Suicide Kings

by Christopher J. Ferguson

  “He represents the Republic. He’s apparently investigating my mother’s murder as well.” She paused for a moment. “Did you really find him to be handsome?”

  “He was willowy, had unblemished skin and all his teeth. In Ireland, a man such as that is an ideal of beauty.”

  Diana laughed a little. “I don’t know how much he could be trusted. Even if he tells the truth about working for the Republic, there are so many factions…”

  “You think he works for Friar Savonarola?” Her tone was clear to Diana. Even if Savanarola wasn’t involved in her mother’s murder, and there was no evidence he was, he could only be a sinister presence. The Mad Friar’s shadow never seemed to bring benefit to those upon whom it fell.

  Diana shook her head. “When I mentioned Savonarola’s name, I got the impression he disapproved.” She stood, tested out her movement in this attire and decided she was satisfied. Overall, she felt rather better than the previous day. Perhaps that was how it was with the loss of a loved one, each day a little better than the last. Undoubtedly a little breakfast would help too.

  “Where will we be off to today?” Siobhan asked.

  God bless her, Diana thought, the Irish girl was unstoppable. “I would like to visit the church at Piazza Madonna delle Grazie. My mother’s note suggested she met someone there who might know something about why she died. Perhaps the priest in attendance might have seen who that is.” She thought for a moment, and then said, “I would like to know how the nun received that letter into her possession. I wish I could have spoken to her longer that night.”

  Siobhan grasped her shoulder in that informal manner of hers. “What is done can’t be undone. We can only press forward.”

  With a moment’s hesitation, Diana touched Siobhan’s arm and gave her a smile. “Let’s get going.”

  ****

  At midday the Church at Madonna delle Grazie was only lightly occupied. Though built to hold several hundred, it was small by the standards of Firenze. Nonetheless, it was of exquisite design, the cross behind the altar radiating with gold and silver, a showering display of opulence to backdrop the suffering of Christ. Each of the small chapels lining the nave displayed commissioned paintings by well-regarded Florentine artists. Among them a Madonna by the rising star Michelangelo, now in unofficial exile in Roma. Diana didn’t recognize the names of the other artists, although the quality of the paintings was exquisite, even if they tended to focus on themes of suffering, martyrdom, and loss. This church remained darker than the Basilica of Zenobius, the windows too small to let in enough light. The funerary sculptures of rich benefactors loomed like spirits. Marble skulls grinned seemingly at every corner of the church. Upon one chapel altar, a reliquary held the skull of the church’s patron saint, one Regina di Lucca who, it was said, had ended the Black Death outbreak of 1348 by absorbing the demons that spread it into her body.

  A dozen hunched figures clustered at the front of the nave near the main altar. Each of them radiated years of regret, as if there was little left but a husk of a human being that longed for nothing more than the eternal peace death would soon grant them. One of the penitents, a woman, led the rest in the recitation of psalms in Latin.

  “Now this,” Siobhan whispered, “is more like the Ireland I remember.” She looked up and around admiringly. “Except I don’t remember glass windows.”

  Diana looked at her like she was mad. “I suppose we should find a priest.” She actually wasn’t entirely sure what she was going to ask when she found one. For the moment, none were in view.

  Siobhan fingered the teeth on one marble skull. “What do you have to do to get buried inside a church?”

  “Donate lots of florins,” Diana answered absently, “or do something particularly noteworthy. If you do something noteworthy your body will draw in countless others who will donate the florins for you.”

  “Hmm,” Siobhan nodded. “What about you? Do you want to be buried inside a church wall, or under the floor where people can walk all over you?” The Irish girl did a small and utterly inappropriate jig.

  Diana waved at her to stop. “I really haven’t thought about it.”

  “You should, you know.” Siobhan thought out loud. “Women our age die all the time. Childbirth of course, but even if we survive that, there’s always plagues, wasting diseases, consumption, poxes, rape during war, beheading if your side gets the worst of some political conflict, and of course the syphilis if you dally with the wrong gentleman caller.”

  “In what manner is this conversation intended to benefit me?”

  “I’m just giving you good advice. Once one of those things finally gets the better of you, you better have your slice of some church set aside.” She nodded sagely.

  “Oh dear God.” Diana ran one hand through her hair. Looking away, she spotted a flash of white. The robes of a priest. “Come on.”

  Together they ran across the nave, their boots clickety-clacking on the hard stone floor.

  The priest turned slowly like a pivot at the sound of their approach. He was old, with wispy white hair and a crooked frame. God surely must call this old soldier back home soon. His eyebrows were raised when he saw them and his mouth opened as if he thought he were being chased by ghosts.

  “Father,” Diana began, mind racing about how to get the information she wanted, “I am Lady Diana Savrano and I must ask you some questions.”

  Rheumy eyes watered as they examined one woman, then the next.

  Diana’s confidence ebbed. “You are the parish priest, aren’t you?”

  “I am Father Gian,” he confirmed in a deliberate, rasping voice.

  Diana felt nothing socially inviting about the old man’s manner. Initially this deflated her confidence, but she made an effort to rally herself. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by some half-dead cleric. She straightened up her back and demanded, “I should like to know if you knew of my mother Isabella Savrano.”

  “I knew of her,” he rasped, “not well. Your father as well, mostly by reputation.”

  “My mother, did you ever see her here?”

  His clouded eyes blinked, and he paused for a moment. A thick tongue ran over his cracked lips. “She had come here from time to time, although I was given to expect that she celebrated mass more often at the larger cathedrals. San Lorenzo, or Saint Zenobius, perhaps.”

  “But she has been here then? When was the last time that you saw her?”

  The priest rolled his eyes up at the ceiling as he thought for a moment, “Oooooh, perhaps a week ago, not much more. I remember because I heard word of her death soon after.”

  “Do you remember…was she with anyone?” Her heart fluttered in anticipation of the answer. She seemed so close.

  He thought for a moment later, then shook his head. “She must have been accompanied. It would be unseemly for a woman of high status to be about town with insufficient escort.” His eyes fell languidly on Siobhan. “I do not recall specifically whose company she kept.”

  “Perhaps there was someone else here that same day? Someone of note who might also remember?”

  “Dear Lady, I am nearly eighty years old. One day blends into another.”

  Her shoulders slumped. Hopes dashed, she could scarcely think of another intelligent question worth asking.

  “I must say, the nature of these questions seems highly unusual,” the Priest protested, finding his own poise now her hauteur had ebbed.

  “Thank you, Father. I have no further questions,” she replied, turning away before he could demand an explanation.

  Well, this had arrived at a dead end. She’d managed to confirm her mother had indeed come here, probably to meet someone as the letter had intimated. The priest hadn’t managed to notice, or remember who it was. On second thought, that in and of itself might be meaningful. If her mother had met with someone else notable from town, wouldn’t the priest have remembered that person as well? It could be, if the priest didn’t remember the other person, it might be someo
ne unfamiliar altogether. Mancini could fit that bill, for certain, although it was unlikely Mancini had known her mother prior to being hired to kill her. Mancini had also said her mother was already dead by the time he got to Firenze, meaning he would still have been out of the city when she’d met the person she’d addressed the letter to. The person she’d met had to be unfamiliar to the priest, yet staying in town for at least a little while. Plenty of artists would fall in that category, hired on by one wealthy family or another. Her father’s friend, Signore Orsini was from Roma, but had been in Firenze for some weeks. Diana knew Orsini reasonably well however, and couldn’t imagine him killing her mother.

  Siobhan tugged her shoulder, tearing her from her thoughts.

  “What is it?” Diana hissed, keeping her voice down in the church.

  “We’ve been followed.” Siobhan pointed across the church. There, in a small chapel, knelt a tall thin man in a gray coat, the collar pulled high around his chin. A thick wave of curly black hair spilled around his ears. Only part of his face visible, eyes closed and downcast, a thick bulbous nose peeking out above the collar. Diana didn’t recognize him.

  “Are you sure?” Diana asked.

  “I noticed him as we were walking here. He watched you the entire time with the priest.”

  A chill went through Diana’s heart. So, she’d earned a mark on her head as reward for her inquiries. She supposed she knew it would happen. Still, to think she was being trailed, possibly with the intent to assassinate her left her mouth dry. “It’s not Mancini. A henchman?”

  “Possibly. What should we do?”

  Come what may, Diana was hardly going to cower away in fear. “Let’s go speak to him; see what he has to say for himself.”

  They had only gotten a few steps before the man stood and, barely glancing their way, stepped out of the chapel. He kept his collar up over his mouth, his hair obscuring his face. He moved quickly away from them up the nave.

  “He’s trying to get away,” Siobhan whispered urgently.

  “He’s going the wrong way.” Diana frowned. She picked up her pace, following the man as he moved past the group of chanting figures. Tracing his way along the perimeter of the church, he opened a dark unmarked door that almost blended into the stone walls and vanished through it.

  Diana and Siobhan rushed to the door. It comprised a single sheet of metal, lightly embossed with leaves and vines. The handle was a simple metal latch. Diana tried it and found it unlocked. Feeling like a thief, Diana glanced around furtively. No one was watching them. She pulled open the door. Beyond, a simple set of narrow stone stairs lead down into darkness black as death. The sound of feet tip-tapping against the stone faded into the distance.

  “What is it with me and narrow stone stairs?” Diana wondered aloud.

  “We should fetch a lantern to light our way,” Siobhan suggested. “It’s far too dark down there to follow him in safety.”

  “He’ll be long gone by then,” Diana observed. “Fetch a lantern if you can. I’m going to pursue.” She withdrew the long pistol from under her coat.

  “You can’t seriously be thinking of going down there in the shadows alone?”

  “If he’s going down there, I assume either he has a light source, or there must be some light down there. Either way if he can see, I can see.” Diana used a confident voice although, in truth, she wasn’t so sure.

  Siobhan stared at her uncertainly, so Diana shooed her off. “Just get a lantern and join me when you can. I’ll be fine.” Diana turned and began down the stairs. As helpful as a lantern would be, she also wanted Siobhan out of harm’s way. She knew as well as Siobhan how dangerous it was to pursue the stranger in the dark. She wasn’t about to let him get away though, even if it meant putting her own life at risk.

  A little illumination from the dank church helped slightly on her descent. She kept one hand out to steady her balance. The rough stone steps descended steeply with a slight turn to the right. A musty smell rose up from below on a slight breeze.

  Along the turn in the stairs the light from above disappeared. However, a similar slight radiance appeared to come from below. She was never entirely without luminosity. Finally she stepped off the stone staircase onto a dirt floor. The room beyond was large and irregular shaped, a rough block-shaped chamber seemingly hewn out of the natural rock. At one point in the past, the room had evidently been used as a storage room. Now the crates and barrels were decayed and rotting. Split open, their contents spilled into the room, little more than undecipherable piles of rags and refuse. A large open crack split the roof above. Through this cut beams of sunlight, giving the chamber its illumination. Diana guessed that this room must be under the alley beside the church. Water from rain and snow had poured through that crack for years, collecting in a half frozen pool in the center of the sunken dirt floor. There were no apparent exits, and no sign of the stranger.

  Diana began to think waiting for the lantern would have been the wise course after all, but such was the road untraveled. She held the pistol out in front of her and declared loudly, “Whoever is there, show yourself! I mean only to speak with you.”

  No answer. If she had to shoot this fellow it would hardly advance her cause very far. She needed to find out who had sent him to trail her.

  She took a few more tentative steps into the room, her eyes darting back and forth, scanning everywhere. Above, the sound of the penitents chanting their psalms just barely reached her ears.

  From the ceiling a drop of melted snow fell down toward the frigid pool below. In the corner of Diana’s eye a shadow moved. It grew, merged with the shadows around it, and became a solid wall moving toward her.

  Diana screamed. She spun round, bringing the pistol barrel to bear on the shadowy form. It twisted to one side and she lost sight of it. Then her heart caught in her throat as the shadow materialized next to her. A dark hand rose up into the air above her. A ray of sunlight reflected against something held in that hand. Her breath escaped her. Just inches above her a short serrated blade gleamed. Without a sound, the figure in the shadows swung for her heart. There was only one thing for Diana to do—close her eyes and put her trust in God.

  Chapter Six

  The Boar

  With the assailant’s blade only inches from her heart, Diana let her body go limp. She fell backwards, drifting through space without knowing what she might crash up against. She braced for the pain of the knife stabbing through her. Something brushed against her, snagged on the lining of her coat and then tore free. A second later a thousand tiny icy needles pierced her flesh as she splashed into the pool of water in the room’s center. She flailed about until her hands and feet found purchase on the cold earth below, but the pool was not deep.

  Soaked, she sat up and sucked in a deep breath. A trembling hand pushed frosty water out of her eyes. She expected the man in the dark coat would have pounced on her by now, but instead he stood watching her. She could see him more clearly, his eyes dark and cheerless. The lower half of his face, visible to her now through the opening in his collar, was a monstrosity. The skin looked to have been peeled back away from his jaws, revealing the line of bone below. What teeth he had were thick and jagged, pushing out of his mouth at weird angles. The lower canines were particularly misshapen, large and unwieldy, protruding up and above the thin ragged line of his upper lip. A disease in childhood, she thought, or a mutation of birth…or just a curse from God! She stared at him, open mouthed, able to say nothing at all.

  “Diana!” Siobhan’s voice calling from above.

  The hideous man spun at the sound of the voice. With a last glance at Diana he turned, bolted for the dark corner of the room.

  Diana managed to push herself up onto her feet. “Stop! Or I’ll shoot you!”

  The man ignored her, nearly vanishing into the shadows. Diana raised her pistol, took careful aim, this time keeping her eyes open. With a sense of regret, she pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked home. Nothing happened.

/>   The man vanished, scuttled into the dark corner like a frightened crab. From that corner Diana heard a sound of stone grating against earth. A hidden door! He’d come down here to make a sound escape, of course. Diana did her best to follow, but her sodden dress hung like an anchor and the cold was beginning to pierce through to her joints, making it difficult to move. By the time she reached the corner, she found only solid stone.

  A light grew behind her, Siobhan with the promised lantern.

  “He’s gone through here,” Diana insisted. “We have got to follow him.”

  Siobhan surveyed her closely, looking for injuries. “Diana, you’re shivering like a frightened dog. Wherever that goes, you’ll be dead of cold before you get to the end. You’ll be lucky enough to avoid chilblains as it is. Let’s get you upstairs and see if the priest has some robes you can borrow.”

  Siobhan was right. Diana knew she was declining fast in these cold, wet clothes. The air in the room wasn’t much above freezing and even the main church could hardly be called warm. She’d be fortunate not to catch a cold or worse. “All right, but I want to come back and see where this leads!” she insisted as Siobhan led her to the stairs. She shivered so hard and her joints got so stiff that making it up the stairs proved to be a significant obstacle.

  “Did he harm you at all?” Siobhan inquired.

  “He tried to stab me, but I cleverly avoided harm by diving headlong into that freezing pool of muck,” Diana answered with a sneer at herself. “I tried shooting him, but the gun failed. They call that Leonardo a genius. You think he’d be able to invent a pistol that can shoot when wet.”

  “You can write him a letter,” Siobhan suggested. “For now, let’s get you dry.”

  ****

  An hour later after a hot tub of boiled water and a roaring fire, feeling returned to Diana’s toes and fingers. Siobhan helped her dress in the second outfit for the day. Of her first outfit, her good hunting boots were salvageable. The dress was sadly a lost cause, although it could always be donated to the poor.