Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga)

by Shirl Henke

  Django lowered his hand and said curtly, “Agata wishes to speak to you. If you waste more time with her, see you bring me back some of that hedgehog she was baking,” he called after her. “I sicken of your miserable garlic stews.”

  “Then snare a fat hedgehog for me to cook,” she replied, whirling away. The huge gray wolf emerged from beneath the wagon and loped like a puppy at her heels.

  “What are you concocting?” Rani asked the old woman after being admitted to the dank and cluttered interior of her tent. Souvenirs from a lifetime of wandering lay piled about them—statues of cats from Egypt and bolts of gaudy cotton from Syria, fat, grease-stained pillows from Turkey and glittering gold coins from every nation in Europe. An intricately carved knife lay on a stool, its naked blade gleaming in the candlelight.

  Agata was grinding a pestle against the well-worn marble of a mortar, pulverizing some dark, pungent-smelling herbs into powder. “I make an amulet for you to wear,” the old woman said as her fingers worked busily. She wore several rings on each finger of her gnarled, blackened hands. Yet for all her age and seeming infirmity, her movements were deft and quick as she scooped four pinches of the black powder from the mortar and placed them inside a tiny leather pouch. “This will protect you if you keep it near your heart.” She fastened the pouch cunningly beneath a garish locket on a gold chain, then held it up for Rani's inspection.

  “What do I need with an amulet? I am in no danger,” the girl said, unabashed.

  Agata snorted. “I have foreseen your future and you will be in grave danger.”

  Rani laughed. “Do not speak in riddles, Agata. You know we tell fortunes only for gadje. Tis nonsense for one Romni to try and fool another.”

  “I do not fool you. I can see the future...when it suits my purpose,” the old hag said craftily. “You are special, girl. I would have you be my successor, teach you all that I know.” Her black eyes glittered as she stared into Rani's gold ones. It pleased her that the girl did not look away as Django had.

  “You do me honor, Agata. As phuri dai your knowledge is vast, but you have grown daughters of your own. Surely they—”

  “They are not chosen. I am not certain that you have been either. Only time will tell, but I have had troubling visions. You will meet a golden man from far, far away and he will change your life. I know not if for good...or evil. Until I can decide, you will wear this.” Her voice crackled with command as she placed the chain around Rani's neck.

  Rani's small, heart-shaped face took on a puzzled expression. “A golden man? A yellow-haired gadje? What would one of them want with me?” Then her eyes glinted with humor. “Unless I stole his horse or picked his pockets!”

  “Tis nothing of that,” Agata replied. “I see you with him...” She let her voice fade while keenly observing the virginal girl. Then she added, “As lovers.”

  Rani's shouted “No!” was so vehement it caused Vero to leap to his feet, sensing danger. “That is absurd. A Romni can never wed a gadjo,” the girl said indignantly as she soothed the huge beast by stroking his glossy gray fur.

  “I did not say he would wed you, only that he would take you. As to whether tis for good or evil, that is what I must determine.” Agata plucked at a long gray whisker that sprouted from a mole on her chin.

  “If he is evil, Agata, can you protect me from him? I will give myself to no gadjo” she said with a stubborn tilt of her chin.

  “Oh, then, you are so eager to wed Michel?” the phuri dai asked, knowing the answer.

  Rani spat on the ground and pulled her woolen cloak more tightly about her slim body. “Pah! That stripling boy. Django and Rasvan have chosen him for me. I despise the whimpering cub.” She twisted a tangled black curl about her fingers nervously as she added, “He is skinny and has rotted teeth!”

  Agata seemingly rebuked her, saying sternly, “Django and Rasvan are your brothers. Tis their duty to arrange your marriage. You will soon be seventeen years—far past the age for suckling your first babe.”

  Rani envisioned a sickly black-haired child with crooked, rotted teeth and shuddered. “Never will I bear Michel's babe.”

  “Mayhap you will, mayhap not,” was all the old phuri dai would say.

  * * * *

  Mirabello Park, outside the Walls of Pavia, February 24, 1525

  The siege of Pavia, a small town on the plains of Lombardy, had begun by the French army in October of 1524 and progressed through the fall and into winter in a desultory fashion. The Holy Roman Emperor's unlikely French ally, the Duke of Bourbon, after having failed to take Marseilles, enlisted more Lutheran mercenaries in Germany to fight for the most Catholic Monarch of Spain.

  Having loyalty for neither side, Benjamin had heard reports of the forces converging at Pavia with little interest while he was safe in Marseilles. Once his brother had followed Pescara into the pending battle, his attitude had changed. In Marseilles everyone expected King Francois to triumph, but after meeting the wily little Spanish-Italian Pescara, Benjamin had not been so certain the Imperial Army would fall easily.

  He arrived in Pavia with Pescara just in time to usher in 1525. Expecting to treat wounded soldiers from both French and Imperial forces, Benjamin was amazed to find little fighting. There was a raging epidemic of the French pox and many soldiers dying of plague as well. The cold was brutal, especially on soldiers with insufficient food and blankets. They were wracked by wasting diseases for which Benjamin had no medicines. For nearly two months he treated them as best he could, quickly using up his meager supplies. He scoured the countryside and villages, purchasing herbs from farm wives and apothecaries. Woundwort and feverfew, comfrey and chamomile were dear and Pescara's purse was thin enough. No money was forthcoming from King Carlos, far off in Spain, and Benjamin had no way to secure funds or supplies from Isaac in Marseilles.

  The French, who had held the countryside for months, had plucked it barren and turned the park outside the starving city of Pavia into a bustling marketplace where thousands of Lombardy merchants hawked fat capons and fine wine to rich French courtiers. Whores paraded their wares as well and Francois surrounded himself with every comfort of home, including a bevy of mistresses from Paris.

  But the winter wore on and the Imperial forces grew stronger while the French dissipated their wealth, unable to dislodge the stubborn De Leyva's Imperial army from Pavia, even though the city was cut off from its massing allies beyond the French encampment.

  Then the final day of decision dawned. Icy cold air swept down from the Alps in the predawn chaos as Imperial sappers breached the walls of Francois’ park, Mirabello. The final pitched battle was set to begin at sunrise.

  Pescara found Benjamin covering a shivering young drummer boy who was near death from exposure. “Come, Physician. Soon you will have far more violent injuries to treat. I want you behind my arquebusers and lancers. Once the first act opens, this theater will be soaked with blood.”

  Wearily Benjamin rose and gathered his instruments and medicines. “Do you never tire of the stink of death?” he asked the general as they left the crude tent.

  Pescara laughed and a gust of wind quickly carried the sound away. “The stink of death, yes. But the triumph of victory, no, for it is exceedingly sweet.”

  In spite of his small stature, the tough, wiry soldier commanded attention as the men gathered about him. One held his horse while he mounted and scanned the lances gleaming dully in the predawn light. Grim-faced arquebusers and seasoned cavalry milled behind their Flemish commander. Scarred German mercenaries waited with their landsknechts. All had made a life's work of carnage. Benjamin observed their faces, this polyglot army of the Emperor Carlos V, and he could smell the blood on them.

  Pescara's voice, always alive with wit and boldness, cut into Benjamin's grim reverie as the general addressed his men. “I cannot feed you, my boys, but before you lies the camp where there is bread in plenty, meat and wine.”

  Benjamin could swear he saw the little Spanish-Italian wink
as an earth-shattering roar went up, spreading in waves through the ranks. Men followed their commanders to prearranged destinations. The plan was set. The fight would be fearsome. Over fifty thousand men were arranged between the two sides. There were but a handful of surgeons. Benjamin waited in the darkness.

  As the first faint rays of light rent the winter sky with dirty pink, Spanish arquebuesers and lances, accompanied by light cavalry, moved forward across the flat, open ground in an attempt to circle around the French forces and link up with DeLeyva in the city. The German landsknechts waited behind cover of trees to see what the French would do.

  The French turned their expert artillery loose almost immediately. Although Benjamin had heard Paracelsus describe the horror and carnage of war, nothing could have prepared him for this. From the cover of a trench, he watched in disbelieving horror, recalling the terse words of his father when describing his experiences in the Moorish wars and Indian rebellions on Española. But this was worse, on a far grander scale. The Spanish were being cut to ribbons—arms and legs were hurled across the frozen earth after cannons dismembered them. Disemboweled men screamed and headless corpses twitched while the cavalry horses slashed and trampled their own men underfoot as one deafening fusillade after another belched from the French guns.

  Benjamin scrambled from his cover, yelling for his attendants to follow as he dragged a bleeding cavalry officer behind a tree and began to examine his wound. “Why in God's name did Papa or Rigo ever choose such a life?” he muttered as he poured yarrow on the gash. When the blood had clotted a bit he bound the injured arm and began to crawl to another man, more gravely injured.

  The Imperials dove for cover into the trenches left behind by Francois’ infantry. The bold young king was now advancing toward the routed Spanish, leading his finest seasoned cavalry into the thick of the fray. Soon it would all be over, another glorious victory for France, even greater than Marignano. By this time the sun had risen fully, reflecting a dull glow on the king's silver cloth-covered armor. His great charger pranced proudly forward.

  Then Benjamin heard the silence. Too busy with wounded and dying men to take note of the battle, now he stood up and climbed from the shelter. “Why have the cannons ceased?” he asked of a lancer.

  “The French poxmaster has masked his own artillery! He rides with his best men between us and his own cannon. They cannot fire upon us without hitting him!” With that the young man raced to join a unit of men who had begun to spread out across the field.

  All was chaos now as the German landsknechts hammered their way around the French, causing one wing of the French formation to collapse. Pescara's lances and light arms took their toll at close range, bringing down French cavalry, surrounding Francois. What had seemed a victory turned into a debacle.

  “Madness, tis madness,” Benjamin whispered, watching the brave and feckless French as they and their foolish young king were hacked and blasted to bits. With so many wounded being brought to him, Benjamin had neither time nor heart to watch the end of the battle when Pescara took the French king prisoner. He heard the hoarse cries of jubilation erupt the length of the battlefield. “Victory! Spain! Spain!” It was not yet nine in the morning. Over ten thousand men were dead and countless more would die of wounds, filth and fever. Benjamin Torres did not sleep for nearly two days after the battle for Pavia.

  Pescara had not lied about the loot in the French encampment. Imperial soldiers walked about guzzling jugs of wine and pinching plump whores. Others tore at whole roasted chickens, chewing bones and meat together, wiping their greasy, bloodied hands on bolts of silk and velvet pilfered from Italian merchants unlucky enough to have provisioned the losing side. The greed and debauchery of the winners sickened Benjamin almost as much as the senseless carnage.

  He covered a dead arquebuser whose mangled leg had been sawed off. The man had died in the midst of surgery. “The next battle, it could be any one of them who ends such as this poor devil did.”

  “Tis precisely why they sport themselves as they do,” Pescara said quietly. His face was a grim mask as he looked around the drafty old inn that had been turned into a makeshift hospital. “Every soldier knows he may not live beyond the next cannon blast. Rigo is well away from this life. You should be, too, although, I vow, I shall miss your healing skills.”

  Benjamin's expression was bleak. “Never in my life have I felt more helpless, less a healer. Most die and I can do naught to save them.”

  “You have worked ceaselessly for days. Tis exhaustion that speaks now. There is little else to be done here that cannot be attended by less skilled men. Go, rest, Benjamin, you have earned it.”

  * * * *

  The sun was brilliant and warming, the brisk March air hinting of spring. The icy grip of Alpine winter had loosed its hold on the woods and plains of Lombardy. Benjamin reined in his mount and took a deep breath. “How clean tis here, away from the stench of wounds and dysentery. I grow to like army life less and less,” he said aloud, patting his sleek chestnut's neck. “Truth be told, I am homesick for Espanola.”

  He began to retrace his path back to Pavia when a woman's scream rent the air. Benjamin quickly wheeled the big stallion around and headed toward the copse of willow trees at the foot of the hill below him. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, he entered the densely wooded area and rounded a large boulder. In a small clearing he saw two burly men, Spanish arquebusers, probably deserters by the look of them. They were attacking a peasant girl who flailed on the ground, biting and kicking at her tormentors with a ferocity that far belied her small size. One brute had her arms pinned down while the other was struggling to shove her brightly colored skirts up as she writhed and thrashed. His pantaloons were already pulled down, his sex pulsing and ready for the obscene act he was intent on completing.

  “Whoreson bastard, you are too vile for dogs to piss upon,” the girl shrieked in Spanish just before her sharp white teeth sank into the fleshy hand of the man holding her arms. He released her with an oath of pain, but just as quickly raised his other meaty fist to bludgeon her.

  Neither man had heard Benjamin's approach, so occupied were they with their fierce little trophy of war. He reined in the chestnut beside the one about to strike and leaned from his saddle to press cold steel into the man's neck. “I would not do that if you fancy your arm.”

  At once the soldier jerked about, loosing the girl who gave a mighty kick with one slim leg, scoring a direct hit at the tumescence of her would-be rapist. He gave a gurgle of agony and pitched sideways, his hands clawing at his groin as he collapsed in a fetal ball.

  “Off me, you goat's offal, pig's shit, vulture's vomit!” She shoved at the unconscious man and wriggled free as her other attacker stood up and backed away with Benjamin's sword at his throat.

  “Remove your knife and toss it on the ground. Then gather up this bag of guts and lug him back to Pavia ere I change my mind and slit your gullet...or let the wench here deal with you as she did him.” The man paled, bobbed his head and did as commanded.

  Benjamin watched him scoop up his unconscious companion without pausing to pull up the fellow's pantaloons. His great hamlike buttocks shone whitely in the noonday sunlight as his bearer vanished over the hill at a brisk trot.

  “Vero!” The girl ran across the clearing to where a great gray dog lay unmoving in the brown winter grass. She knelt and began to examine its fur.

  Benjamin dismounted and walked nearer, then froze. “Get back! Tis a wolf,” he cried, once again drawing his blade.

  The girl tossed her waist-length ragged mane of ebony hair across her shoulder as she whirled to glare at him with fierce gold-coin eyes. “Of course, tis my wolf, Vero,” she snapped, turning again to croon to the beast in some strange tongue Benjamin had never before heard.

  “Your wolf—a pet?” he asked incredulously as the huge animal opened its gold eyes, which bore an uncanny resemblance to those of his mistress.

  “I raised him from a suckling when his ban
d deserted him,” she replied, once more switching to Spanish. “There, Vero, there, twill be all right. If only I had yarrow to stop the bleeding,” she whispered.

  “You know herbal remedies?” he asked, returning to his horse to take his medical satchel from the saddle. He never traveled without it or his weapons.

  “Of course I know yarrow clots the blood,” she said impatiently, pressing a torn piece of filthy red petticoat to the bloody furrow running along the wolf's head. “He would have killed them both if that fat swine had not shot him.”

  “Here, let me—if you can assure Vero I am a friend.” He opened his satchel and took out a bottle of yellow powder.

  “You are a physician?” she asked incredulously, her eyes narrowing as she truly looked at him for the first time. He sprinkled the yarrow powder across the furrow with the skill of one used to such work. One curly lock of hair fell across his forehead as he bent over the wolf. You will meet a golden man. Rani scooted back.

  “Yes, I am a physician,” he replied as he tossed the filthy red cloth into the bushes and extracted a piece of snowy linen from his bag, “but never before has my patient been an injured wolf—horses, yes, but this is a first.”

  “Will—will he be all right?” she asked in a subdued voice. This man was as beautiful as one of the golden statues she had seen in the Christian's churches. When he turned to smile at her, revealing blindingly white teeth, she felt ready to swoon.

  “Yes. The ball stunned him, but tis not a deep wound.” As if to prove him right, the wolf gave his hand a slurping lick and shook his head.

  “Vero has never taken kindly to a man before. Tis a good sign,” she added uncertainly as the phuri dai's warnings rang in her mind. He was richly dressed in fine woolen hose and soft leather boots, with the miniver fur-lined cloak of a physician slung carelessly across his wide shoulders. “Thank you for helping me,” she said. “Those cockroaches would have raped and killed me without a moment's thought.”