disappeared like a thief in the night. You might at least have said goodbye.”
“Would you have let me go?”
The old man sighed. His beard was thin, heavily streaked with grey.
“Marciano was your final lesson. You could have risen high, Matthew.”
Longstaff shook his head.
“I was an Englishman, fighting over an Italian town, in a battle decided by Spanish infantry. It wasn’t my fight.”
Il Medeghino shrugged.
“Only kings get to choose why they fight, if they’re lucky. I thought you’d have worked it out by now – why you left, I mean – but I see you’re as blind as ever.”
He must have read the confusion on Longstaff’s face. He laughed again, and his laughter became a coughing fit. Scarface hurried forwards but Il Medeghino pushed him away, filling his lungs with ragged gasps of air.
“I’ll tell you why you left, Matthew Longstaff. Because you were afraid.”
In the Great Hall, whole deer and wild pigs turned on giant spits. Il Medeghino stamped his feet to shake out the cold, while his men arranged themselves at two long trestle tables. The last rays of the setting sun broke against the windows, soaking the room in soft light as Longstaff looked up. A large iron cage – ten by five, half as high as a man standing – hung from the central beam. Fingers gripped the bars. A face appeared, eyes hollow with fear.
Gottlieb gave up his place at the top table with ill grace. Longstaff sat down beside Il Medeghino. How much did he already know?
“Friend of yours?” Longstaff lifted his eyes to the cage, keeping his tone light. “A student behind with his studies?”
Il Medeghino shrugged.
“A foolish thief who should have known better. We found him in my private chambers, rifling through some old books.”
Longstaff hid his relief in laughter. “Don’t tell me you’ve learned to read.”
Il Medeghino spat.
“The previous owner kept a small library, before he died in tragic circumstances.”
Longstaff hooked an elbow around the back of his chair. “The thief managed to get as far as your chambers? Standards must have slipped in the last few years.”
“He scaled the walls in the dead
of night,” the old man shook his head. “There are easier ways to commit suicide.”
Il Medeghino said grace, his men clasping hands and lowering their eyes. Two hundred Amens rolled around the room. Novices served meat from huge platters, while pitchers of wine circulated freely.
“Are there no women?” shouted Longstaff over the conversation.
Il Medeghino nodded. It was growing warmer in the Great Hall and he allowed the blanket to fall open on his shoulders.
“My men can whore in their own time.”
Once, Longstaff had thought of Il Medeghino as a second father. He noticed the wasted thighs, despite the thick breeches; the old man was rank with the scent of death and he found it hard to keep his pity in check.
“They do what I tell them.” Il Medeghino watched the men paw at their plates. “Still means something to bear my mark. Guaranteed work, a chance to get rich.” He removed his felt cap and scratched short, grey hair. “But you haven’t come looking for work, Matthew, or to keep me up with tales of misspent youth.”
Longstaff looked at the cage, high above the cooking fires. Durant would be fit to eat in a couple of days.
“I want that thief,” he said. “I’ve been tracking him for weeks. There’s a price on his head.”
“I never thought you’d become a manhunter.”
Longstaff flushed. “We all have to earn a living.”
“We’re executing him in the morning,” Il Medeghino shrugged. “Take his head with my compliments.”
“I need him alive. He’s worth nothing dead.”
Il Medeghino stared at him. “You wouldn’t deny an old man the pleasure of killing a common thief.”