Suicide Kings

by Christopher J. Ferguson

  Her body won’t begin to stink, Siobhan meant. The chapel held too much heat to stave off decomposition. If the burial party couldn’t hammer through the winter ground soon though, they’d have to toss the body into the snow to thaw out in spring with the ground. Assuming animals didn’t get at it first.

  “Don’t act so forlorn,” Siobhan said.

  Diana couldn’t look at her. “I should have known Francesca was unwell. I spoke to her yesterday when I left here, but she did not answer. Rather than help her I just left her in her cell. What manner of friend was I to Francesca?”

  “I admit in retrospect it seems bad,” Siobhan stammered. “All errors are clear looking behind us. I am sure you just thought she slept.”

  Which had been exactly the case. Still, a little extra effort could have made the difference. Call it apathy or lack of wisdom, either way the result was the same. Diana had contributed to Francesca’s undoing. Diana let out a long sigh in hopes it might relieve some of the pressure on her heart. It didn’t.

  A hand came to rest on Diana’s shoulder. Sister Ophelia.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” Diana whispered, glancing away.

  “She regarded you as a friend.” Ophelia withdrew her hand. “I can give you only a few minutes more. It will be nearly time for vespers, and none from outside our community are permitted. You are welcome to attend the burial proper if you wish. We expect it will be undertaken tomorrow in the late morning, once the grave may be dug.”

  Diana nodded, blinking away moisture. Sister Ophelia turned and walked off.

  Poor Francesca, thought Diana. Stupid girl for choosing a life walled off from proper shelter. Mad too, what with those visions of hers. She’d meant well in her eccentric way. Certainly she didn’t deserve to die. She deserved better protection than she’d gotten. She deserved better friends than Diana herself had been.

  Diana wrapped her fingers around Francesca’s, cold and lifeless. She felt the hard rosary beads in her own hand. She’d have to remember to replace them properly. She lifted up Francesca’s hand as if coaxing the girl out of her coffin. Underneath her arm the skin was pale and unblemished. Francesca might as well have been a perfect porcelain doll. Even in death her cool, light beauty was unmistakable. She’d chosen to secret it away here in this chaste jail. Then again, had Diana done much different? Rejecting one man after another in fear of the prison of marriage. One prison or another. Only death offered freedom. Perhaps Francesca was better off now.

  “What are you doing?” Siobhan hissed, noticing her tampering with the body. “I’m sure that’s sacrilege, or ill fortune or something!”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Diana murmured. Chastised though, she let the arm fall back, and replaced the rosary beads in a rough approximation of how she had found them.

  Siobhan put her arm around Diana’s shoulder. “We should go. There’s nothing more to be done here tonight.”

  “I’ll arrange for the finest cenotaph for her at the Basilica no matter what the cost. She deserves nothing less. She deserves much better than the anonymous grave she’ll have here.”

  “Of course. I’m sure she would appreciate that very much.” Siobhan guided her for the door.

  Diana looked back, her vision blurred. “What am I to do now?”

  Outside the sun lay a sliver on the horizon. Feeble rays cast purple, pink and orange against the dark winter clouds moving in for the kill. The vision was astonishing and so remarkably transient.

  ****

  At home, Diana determined to be left alone. It was not a difficult matter. Her father could not be found. Siobhan had already done her best to console Diana, and now kept her distance. The other servants and slaves had no wish to intrude upon the moods of an unhappy mistress. Diana secluded herself in the palazzo library, candles lit, surrounded by books. She always felt comforted by them. She’d spent enough time immersed in them rather than interacting with the real world outside the palazzo. The fireplace was already going. Wrapped in a blanket, she stared at the blackness outside the plated glass window.

  A deep hurt suffocated her heart. The death of her mother was bad enough. Now her indifferent reaction to Francesca’s silence had led to her death. A mistake that could not be undone.

  A tear ran down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. She deserved to be miserable. To allow herself any comfort would be an abomination. Better to let the pain fester, to wallow in it, to explore it thoroughly. Perhaps it would never end.

  Diana couldn’t stop picturing Francesca’s body laid out in the coffin, an exquisitely beautiful corpse. Crucifix in one hand, rosary in the other in that unnatural pose of holy slumber preferred for the dead. She had seemed perfect, unblemished. Unless one felt the coolness of her skin, it might have seemed she were sleeping.

  Tomorrow they’d put her into the ground. That would be that. How long would it take for her body to freeze solid? Somewhere in an ancient text she’d read that frozen bodies bounced if dropped rather than shattered. Of course, you could never be entirely sure if what the Greeks or Romans said was true. Ancient wisdom could turn out to be obsolete.

  Diana tapped her chin. With the coming of spring, the ground would warm and Francesca’s body would putrefy. Diana had read an account of the process, the experimentation done with pigs of course, not humans. A physician at Salerno detailed the process. Diana ruminated on it, imagining Francesca’s body as the veins ran green, the abdomen bloated with fetid vapors and finally split wide. Her tongue would protrude, the eyes sink away to nothing. Noxious fluids would soak her burial clothes. The skin would peel back from the nails and teeth, and a bloody seepage would ooze from her orifices. Some ignorant fools, digging up decaying bodies, mistook this as evidence of vampirism, the bodies bloated from feeding, and still dripping with a recent meal. Eventually Francesca would dry out, turn black, leaving little more than dried skin, bones and ruined garments.

  Thinking of things in such a clinical way helped her get some distance. No matter what, king or madman, everyone eventually came to the same end. Someday it would be Diana herself in the same state. Perhaps not so far away.

  Bodies didn’t keep long. Even in the cold, they didn’t stay perfect for long. Francesca still looked perfect though, didn’t she? Maybe eight, nine hours dead when Diana had seen the body? She tapped her chin some more. She stood. Scanned the bookcase. What was that physician’s name? On faculty with Salerno, not a terribly well known author. Books about dead pigs got you only so much readership. Diana’s voracious interest in medicine was all that had drawn her to the tome, although the details of death were fascinating in their own way.

  Diana’s eyes darted from one book spine to another. Regrettably the books were in no particular order. Some were not labeled. She hoped she might recognize it. Otherwise there were hundreds of books here to go through. Her mother and father had both added to the expansive collection. Diana had as well, when she’d come of an age. Books had been one appetite they all shared.

  Diana took a few down that looked familiar. Medical books, but the wrong ones. Finally a small, leather bound tome fell into her arms. Cover unlabelled, the book still in good condition. Inside the author, Centuri Pagoria di Caccamo of the University of Salerno. All right, she had to admit, she would never have remembered the name without seeing it. She flipped through, page after page of script punctuated by rough anatomical drawings.

  Okay, this was the part that got stuck in her mind. According to Pagoria, several hours after death, the body began to show dark discoloration on whichever portion sat lowest to the ground. The stain became most noticeable by ten to fourteen hours following death. Pagoria suggested that the extent of the discoloration could indicate the time of death, although no conclusive guidelines were offered. Pagoria also didn’t know what caused the discoloration. Several postulations included the possibility that contact with the ground sped up the process of decay, or, citing Ibn al-Nafis, blood settled to the lowest portions of the body following death,
although why this should be, he offered no explanation.

  Pagoria could very well be an idiot. That alone never seemed to preclude anyone from writing a book. If he was right, though…

  Diana snapped the book shut. The flesh of Francesca’s arm had shown no discoloration.

  Her mother’s death had appeared originally as malaria. Perhaps Francesca’s apparent demise at the hands of exhaustion and the elements had little to do with the forces of nature or the hand of God. Easy enough to believe that a girl daft enough to live nearly exposed to the worst of winter would succumb to illness. Perhaps, as with her mother, the hand of man brought about Francesca’s fate. More to the point, perhaps they had botched the job. Were there not poisons that could mimic the symptoms of death if taken in the right dose, without actually killing the imbiber? What if Francesca had been given some of just such a poison, and ingested just enough to render her into catatonia, but not yet death? Would that not explain the lack of discoloration on her arm?

  No doubt, a dose of wishful thinking played a part in this line of inquiry. Still, Diana felt a stab of excitement…and hope. She searched the bookcase one more time, more certain this time. Xenophon’s Ephesiaca, wherein the heroine imbibes a potion willingly to enter a deathlike trance. Mythology, to be certain, but perhaps an element of truth? Diana tossed this tome aside, indifferent to any harm that might come to such a valuable book. Her hands flew over the dusty librams, agitated now. A book on herbology and potions. Arsenic, belladonna, rare seeds of the nux vomica tree, hemlock, oleander, mushrooms… nightshade. Most of the rest brought on vicious and painful deaths, but the nightshades brought on delirium, catatonia and death in high enough doses. A good way to mask a death as due to the elements.

  Believing she had found the answer, Diana read on, excited. The antidote for nightshade poisoning consisted of crushed calabar beans, hardly something she had on hand. The book warned the beans themselves could be toxic if too many were administered. Wonderful. She closed the book, and stared at the blackness outside the window. Could Francesca still be alive? She wouldn’t be for much longer. Once they put her in the cold ground, she’d die.

  Diana couldn’t sit by again. True, she might make a fool of herself if she was wrong about Francesca living. Yet, the cost of inaction meant consigning Francesca to death a second time. Diana cared for her reputation no longer. She’d do whatever she could for Francesca, whatever the cost.

  A worse concern involved her diagnosis of nightshade poisoning. What if she guessed the wrong poison? Calabar beans would only worsen her condition then. Doubtless other drugs she had not considered might produce similar effects.

  She had to pick a path and go with it. She kept the herbology book with her and darted from the room. Downstairs she found Agathi. “I need you to run an errand for me,” she told the slave woman. “I need you to go to the apothecary on the via de’Tosinghi. Wake him if you must. Tell him I need calabar beans, crushed and dissolved in a saltwater solution.” She thought for a moment. “And two pipettes, one just smaller than the next in diameter. The largest should be no more in diameter than the width of a common brass ring. Can you remember that?”

  Never one to ask questions, Agathi merely nodded.

  “Pay whatever is the cost.” Diana handed the slave woman a handful of florins, which she suspected would be more than enough. “When you have these, meet me with them at the Convent at Saint Cecilia.”

  Just the slightest raised eyebrow. Then Agathi left.

  Next, Diana found Agon von Landau, commander of her father’s small force of palazzo guards. Diana rarely crossed paths with him. Typically she remained content merely noting that he and his small company of Swiss mercenaries kept their palazzo safe from intrusion. That Pietro had gotten past them even with a key spoke to his skills at stealth and subterfuge. Agon had spent many years as a condottiere in the service of various Italian republics. His Swiss mercenaries had a reputation for ferocity, unlike too many of the Italian companies who ran for the comforts of home at the first sight of conflict. Now past his prime, palazzo guard essentially functioned as a retirement occupation. Nonetheless, in his fourth decade, Agon cut an imposing figure. Well over six feet in height, he rippled with muscles and possessed cold blue eyes that held no fear of violence. With a long scar running down the length of his face, Agon couldn’t lay claim to male beauty. He was loyal to her father though, and Diana didn’t doubt his competence. For perhaps the first time she could remember, Diana had reason to call on him.

  “Agon, I need your services,” she told him.

  If he was surprised, he hid it well. “Yes, m’lady. What do you need?”

  “I must rescue a friend from difficult circumstances and I expect there may be resistance. I’d like to request an escort from yourself and several of your men.”

  “I am pleased to be of service. May I ask the destination?”

  “The Convent at Sant Cecilia. My friend is the anchoress there, and someone has tried to poison her. I intend to take her out of there, by force if it must be so.”

  If Agon found anything distasteful in the notion of roughing up a bevy of old nuns, he didn’t show it. Of course it was possible that Republic gendarmes or even Cardinal Lajolo’s guards might be called in to intervene against her effort to remove the anchoress. She needed protection.

  “I’ll fetch Leuenberger and Calmy-Rey and we’ll don blades. We should be prepared in five minutes if that would serve.”

  “Excellent, Agon, thank you.” If Diana’s suspicions about Francesca being alive came to nothing, she would look like a fool in front of an increasingly larger pool of individuals. She fetched Siobhan and updated her on the night’s plans.

  “Do you really think she might still be alive?” Siobhan asked, jaw and eyes wide open.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s possible. It’s like the woman in Xenophon’s Ephesiaca who drinks a potion that makes her appear to be dead, though she only sleeps.”

  Siobhan’s brows knitted. “Why on earth would she do such a foolish thing?”

  “Well, you see, she thought that her lover must be dead and feared being forced to marry another man whom she didn’t love…oh by God, I don’t have time to explain all this now. We must meet Agon and his men and be quickly on our way.”

  The two men Agon selected were tall and muscular like himself, though younger by at least a decade each. On their hips they all wore spadone longswords. Under her coat, Diana hid her pistol.

  Agon led them outside. Immediately it became evident that something was amiss in the city. A strong odor of ash carried on the crisp air. To the north, in the direction of the Piazza della Signoria, a deep orange glow rose above the buildings. As she watched, flickers of flames rose above the city line. The flames must be at least five stories high! Was the city on fire? She wouldn’t have thought it possible on such a cold night as this.

  A cacophony could be heard from the direction of the fire, shouting, cavorting, laughter and screaming, all in an anarchic mix. The noise was not appropriate for people fleeing a fire. In truth, Diana thought it sounded more like a cross between a carnival and a riot.

  “Agon, what’s going on?” she asked.

  He looked in the direction of the orange glow, but with several blocks of buildings between them and whatever was occurring, no sense could be made of it. “I don’t know, lady. I could send one of the men to investigate, but that would cost us time.”

  “No, we must make haste. We’ll take our chances.” Onward they pressed, heading south toward the Arno, away from the conflagration. Despite the late hour and the cold, many others were out on the streets. Most of these were citizens, pointing to the fire and speaking amongst themselves with evident confusion and alarm. Up and down the street, bands of children and youth caroused. At times, these would waylay the citizens, verbally accosting them and in the case of the older youths, openly threatening them. To what end was unclear.

  “Your city has gone mad,” Siobhan said, eyes nar
rowed.

  Diana didn’t reply, yet she couldn’t help but to agree. She couldn’t remember any precedent for the chaos on the streets tonight. What terrible timing, whatever was going on. Any other night, she could have easily barricaded herself in the family palazzo. Tonight, she had no choice. Fortunately, with the three heavily armed Swiss leading the way, most of the youth kept their distance. Inevitably though, a large gaggle of young men surrounded them, preventing them from moving on. Catcalls and hoots from the throng of young men got her heart beating faster. Perhaps ten of them hemmed in her little party. Mostly poor, judging by their dress, although they carried clubs and knives.

  “Where do you lot think you’re going?” demanded one tall wiry youth, brandishing a butcher’s knife.

  Agon drew his sword with a swoosh. “No business of yours, child. Step aside or I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

  The group of youth tittered nervously. Longswords or not, at ten to three the youth could hardly back down without losing face.

  “We wish no confrontation,” Diana spoke up, hoping women’s words might stave off inevitable male conflict. “Can you tell us why you accost us so?”

  Another youth, smaller and younger answered her. “It’s Friar Savonarola’s orders. All vanities are to be burned. Books, jewels, nice clothes, anything that distracts us from our prayers as we await the End of Times. All must be consumed in flame. Beyond is our holy furnace.” He pointed to the glow from the north. His manner seemed less aggressive than the first rogue.

  So it was a bonfire. And they were destroying anything of beauty. Of course Savonarola would be behind it. She didn’t need to be distracted by these matters, not tonight! “I have an accord with Friar Savonarola. If you so much as touch me, you will regret it.”

  The taller youth laughed. “One such as you in league with the Friar? A lady powdered, perfumed, and bejeweled such as yourself. And under your arm a book, no doubt containing all manner of blasphemies. Give us the book and your fine coats and jewels and we will be satisfied as to your righteous intentions.”