Suicide Kings

by Christopher J. Ferguson

  Diana frowned. “You’re really not known for giving good advice on men, are you?”

  Siobhan shook her head. “No, not really.”

  “Why are we even discussing this? Did you not hear me? I told you I killed a man.”

  “Oh. Well it was bound to happen, wasn’t it? You came very close to killing Mancini not a few days ago, and would have done it too, had you not closed your eyes. It sounds like you have learned that lesson at least.”

  Diana shook her head. “You are amazing, Siobhan. Any other woman I have ever known would be horrified to learn what I have done.”

  “No other woman you have met is from Ireland. Besides, from what you’ve told me, the bloke had it coming to him. Should we feel sympathy for a man who accosts young women in the middle of the night and murders gendarmes? My only concern is for your own safety. I’m impressed to learn how successfully you defeated these villains. Nonetheless, I would insist on accompanying you on any further excursions.”

  Diana looked at herself in the mirror. “Had someone told me a few days past what my life would become, I would have laughed. Until last night I fixed myself upon the goal of saving lives, not taking them! What vexes me most of all is that I am not more bothered by killing a man than I am. Uhh. I make no sense.”

  “You make perfect sense.” Siobhan eyed her in the glass. “You’re coming to adjust to a difficult new reality. That you have adapted so well is astonishing, and you have surprised yourself. Take some gladness from this. Were you doubled over in grief at your own actions, it would bode ill for the course you have selected.”

  Diana stood. Siobhan was right; she had done nothing but defend herself. Her steeled nerves were a positive sign. How many others might have given up where she had persevered? She felt ready for any adversity that might come.

  Diana touched Siobhan’s shoulder, remembering that the other woman seemed to take comfort from such physical gestures. “Siobhan, you might not know much about men, but your counsel in these other matters has been invaluable to me.” The other woman smiled with evident gladness. “Come, let us breakfast. We must discuss our next move.”

  Sitting beside Siobhan at breakfast was a breach of convention, but Diana no longer cared. Agathi served them without commenting on the unexpected lapse of protocol. Strawberries with cream sauce were on order for the morning. A tall Moorish slave, Maslamah, came through the hall on business elsewhere in the palazzo. Maslamah’s purview focused on grounds keeping and repair, talents for which his skilled hands and mind were well suited. As he passed through, Diana inquired of her father’s whereabouts.

  “He has left for the day, lady,” Maslamah replied with a small bow. “Business interests demanded his attention as I am given to understand, Signorina Savrano.”

  “Hmmmph,” Diana murmured, despite that his absence was hardly unusual.

  “Still haven’t made peace with your father?” Siobhan inquired before burying her teeth deep in a plump strawberry. “Where do they even get these in the middle of winter?”

  “I put on a decent show for him last night I suspect,” Diana replied, dodging the question somewhat. Siobhan appeared to be too enamored of fresh fruit to press the issue. A moment later Maslamah returned.

  “Lady Savrano,” he intoned, his face passive as ever, “two Republic gendarmes have called for you at the front door.”

  Diana looked at Siobhan, who merely stared back, the plump strawberry obscuring the lower portions of her face. Diana put down her napkin and stood. “Very well.” Indeed, she had been expecting some manner of attention, given events of the previous night. Niccolo was sure to desire an account of what had happened.

  She followed Maslamah back to the door where, sure enough, two young gendarmes awaited her. “I am Diana Savrano. Are you here on orders of Signore Machiavelli?”

  “No, Lady Savrano,” replied the taller of the two, a young fellow with dark hair and skin, “Friar Savonarola has requested we deliver you for an audience with him.”

  The bottom fell out of Diana’s stomach. Dear God, what did the mad friar want with her? Momentarily, she found herself rendered speechless. Finally she found her voice. “Friar Savonarola…am I under arrest?”

  “No, lady,” the gendarme replied, although he did not seem shocked by her question, “we were not led to believe such steps were in order. However, my understanding is that your attendance at his request is urgently desired.” So, she was not under arrest, but it could be easily arranged if she proved uncooperative.

  “Leave me a moment to retrieve my coat, if you would.” Stepping back inside, Diana asked Agathi to fetch her coat. To Siobhan she briefly explained, “Friar Savonarola wishes to speak with me.”

  “Oh my!” Siobhan exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

  “Well, I assume it’s not for tips on managing the latest dances. If I’m not back by nightfall, you’ll have to inform my father. Say nothing until then.”

  “The household slaves are likely to tell him if he returns before you,” Siobhan observed.

  “True. Do what you think most appropriate then, and wish me luck.” Diana slipped into her coat. No point in fetching the pistol. The gendarmes would merely take it off her, perhaps confiscate it for good. With a last look at Siobhan, she left the palazzo and turned herself over to the mercy of Savonarola.

  Without word, the gendarmes led her through the streets of Firenze. She kept her coat huddled close against the cold, a fold of the cloth covering her mouth. Being led in such a way, she felt like a criminal taken to trial. How many others had been brought before Savonarola in much the same fashion, only later to hang from the stake burning? She decided it would be in her best interest to play submissive with the likes of Savonarola. If only she could keep her mouth shut. If only…

  The guards brought her not to the Palazzo Vecchio, the traditional seat of the Firenze Republic as expected, but rather to the Basilica of Saint Zenobius, where her mother was buried. The great nave was empty, despite that it was mid-morning. Sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows, illuminating the generous hall as was rarely possible at any other time of day. Cavernous though it was, the room felt warm and inviting, perhaps not least because her mother rested here.

  Diana’s eyes were drawn to her mother’s tomb, just to the left of the main doors. A stab of guilt flooded through her. She had not been once to visit the tomb, although perhaps she might be forgiven for that, given that her time had been spent trying to identify her mother’s murderer.

  For a moment Diana believed she was alone in the Basilica. Then, across the nave she spotted a prostrate form before the altar, a blur of plain robes against the marble. Unmoving, it might very well have been a corpse.

  Slowly she approached the altar, her footsteps echoing across the nave. The robed form against the cold floor did not turn to greet her or otherwise acknowledge her presence. Diana felt increasingly awkward, even as she guessed that might be the intent. She resisted the urge to clear her throat. Her attendance was known, of that she was sure. Patience would be the better virtue for the moment.

  At last, like a creature rising up out of the gloom, the figure on the floor rose up to a kneeling position, although he faced away, looking up at the figure of Christ impaled on the cross like a lover toward his lost love. “Upon to us our bleeding angel has fallen,” the figure whispered, even the whisper carrying like a shout on the cold air in the empty chamber. “Love is a colder thing than death.”

  Diana said nothing, tried very hard not to make a sound.

  “You are Lady Diana Savrano,” the figure said with full voice, turning toward her. The grizzled features and hawk-like nose could only be those of Savonarola. His eyes, joyless and stern, pierced through her.

  She met his gaze, refusing to look away. Probably she should look down, be a properly demure female, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Still, she could be respectful at least. She had no reason to call Savonarola an enemy. “I am she, Friar Savonarola.”
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  He nodded as if satisfied, and pushed himself up to a standing position. He was in his mid-forties perhaps, unhandsome by any standard, skin stretched taut over his bones. “It is your mother, Isabella Savrano, so recently buried in this very cathedral?” He waved his hand over in the general direction of the tomb.

  “That is true, Friar.”

  “Death is so often a cause for grief among the living. Yet the dead are that much nearer to communion with God. It is the dead who should grieve for the living.” He took two awkward steps down the altar to come closer to her. “I have been hearing something of the death of your mother and your own actions in response to her untimely demise.”

  “May I ask what it is that you have heard, Friar?”

  He looked at her with something akin to a fatherly smile, although his face could not quite seem to manage such a gentle expression. “The priests who officiate here at the Basilica complain that your mother’s ghost haunts this place. They claim they can hear her sorrowed cries at night, crying out for vengeance. It is rumored that your mother’s death was brought about by man rather than God and you intend to see your mother’s spirit put to rest.”

  She paused, thinking over her words carefully. “I don’t much believe in ghosts. Do you think that God allows spirits to haunt this world, spared of their eternal judgment?”

  One eye narrowed as he peered more closely at her. “Only Satan’s unholy angels haunt this world in violation of God’s law.” He seemed satisfied by her answer, though. “If you wish to ease your mother’s soul, that goal would be more easily met through prayer for intercession on her behalf, to speed her progress through Purgatory.”

  At least Savonarola didn’t think her mother condemned to Hell. Such was a positive reflection on her own self, at least she so hoped. “I will remember to redouble my efforts in the spiritual realm. But I assume you wish to speak to me regarding my efforts to answer for her death in this mortal world.”

  Savonarola nodded. “The actions of a young woman, unmarried beyond appropriate years, seen in public with only another young girl in attendance…brandishing a firearm with intent to do harm. To say that these actions are unbecoming a young woman of your stature would be a serious understatement. A woman of beauty such as yours would in the best of times arouse impure desires in men allowed to view her. At a time so troubled as this, you place yourself at greater risk for harm.” His eyes traveled over her body in a manner that seemed oddly indifferent as it appraised her form. “Even if you find the answers for which you seek, I doubt you will find satisfaction in them.”

  Diana swallowed. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

  The Friar’s eyelids closed for a moment. “Perhaps you should listen.”

  “Forgive me, Friar, but I can’t,” she insisted, aware she was now going out clearly on a limb. “I find that the world I understood has been shattered by my mother’s death. I must understand why it happened. I must understand what happened.”

  The Friar appeared to lose his strength for standing and settled down on the altar steps. He crossed his fingers in front of his face, watching her through them. “You know already your mother was involved with the physical degenerate called the Boar.”

  “Pietro Benedetto, yes, I know of him.”

  “Then you know that together, they became involved with the cult that calls itself the Sacred Council of Apostles. Their involvement with the Council naturally provides one thread for your inquiry. There is another you might consider.”

  Diana’s brows furrowed. “What would that be?”

  “The relationship between your mother, Isabella Savrano, and Pietro Benedetto may have extended beyond the spiritual.”

  Diana pulled a face. “That’s absurd.”

  “Because of his visage, you mean.” Savonarola nodded. “I agree that lust of the flesh is unlikely for a soul such as Pietro Benedetto. However, there can be little doubt the Boar and your mother were of like minds. They spent time together, they spoke like intimates do. Who can say where there is such a meeting of minds between man and woman, whether the heart will follow? Whether or not this is even true, there is only the appearance of such infatuation to be considered.”

  Diana thought for a moment. Her mother met regularly with Pietro, both as part of the Council, then later according to her own letter, alone with him. Her relationship with him remained secret, as part of her larger involvement with the Council. However, could their relationship have seemed something more than two friends conjoined on a spiritual quest? Could they have appeared to be lovers, despite Pietro’s obvious physical abnormalities? Could someone prone to jealousy have read the signs in such a way? The implication dawned on Diana with horror and revulsion. “You dare to accuse my father?” she barked at Savonarola, no longer watching her tone.

  If the Friar took offense at her impudence, he gave no sign of it. “I merely open a line of inquiry that would be obvious to most investigators. Is it not true in the case of murder, that the victim most often has been betrayed by those closest to their hearts? We seldom have more to fear than from those who mask their hate in the guise of love.”

  Diana took a step back, unbalanced by his words. Could it be that her own father was involved in her mother’s death? Did she dare to even think such thoughts? She wished she could think it absurd, but how well did she know her own father after all? Could his distance from his own wife and daughter extend to murder? She looked at the stone floor in shame.

  “Consider fully the costs you may pay, before you continue your quest for answers,” Savonarola intoned.

  Diana let out a long slow breath. Her composure returned as she did so. She managed to look up and meet Savonarola’s gaze once again. “What of you, Friar? With due respect, I am certain that you did not invite me here to give me a fatherly lecture. What is your interest in the death of my mother?”

  Savonarola’s grin widened, appearing quite satisfied once again. Diana got the sensation that she was being put to…and thus far passing, certain tests. “My interest is in the Sacred Council of Apostles, to which your mother was privy.”

  “I don’t understand. As anti-papists, do you not share their views?”

  Savonarola’s grin curled into a sneer. “Though it is true the Papacy has lost its way and come to rest in the hands of a defiler, Rodrigo Borgia, I find no common cause with the Sacred Council of Apostles. I seek to restore the throne of St. Peter to the humility and grace of the Mother Church of Christ. The Council seeks to place upon the throne of the Holy See, one who is legion with God’s most favored and most despised angel.”

  Diana absorbed his words, thinking for a moment. “Lucifer? You claim the Council are Satanists?” If true, Pietro had left out a considerable detail to his narrative.

  “They are, although that information is known only to their more trusted members. It is a secret unlocked through advancement in their ranks. Their belief is that Lucifer was wronged by God, and that he is deserving of the throne of heaven as a good and righteous leader of men. They have been fooled by his charm and his lies. Your mother, entrusted into their upper echelon, learned their secret. She came to me in horror and confessed her sins. Absolved, she sought only to undo the damage that she had wrought.”

  Diana’s mind reeled with the revelation. Pietro might not have known about the Council’s darker motives. Isabella Savrano had convinced him to join the cult. She must have been trying to get him to leave the cult before…before what? Diana exhaled sharply and put a hand to her mouth. “The young man Troilo Ricci who the Council accused of spying for the Republic…it was not he who had betrayed them, but my mother!”

  Savonarola nodded. “The raid on their abhorrent coven failed, scattering them like frightened rats. Had it but succeeded this entire episode would be behind us, and your mother a hero of the Republic.”

  “Then you do think it was the Council who killed my mother. My father is innocent!”

  For once, Savonarola looked disappoin
ted. “You cling to the narrative you wish to be true. I have no evidence that the Council discovered her cooperation with the Republic, so all alternatives remain possible. We must each consider further, it may well have been your father who introduced your mother to the Council in the first place, and he placed higher than her within their hierarchy of power.”

  Diana considered Savonarola’s words. It all seemed too farfetched, her parents members of a Satanic guild. Yet even what she knew to be true thus far, her mother involved, yet perhaps working as a spy for the Republic, that was farfetched enough. Her entire world seemed turned upside down. She wasn’t sure she really knew anyone anymore. “I cannot believe I knew of none of this. How could I have not seen what occurred in my own household? I was so content to remain alone in my rooms with my books and my things, and I did nothing to help my mother when she needed me most.”

  Savonarola looked up at the ceiling with its elaborate paintings. His face revealed not adoration but repulsion. “Silly books and pretty baubles, are they not at the heart of all vanity? And is not vanity at the heart of all sin?” He looked back down at Diana. “What matters is that your current actions do honor to your mother’s memory. Go now, in peace.”

  Chapter Ten

  Snow and Ash

  Duties for the gendarmes apparently did not extend to escorting Diana home. Just as well, perhaps; it gave Diana time to think, and she had much to think over. Granted, like all the players in this increasingly complex drama, she had to wonder about Savonarola’s motives and, thus, the quality of his information. If he were blatantly against her interests, interfering with her quest would be of little difficulty. He could accuse her of witchcraft and have her burned in the Piazza della Signoria. She’d hardly be the first. Nonetheless, if his interference was limited to toying with her in the Basilica in which her mother was buried, she felt safe in ruling him out as a major opponent, at least for a time. Was his information good though? Her mother involved with a Satanic cult…ultimately spying on behalf of the Republic? And Savonarola’s suggestion that her father might have played a role in her mother’s death, could she dare to consider the unthinkable? She set that thought aside for the moment. At best, it was idle speculation on Savonarola’s part. The rest he had told at least had the vestige of being informed fact. It fit she supposed, even with Pietro’s story, assuming her mother hadn’t gotten the chance to warn him to leave the group. Or perhaps he hadn’t believed her…or perhaps he hadn’t cared.