Suicide Kings

by Christopher J. Ferguson

  Her hand reached out, instinctively for the handle that opened upon the penitent’s bench. The fingers trembled, the wrist cramped. If she entered here, what awaited her? A sword thrust through the thin wood of the confessional? A pistol shot to the face as she turned to see her interlocutor? Behind her, how many innocent looking faces in the crowd watched as she stood there, themselves ready to plunge a dagger in her back if she hesitated a moment too long?

  Enough! She turned from the penitent door, right hand drawing the pistol from under her coat. She spun to the left and yanked hard on the priest’s door. As it came open, she thrust her pistol into the darkened recess within. Within a figure hunted, intent on the latticed opening between both the priest and penitent’s seats. A corpulent form in the robes of a priest, he looked up in surprise as she pulled free the door. She didn’t recognize him at first, fixating instead on the odd admixture of pigment between the skin on his nose and the rest of his face. In a second, she realized she gazed down on No Nose, Mancini’s henchman who murdered Crispino. Now he held a matchlock pistol against the latticework between the confessional spaces. So it was intended to be a pistol shot to the face!

  He grimaced on seeing her and tried to pull his pistol round. Diana didn’t hesitate and fired her own point-blank into the scoundrel’s heart. The shot thundered in her ears, setting them ringing and polluted the confessional with a thick smoke. No Nose coughed up a single spatter of blood and slumped, the pistol clattering to the floor of the confessional.

  Even with the ringing in her ears, Diana heard the screams from the congregation. The mass of penitents rose from their seats like a flock of frightened birds and mobbed for the exits. From amidst this mass, several youths emerged, blades pulled from underneath coats and came for her. Siobhan intercepted these men with her own blade and the shimmering and clanging of steel mesmerized Diana for a moment. Diana did not doubt Siobhan’s skill with a sword, but against three of these assassins, she could not hope to hold out for long. Diana reached into the confessional and retrieved No Nose’s pistol.

  “Siobhan!” she shouted, and when the other girl turned, hurled the pistol through the air on a careful arc, grip down. Siobhan swiped at one youth who lunged in clumsily and caught him across the jaw. As he yelped and leapt back, Siobhan snatched the pistol from the air and spun round just as a second youth moved in, blade intent on her heart. Siobhan discharged the pistol into the ruffian’s face, his visage disappearing into a mask of gristle and blood. The odds thusly evened, Siobhan set herself to using the church pews to her advantage, keeping the remaining two assassins from surrounding her.

  If she could just keep them at bay, Diana could reload her pistol and pick them off one by one. She set to this task at once, shaking hands attending to the delicate task. She just completed it and began her aim when movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Upon the scaffolding across the church a man stood, dressed in black, a long object cradled in his arms. A smoldering ember, lit like a match, glowed near his ear. Diana realized the danger just as that match came down and the harquebus he aimed for her head fired forth a funnel of flame. Diana retreated behind the confessional just as an immense chunk of its fine wood came apart, the splinters stinging her face and catching in her hair.

  His shot missed, and he was disarmed now! Diana returned to her former spot, pistol at the ready, but found that the man in black had retreated slightly, taking refuge behind a marble angel from which to reload his gun. From her position, only the luckiest of shots had any hope to hit him. So be it. Diana would mount the scaffolding on her own side of the church, from which her aim would be better, so long as he didn’t reload his own weapon first!

  Diana sped past the clanging and ringing forms of Siobhan and the two assassins, and pulled herself up the small iron ladder to the first level of the scaffolding. Here a great bronze sarcophagus presumably held the mortal remains of some unfortunate soul long since moved on to the hereafter. Of better value, the sarcophagus afforded her some protection from gunshots. Here she steadied herself and took her aim. The man in black rammed home the metal rod down into his gun, finishing the reload of his weapon. As of yet, he seemed unaware she had changed her position. Diana lined up the barrel of her pistol on the struggling form and fired, temporarily blinded by the cloud of fire and smoke. She heard the shot strike home however, the wet sound of lead sinking into flesh.

  A moment of elation swept through her and she strained forward through the smoke, better to see how her shot had taken its mark. As it cleared she saw the man still stood, the harquebus leveled, match glowing aside his ear. With a scream she retreated back behind the sarcophagus, all but falling into place. The harquebus erupted, and instantaneously her left hand felt split asunder in the most shocking pain. Like a fool, she had left it supporting herself atop the tomb. Now, too late, she pulled it back and regarded the damage done. The last finger looked like little more than a mound of ground meat, the tip shot clean away, the rest coated in blood. For a warrior, a most insignificant wound, she tried to tell herself, but, oh God, how it hurt! And all that much worse for being too much the fool to remember to hide all of herself behind the bronze.

  She pulled her left hand into a fist, the only thing that eased the pain. Rivulets of blood ran out from between her fingers onto her coat. She breathed through her teeth, trying to control the worst of the agony. She didn’t have time to indulge the hurt; more would soon follow if she didn’t return to action.

  Now the figure in black clamored up a ladder, seeming to move higher up the scaffolding. He favored his left leg, and she could see that her own shot had taken him in the thigh. Better to lose a finger than take a shot such as that, she reasoned. Diana could guess whoever held the higher spot, seized the advantage. Still, now they were both disarmed and Diana decided to reload her weapon first before seeking a higher spot from which to shoot. Reloading was made harder by her injured hand. She curled the last two fingers of her left hand into the palm as the torment would not allow her to use them. The rest of the hand ran slick with blood, her grip now both clumsy and slippery. Still, she worked with care and diligence. As she put powder and lead into her gun, she hazarded to look down to assess the status of her comrade. Below, Siobhan remained a vortex of steel and rage, at once the measure of her two opponents, but unable to quite get the advantage.

  Diana took a calculated risk and, with the gun reloaded, maintained her current spot, steadying her pistol over her left arm. She studied the two youths accosting Siobhan, tried to judge the patterns of their movements. Finally as one lunged in toward Siobhan’s back, she discharged her weapon just as the scoundrel moved into her sights, and by such divine fortune scattered the man’s brains about the floor of the church. Siobhan glanced up with a grin and a brief wave before setting upon the last youth; that contest now so much more in her favor.

  Diana chanced to look up toward the man in black just as the match came down on the harquebus. With a squeal of fear she dove back behind the bronze tomb, remembering to bring all of her this time. A shot rang against the bronze, but this time no searing pain followed it. Diana worked furiously to reload her weapon. Her wounded hand dropped the shot and it threatened to roll away before she caught it and rammed it home in the barrel. Then she peered up above her cover, pistol held steady over her left forearm.

  The man in black pulled the long rod out of his barrel, having completed his own reload. Now he hoisted the long harquebus against his shoulder. He had the advantage of height. Diana would find it harder to hide now behind the bronze sarcophagus. She closed her left eye and took careful aim. She might not get another chance. She put pressure on the trigger, careful not to yank too hard and throw off her aim. She fought against the urge to close her eyes. Better to get some stinging powder in them than take another shot. She pulled the trigger back against the pistol and felt the hammer slam home, the wheellock spinning within and sending sparks flying into the pan.

  The gun fired, Diana’s v
ision once again obscured by the resultant cloud of acrid smoke. She flinched, squeezing her eyes tight against the shot she expected to greet her soon if her aim had been errant. No shot came and a second later, she heard the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor of the cathedral after a substantial fall.

  By God’s grace, she’d got him. She waved her hand in front of her face, dispelling the fumes from the gun and saw below the man in black spread-eagled on the floor, twitching ever so slightly. The sight of his fall distracted the last swordsman so Siobhan found her opening and ran him through the heart. Their enemies vanquished, all fell silent and, for the moment they were alone in the church with their fallen opponents.

  Diana hurried down the scaffolding, a difficult task with her wounded hand.

  “Diana,” Siobhan exclaimed upon seeing her, “you’ve been hurt!”

  “Bastard shot my finger off!” she cursed, and felt shame at the tears of pain running down both cheeks. She paid Siobhan little mind though and quickened to the man in black. Now that he lay in clearer light she could see his face and as expected, found him to be none other than Mancini. The last moments of life slipped through his fingers. Though his eyes were open and he watched her, he appeared unable to move his limbs, and with each intake of breath he coughed back up a spray of crimson blood. A hole in the right side of his chest made a sucking sound as he tried to breathe. Diana speculated she’d gotten him in the lung. Death would come soon.

  As he saw her he smiled, blood spreading across his teeth and collecting against his gums. “How many dead you have behind you, lady?” he wheezed, his voice barely a whisper. “I should be proud to call you my daughter, were you my own.”

  “Tell me who hired you to kill my mother. You’ve nothing to lose now, and I’ve earned the right to know.”

  His eyes glimmered. “That you have, but I have never once lied to you. I never knew who hired me to kill her, or later to kill you.” He hacked up a sorrowed laugh, spraying blood through his lips as he did so. “I’ll see you soon enough in Hell. We’ll share a toast together then, won’t we?” And with that last his eyes went gray, the sucking sound in his chest ceased and Mancini, who seemed for so long to be the shadow around every corner, went on to his final judgment. May God have mercy on his black soul.

  “Damn!” Diana exclaimed, feeling yet another door slam shut in her face. “Even in death, Mancini is useless to me.”

  “At least he is dead,” Siobhan observed. “The Sacred Council will have to act on their own now. Made up of fattened citizens as I am sure they are, I fear them far less than a veteran such as Mancini.”

  A cohort of gendarmes rushed in through the door of the church, swords drawn. “You there!” shouted their leader, a youth of fair complexion and build. “What manner of calamity has struck this church?”

  Diana placed her pistol in its holster lest miscommunications do their worst. She withdrew instead the warrant given her by Savonarola and passed it to the youth. “We have struck down these assassins of Milano by the authority of Friar Savonarola,” Diana explained wearily.

  The youth read the warrant with raised eyebrows before handing it back. “You’ve slain five scoundrels? Two women?”

  From the tone of his voice she guessed she might well have told him she’d just reached up into the sky and plucked down the moon as if it were an apple from a tree.

  “Do not underestimate these women,” called a familiar voice from the door, “for these five are not the only victims of their wrath.” Niccolo, of course. He stepped into the nave, the gendarmes immediately giving way in deference to him. He surveyed the damage done with an impassive eye. “How fortunate you have Savonarola’s warrant, though no matter how unassailable your legal position, a scandal will be unavoidable.”

  Two women killing five men? Niccolo was right; they’d be the talk of the town for months. “What do I care for scandals? My path has been unalterable long before now.”

  Niccolo approached her, regarding her with care. “I have some authority in spreading the news of this incident. I will take care that the story is told so as to portray you two in the most favorable of lights. There are enough people in this city who like the tale of virtuous maidens defending their honor against foreign brigands that you will soon find yourself heroines.”

  Diana met his gaze. “Thank you, Niccolo,” she said more softly this time. She could not help but notice Siobhan move away from them discreetly.

  “You’re injured,” he observed with a pained expression.

  She held up her left hand, spreading the fingers so he could see that the last remained only in part.

  “Come, I can bind it for you.” He ripped a bandage from his own shirt, and bound her destroyed finger in the gentlest manner. As he tied the bandage round her palm he inquired coolly, “How fares Bernardo Tornabuoni?”

  She laughed at that. “I don’t think he’d care much for a nine-fingered wife who’s killed more men than he.”

  His lips pulled to one side as he thought over his comment. “When I first met you, I worried greatly for your safety. More and more, I see how greatly I underestimated you. Any man of wisdom would consider himself fortunate to find a wife of such strength as yourself.” He looked directly into her eyes.

  “Oh Niccolo,” she sighed, “how did I get to this place? All my life I fantasized about saving lives. Instead I find myself most adept at taking them!”

  He touched her arm, gently and quickly, an uncharacteristic gesture of affection. “Go home, Diana. Get some rest; take care of your wound.”

  She nodded, wiping away the drying remains of her tears from her cheeks. She began walking away, exhausted and ready for the rest Niccolo recommended.

  “Oh,” Niccolo called after her as if remembering something, “I’ve found the man called the Boar. He languishes in Savonarola’s prison and his fate rests in the friar’s judgment. If you have any final words for a poor suffering penitent such as he, I wouldn’t wait long past the morning.”

  Diana considered his words quietly. “Thank you, Niccolo,” she replied at last and, with Siobhan at her side, left behind the slaughter they had wrought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Hunt

  Diana gritted her teeth as Siobhan and Francesca argued over how to treat her severed finger.

  “We need to heat up a blade to cauterize the wound,” Siobhan insisted, a long kitchen knife already procured for the job.

  “Are you mad?!” Francesca scoffed. “Can you even imagine the pain of that? And it will leave what remains of the finger a horrid ball of tissue. We must stitch the wound to stop the bleeding.”

  Diana liked seeing Francesca coming round a bit and sticking up for her ideas. Unfortunately she knew neither of the other girls’ plans were optimal. No best path for treating a wound like this offered itself. Cauterization was too brutal and dangerous, and there wasn’t enough free tissue to adequately stitch closed the tattered remains of a partially severed finger. “Enough, both of you!” Diana snapped. “Someone bring me some spirits, quickly!”

  Siobhan left on her orders, leaving Diana and Francesca alone for a moment in the kitchen. Diana trailed a pattern of blood drops wherever she moved. Her right hand remained firmly clamped on her left, the strip of cloth between them soaked through. “For the love of God, I never imagined one finger would bleed so much.” The blood loss worried her. It wasn’t much compared to a head wound, but it didn’t seem to want to stop. Eventually it would become a problem.

  Siobhan returned with a bottle of brandy. “Strongest I could find.”

  Diana held her hand over a pail. “When I take away the cloth, pour the brandy over my finger liberally. Once it’s done, Francesca, I’ll need you to pass me those strips of cloth.”

  Francesca nodded, beside her the torn remains of one of Diana’s father’s freshly laundered shirts. It would have been best to boil the cloth, but Diana was impatient for a fresh bandage and this would have to do.

  �
�All right.” Diana peeled away the soaked cloth to reveal the miniature remains of her left little finger. It looked terrible, a black and purple center infused with blood. Without waiting for instructions, Siobhan let the brandy pour. Diana saw white before her eyes, arrows of agony shooting up through her elbow toward her shoulder. “Sweet Mary, mother of Christ,” she hissed.

  Francesca passed her long strips of the white cloth. These were lengthy enough that Diana could secure them in place by wrapping them round her wrist. She applied them liberally, one after the other, until blood no longer soaked immediately through the outermost layer of wrappings. The result looked very awkward but appeared to do the intended job, and the pain ebbed to a constant roar. Twice daily, once in the morning and once in the evening, she’d have to tap the bandaged stump hard against a solid surface to encourage the proper formation of scar tissue, and reduce the potential for chronic pain. All because she didn’t know how to duck properly.

  Siobhan and Francesca watched her apprehensively.

  “I’ll be fine,” Diana assured them, finally breathing easier. “No one dies from losing a finger.”

  A figure appeared in the doorway—her father.

  “Perhaps I spoke too soon,” she whispered to herself.

  Her father surveyed the scene quietly for a moment, the blood on the floor, the blood on her coat and dress, the wrapped hand. “Would you young ladies kindly leave us for a moment?” he asked at last, his voice steady and calm.