Piero turned and pushed through the others to get to the steward, who had already turned to go. “Wait!”
The man turned to stare at him.
“Please,” he said, moving into the hallway with him. “Is the Holy Father improving?”
“He had risen today, hoping to attend the audience, but had to return to his bed.”
Piero crossed himself and gestured backward, into the room. “Lady Daria, she is well known as a healer.”
The steward laughed in his face. “Well we know of your healer. You believe he will send for the very one he must search and potentially try for heretical acts? I think not.” He turned to go. He waved a hand over his shoulder. “The royal physicians are already keeping the pope in constant care.”
“Wait, brother,” Piero tried again, walking after him. “I fear there is dreadful intrigue within the palais. Is the pope under careful guard?”
The steward frowned and stepped toward Piero. He lifted a hand toward him. “Do you dare to threaten the Holy Father?”
“Nay, I—”
“Do you have information of intrigue meant to be used against him?”
“Nay, not exactly . . .”
“Then hold your tongue, Father. The palais has ears and they needn’t any unwarranted false information.” He walked away again.
But Piero was not done. “The pope has no enemy in us,” he called. “But tell me. He does have enemies, does he not? People who wish to place their own favored cardinal in power? People who would benefit from such an act?”
The steward turned again. “Are you not exactly such people? Would it not benefit a group of heretics to place their own heretical cardinal atop the papal throne?”
Piero sighed, soon nose to nose again with the steward in the hall. “Fine. Consider us all threats, every last one within the palais this night. But quadruple the Holy Father’s guard. If I were his enemy, if I intended him harm, would I ask you to do that?”
The steward stared back at him. “I shall ask it again. Do you know of something the Honneur Gard should know? Shall we go and speak to them now?”
“Call it intuition,” Josephine said, moving toward them in the hall. “What is the harm in positioning guards you already have on the premises? What will you feel like on the morrow if something happened to the pope, something you could have prevented? Do you want to endure a lifetime of hellish memories because you did not wish to act on a word of caution? Think on it, man. We may be heretics. But then again, we may not. Are you willing to risk the Holy Father’s life upon your own judgment?”
The steward stared back at her, then to Piero, considering, and then he turned again and walked away.
“Think he’ll do it?” Vito asked, as Piero and Josephine edged back in the room.
“He will. He simply needed to protect his pride and not admit as much to us,” Piero said. He walked back to Hasani’s desk, where the rest hovered, still staring at the drawings.
A dead pope.
And a new pope crowned, the highly favored Cardinal Morano of Madrid, a man loved by one and all.
Piero let out a breathless laugh and lifted the illustration. “The devil is nothing if not wily and inventive.” He glanced at Gianni. “You wished to act? The time is now.”
IT was the Morassis who came to their door an hour later, with a steward who formally invited them to join the doge in his private apartments to sup.
Daria cried out at the sight of them, reaching out to embrace each of them as old family members, then reaching for little Angelo and little Daria, the twins now three months in age and able to smile and coo up at their godmother.
“I cannot believe you ventured after us,” Daria said, looking up from her godchildren to the Morassis. They turned and dismissed their servants, closing the door firmly behind them.
“We could do little else,” the conte said in little more than a whisper. He looked at Daria. “You look well,” he said with a grin, gazing behind her at her husband. He reached out a hand, “I understand congratulations are in order. You certainly know how to pick a bride.”
Gianni shook his hand, smiling. “How did you know that we would need you now, here, Conte?”
“Armand sent word of your intent to come here, to the palais. Given our pope’s firm stance against anything that might even smell of heresy, we thought we should pack up the twins and venture to Provence.”
“A bold venture, with two precious children in tow,” Gianni said. He hesitated. “About Armand, Conte . . .”
“No need,” Martino said, holding up a hand. “We stopped and saw the countess in Les Baux. Anette told us all.” He looked upon Gianni with kind eyes that became hard with determination. “Our enemy is common. One who would’ve burned us all alive in my palazzo in order to accomplish his goals.” His eyes flicked to Daria and then back to Gianni. “You are not him. Armand died in battle against our enemy.”
“All and the same, I beg your forgiveness,” Gianni said.
“You are forgiven, Sir Gianni,” Martino said softly.
“We are exceedingly grateful you have come,” Daria said, looking at them both with eyes soft with emotion. She glanced down at the twins, now woozy with sleep, and kissed each on the forehead.
“It was for them we came, really,” Gracia said. “The pope must know that what you speak is true. Seeing them, hearing our story, may convince him. And the others Anette and Dimitri spoke of . . . Surely, collectively, we can speak the truth to Holy Father and he shall hear us.”
“If we get to hold our audience with the sitting pope,” Gianni said. “Listen, you must lend your shoulders to the cause. Hasani has received another vision. Amidei is again on the move . . .”
The Morassis listened to their story, never interrupting. “You must tell this to the doge, now. He has the power to change things in this palais, sound an alarm. The pope, ailing as he may be, has long sought to repair the Church’s relationship with Venezia. Mayhap this is all God’s doing.”
“No doubt it is all within the Lord’s sight,” Piero said. He had entered the de Capezzana room, invited by Daria, halfway through their story. “But the devil is still on the prowl.”
“YOU have passed the test,” Abramo said, laying a comforting hand on Cardinal Morano’s shoulder. “You observed writhing flesh, comely young bodies, temptation like you have never known, and yet you remained true to your vows.”
The cardinal remained where he sat, staring into the fire of his hearth, watching the flames dance. He looked wan, weak, after a week of self-mutilation, beating back the demons that walked through his memory and back again.
Abramo smiled. Still the images were harvested where the master had placed them. And still the cardinal believed himself the victor, capable of keeping them caged in memory. But Abramo could see the spark in his wide eyes, the desire to see it again, experience it again, regardless of the pain that ensued after. The rush of desire, the excruciating pain of mutilation . . . yes, well he knew of the cycle now. He lived it, breathed it, alongside Cardinal Gabriel Morano, future pope.
It was delicious.
“You are to be commended. Few are as worthy as you, Cardinal. I will pay you back for finding me a wife, for leading me out of my own depravity.” Never mind that the cardinal had been led away before the culmination of the dark ceremony. Let him believe what he wished. What is right for him, the master always led, shall be right for him.
Abramo moved to the other side of the chair, watching the cardinal, still staring into the flames. He placed a hand on his arm and closed his eyes, asking his master to show him what so captivated Morano.
The cardinal’s lips parted. Drool pooled at the corner. His eyes, wide and limpid, remained on the fire, but his lids opened even wider as if he watched a scene unfold before him.
“Yes,” Abramo whispered into his ear. “All of that. You can become pope. You can rule the hearts and minds of all of Christendom. Show them how to live the devout life.” He leaned closer. “B
ut if you are to know and protect your flock, you must at some point know the dark. It is an investment in your future, Gabriel. A sacrifice made on behalf of your flock. Did not Jesus bear his own forty days and nights in the desert?”
He moved to his other side, and leaned in again. “You shall venture in, just for a time. To know the full extent of your enemy. To conquer him. Yes, conquer him. You can rule the world of light and dark. You are that strong. Able to walk in either realm. See how far your faith has brought you? You are to be rewarded. Rewarded. God wishes it to be. It all shall be yours. And I will be here, right by your side, ever grateful for your leadership.”
“HE has created mayhem in my city,” the doge said at last. He had been silent through much of the meal with the Gifted and the Morassis and Cardinal Boeri, as they told the Venetians of what had transpired since they left in the midst of the fearsome storm, barely escaping with their lives.
“He barely pays homage, and he certainly avoids many of the taxes—your own Hasani bearing good witness to that fact.”
They all remained silent, waiting for the doge to continue. Every last one of the Gifted and their loved ones were present, sitting about the table in mute fascination.
“He has gathered together the foulest within my city and banded them together, and its effect is kin to common war, though hidden, their work done in the shadows, impossible to rout out. He leaves behind disaster, and I tire of his play.” The doge wiped his mouth with the edge of the tablecloth and rose, splaying an arm out in either direction, staring at them all. “I am a man born of the militia, leader of the finest maritime power ever seen by the modern world. From what I have learned, from what I know, the time has come for us to strike. For Venezia. For the Gifted. For God.”
“Well I know men of power,” Gianni said, sitting beside Cardinal Boeri. To his right was Daria. “You must strike the sea monster at his belly, to bring down the head. What drives this man most?”
“Ambition. Greed. Power,” said Boeri.
“Yes. And what feeds those things?” asked the doge.
“Sin, depravity, lawlessness only seem to take him to new levels,” Daria said.
“His foul ceremonies with the dark lord,” Boeri said.
“His play among the nobility in every city, the foul ceremonies, all of it are but pretty jewels upon his dark crown,” said Josephine. “Take away his funds, his wealth, and you strike the belly of the dragon. Now how do we take down a businessman on the level of Abramo Amidei? This is the question we must ask ourselves.”
The doge sat down and smiled. “Well you have chosen your prophetess. She speaks the truth.” He looked to Morassi. “Together, we still rule enough of Venezia to close him off there, drive out his compatriots.”
“Done,” Morassi said, with a grave nod.
“I can cut him off at the knees in Roma,” Boeri pledged. “He owns several powerful nobles. But we can put them back in their proper places. Providing that we all strike at once.”
“Agreed,” the doge said.
“And Anette, with the other friends our Gifted have made, could cut him off in Provence,” Conte Morassi said.
“They shall support her,” Daria said.
“We need Toscana,” Gianni said, rising and pacing. “Even if we inflicted wounds there, he would feel it heavily in combination with Provence, Venezia, and Roma.” He looked to Daria and Ambrogio. They stared at one another for a long moment, remembering what the d’Angelo name once meant throughout Toscana.
Slowly Daria rose, righteous anger making her appear fierce, and she glanced at Nico, Roberto, and Agata. “The time has come for justice to be served. We shall send a messenger this night, with word to the Nine, from the former Lady d’Angelo, now Lady de Capezzana.” Gianni came to her and took her hand, wondering where this might lead.
“I shall tell them that Vincenzo del Buco took the lives of my servants, my knight, kidnapped these three here, ransacked my house for valuables and set it all aflame, all in the aim of controlling me, owning me.” She looked to Gianni, asking permission. “I shall send it to Marco. He is one of the Nine now, and highly favored. He has no idea that Vincenzo has fallen so far. That he has used him as well. He shall rally the others to our side.”
“Are you certain?” Gianni asked. “That Marco is not more firmly on their side? He was in Venezia . . . his presence helped persuade you to speak to Vincenzo.”
Daria stared at him, remembering that fateful night with him. She shook her head. “He was a pawn. Nothing more. Vincenzo used him and sent him home. He was afraid he would learn the truth, and Marco would defend me.”
“Are you certain?” Gianni repeated softly. Siena, Vincenzo, Marco . . . ghosts of the past rose up between them. “Are you truly prepared for justice to be meted out?”
“Justice is in God’s hands,” Josephine put in. “We merely set truth in her proper place.”
“Excellent,” the doge said, dividing the de Capezzanas’ soft glance. “We then shall have Roma, Toscana, Venezia, Provence. With those four firmly in hand, we can lend pressure upon the Visconti, Gonzaga, and Estense families, even upon Firenze, Genoa, and Pisa.”
“What of Napoli?” Gianni asked.
“Let him retreat to Napoli,” said the doge in dismissal.
“And what if he retreats back to Firenze?” Daria asked. “It was from there he came to Siena.”
“Then, dear lady, we shall surround him,” the doge pledged. “And take him down there. This battle turns here, now.”
They all studied him in silence.
Vito rose and placed his hand in the center of the table.
Everyone else laid their hand atop his, until the doge’s hand edged on top.
“After the darkness,” whispered Piero.
“Light,” said the others lowly, reverently.
“Ambrogio,” said Gianni, “can you go to the chapel? Invent some reason for remaining there? It’s as close as we can get to guarding the pope as possible, yes?”
“Yes,” Ambrogio said, searching his mind for a tangible excuse. “But I am rather sorry when it comes to swordplay.”
“No worries,” Gianni said, reaching out to lay a hand on Vito and Ugo, pushing them forward. “Meet your new apprentices.”
Vito scoffed. “If he’s bad with a sword, you should see what I can do with a brush.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
HASANI wistfully gazed after the brothers trailing Ambrogio, but there was nothing for it. In the light of day, the palais was like many other houses of power. Black men were relegated to the outer regions or servants’ quarters only. It was a wonder they had allowed Hasani to remain with them at all in the Court of Familiars. When they were together, they brought him with them. But sending him off in the direction of the papal chambers . . . nay, Gianni was right in sending the brothers.
Daria turned from her tall, black friend and moved to his desk. She pulled a small piece of paper from the drawer and dipped the quill in the ink, pausing over every other word. It had been more than a year since her handfast to Marco had been dissolved.
20 February, the Year of Our Lord 1340 Avignon
Marco—
I pray that all is well with you in our beloved Siena and Francesca is soon safely delivered of your babe and that he is hale and hearty. Much has transpired in the past year, some of which you know, some you do not.
Upon my life, I beg you to believe the words you must now read, and moreover, I beg you to act as one of the Nine must, with authority and swift decision. I have always trusted your good, sound judgment, even after all that has transpired between us.
Vincenzo del Buco is no longer my guardian and treasured friend. He is in league with an evil lord, Abramo Amidei. They used you as a pawn to get to me in Venezia, where they kidnapped me, as they had Ambrogio Rossellino, Agata and Nico Scioria, and a boy of Il Campo, Roberto. All four will attest to the fact that it was Vincenzo and his men who came into my mansion, murdered Beata and Aldo and my
knight Lucan, and burned it all to the ground, taking with it the other mansions of our calle that night.
At the same time, he burned my country manor to the ground, and under the guise of paying debts incurred by the fire, froze my assets in banks from Roma to Firenze, cutting me off from any funds that might see me and mine to freedom.
Well you must know how much it pains me to write this to you. But it is the truth. I have been freed from Amidei’s prisons, narrowly escaped his utmost attempts to control me, own me, suffering every torture possible. Still he has continued to haunt our every step, threatening me and mine, murdering other beloved friends.
It is not an overstatement when I say I am in the midst of a holy war, called as a healer of God. Gianni, my captain, has the gift of faith, and Piero the gift of wisdom. Our coming has been foretold and much have I to tell you of the wonders we have seen. We battle one who wishes for nothing more than to stop our harvest of souls for Christ, preferring to sow diseased minds in the furrows of his followers, everywhere he travels. Such has it been with his control over our Vincenzo, and the result is Vincenzo’s terrible fall, producing nightmarish acts neither of us could have imagined.
I beg you to believe me in this, Marco. I need you to act on my behalf, without pause. Please. In memory of our friendship, our families. There is no ill will between us, no vendetta present here. You must know that I have become Sir Gianni de Capezzana’s wife, and we expect a child of our own come autumn. Life has come full circle, or shall, if I can free myself of the evil one who seems committed to the idea that we must die.
Help us, Marco. Persuade the Nine to suspend all of del Buco’s and Amidei’s properties and accounts within reach and call them to testify before you. I shall bring you your witnesses and you can see to justice from there. Regardless of your decision, send me word through Countess Anette Devenue des Baux at once.
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