Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The sound of a scuffle erupted behind the largest wagon, and as all activity around the cooling fire ceased, the sounds of oaths and blows grew louder.

  Photine suddenly raised her voice. “Whoever is fighting, stop it right now!” She motioned to Crepin. “Go find out who is—”

  There was a sudden outraged howl, and before Crepin could take more than three steps, Theron emerged from the far side of the wagon, dragging Enee by the ear; each of them had the marks of blows on their faces that would shortly become emphatic bruises. “I caught him in the supply wagon, trying to open the money-chest,” Theron announced as he all but flung Enee to the ground.

  Photine rushed toward her son, vexation and indignation warring for dominance of her expression. “Is that right?” she demanded as Enee struggled to sit up, his nose bleeding freely.

  “He’s lying,” Enee muttered.

  “I am telling the truth,” Theron insisted.

  “Ask him what he was doing at the supply wagon,” Enee countered.

  “I was going to put away my blanket when I heard a thump in the wagon,’ Theron said, as if this were the obvious response.

  “Hah!” Enee scoffed while he cupped his hands to catch the blood from his nose. “He was following me.”

  “I was not!” Theron protested.

  Photine motioned Theron to silence, then knelt down next to Enee. “I want you to tell me the truth,” she said to him, quietly and calmly. “You are no longer a child, to be excused for tricks and pranks. If you were in the supply wagon, and you were … were trying to open the money-chest, tell me why.”

  Enee pursed his lips, his face truculent. “I have to pay Lothaire the money I lost to him.”

  Lothaire, who had been supervising the loading of the wagons, rounded on Enee. “You lost nothing to me. If you have gambled, it wasn’t with me.”

  “Liar!” Enee accused, trying to scramble to his feet.

  That was more than Lothaire was willing to endure; he came toward Enee, his fists clenched. “How dare you call me a liar!”

  Before another fight could begin, da San-Germain stepped forward, and seemingly without effort held Lothaire and Enee apart. “Enough. All three of you, stop this now.” He nodded to Theron. “Go wash your face and have Roger put a salve on it.” He hauled Enee upright. “You should sit down with your head between your knees until the bleeding stops. We’ll sort out what did and did not happen when we stop at mid-day. And Enee, you will apologize to your mother and to the troupe.”

  Enee shook his head, and succeeded in splattering a trail of blood drops on both Lothaire and da San-Germain. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Why should I apologize?”

  “Do it,” da San-Germain commanded him, his voice no louder than usual, his demeanor unflustered.

  For several seconds, Enee looked as if he were going to lash out at da San-Germain, but finally he grumbled, “I apologize.”

  Photine regarded her son silently as she stood up, then said, “We’ll discuss this later. Go sit down, as Ragoczy told you.” She studied him, turbulence in her splendid eyes; she watched Enee trudge off to do as she ordered, then turned back to da San-Germain. “Thank you, thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  “There would have been another fight, perhaps a greater one, which none of us can afford,” he said levelly.

  She gestured a kind of concession. “True enough, I fear,” she said, and raised her voice. “Let’s get packed and on our way. We have four leagues to cover today.” With great purpose, she walked toward her home-wagon. “Lothaire, help Roger and Feo get the teams harnessed. Valence, you’re in charge of the remuda.”

  As the troupe once again resumed their preparations for travel, da San-Germain returned to the larger cart to help harness the mules to it, thinking as he did that this journey was becoming more complicated by the hour, and hoping that there would be no more altercations before they reached Lyon.

  * * *

  Text of a memorandum from Vivien Zacharie Charlot, Deputy Secretary for Public Safety of Lyon, to Egide Loup, Warden of the Anti-Revolutionary Prisoners, carried by official messenger of the Revolutionary Court and delivered the day it was written.

  To the Warden of the Anti-Revolutionary Prisoners, Egide Loup, the greetings of Vivien Zacharie Charlot, Deputy Secretary for Public Safety of Lyon, on this, the 13th day of October, 1792.

  My dear Warden Loup,

  After conferring with the members of the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Committee for Public Safety, it is my duty to inform you that these two august bodies have agreed that the most recently arrived prisoners are to be housed in the former Saint-Gautier Monastery on the bank of the Saone until they can be brought to trial and sentence pronounced upon them.

  Once the prisoners are installed in the former monastery, I will begin the process of interviewing them in order to have complete files to present to the Revolutionary Court when the trials begin, and I ask you to prepare your staff to receive me and my two assistants when we call upon you to admit us. To this end, I request that you prepare two chambers that we may use for our interrogations, and assign armed guards to those chambers to ensure that none of the prisoners will be tempted to escape.

  Vive la Revolution!

  Vive la France!

  Vivien Zacharie Charlot

  Deputy Secretary for Public Safety

  Lyon

  6

  The clustered spires of the Basilica Notre-Dame de Fourviere rose over the city, a constant, stately, and troubling reminder of Lyon’s illustrious, sanctioned past; it shone in the morning light like a castle in a fairy tale, its large, stained-glass bowed window glowing with rainbow colors. Around the old city walls, like a muddy hem on a ball-gown, there were warrens of narrow streets with tall, acerose houses looming together over them, where scrawny children ran and furtive men waited in the shadows for ill-conceived opportunities.

  “What on earth has happened here? These streets weren’t so … so sinister eight years ago. The populace was happy. There were parades and bonfires. People were singing. How could the place change so quickly?” Photine asked as she looked about her, her eyes wide with misgiving as she raised the hood of her cloak; beside her on the driving-box of the larger cart, da San-Germain kept alert for any trouble.

  “You ask that, after you and your troupe originally left France in part to ensure your safety? I would guess the Revolution has unsettled the city; we’ll find out once we’re inside the walls,” he answered, laying his hand on the driving-whip as a rag-tag pack of young men came sidling toward them, the four in the front keeping their hands in their pockets. “Pass on, fellows,” he recommended. “And at a good distance. Keep your knives where they are. I don’t want the mules’ tendons cut so you can loot the cart.” For emphasis, he snaked the lash of the driving-whip over their heads.

  A dark-haired youth who appeared to be the leader offered a snarl, but kept away from the cart; he spat in the general direction of the troupe as he led his comrades into an alley, swaggering as he went.

  “What did they want from us?” Photine asked uneasily.

  “The chance to brag to others of their feats as much as any spoils they might be seeking,” da San-Germain ventured, his hand still on the whip. “They chose the carts because we’re behind the wagons and might not be able to summon help.”

  “Would they have killed us?”

  Da San-Germain hesitated for a moment, then said, “They might have tried,” before he kiss-whistled to his team to urge them onward.

  The road turned northwest and grew a bit steeper, accommodating the swell of the hill; the city walls rose up ahead, the southeast gate standing open, half a dozen Revolutionary Guards already talking to Feo on the driving-box of the lead wagon.

  “Do you think they’ll allow Aloys and Hariot to enter?” Photine shifted on her seat, braiding the fringe of her shawl.

  In an effort to reassure her, da San-Germain responded, “If they
ask about them at all; I cannot see that the Guards would have any reason to refuse. Neither of them is suffering from—”

  She shivered. “Do you think Feo will tell them anything?”

  “If he is asked, he will—otherwise, no.”

  “But if they do ask, what is he likely to tell them?”

  “Much the same that I would if I were asked: that Hariot is much improved,” said da San-Germain steadily. “And Aloys is no longer feverish. I doubt they will be turned away, were they alone. At this time of year, many travelers have minor ailments. If the Guards prevented them all from entering, the markets would suffer, and the ailments would not go away. When the weather changes from warm to cool, the blood cannot keep the body warm, and illness of every sort results, just as when the weather warms, many suffer from antipathies that bring sneezing and itches and other—”

  She cut him short, unwilling to be distracted. “But the Guards might not believe that they are getting better. The Guards could order us to remain outside the walls, couldn’t they? For fear that our men might bring contagion into the city.”

  “They could, but it’s not likely that they will. Players should be welcome here, and we’ve proven our worth in Avignon; if they have any reservations, I can salve their consciences with gold. I don’t believe the Guards would refuse a … sign of our appreciation.” His tone was sardonic, but his eyes were sad. “One way or another, we will be admitted.”

  “Because you demand it be so,” Photine remarked, her expression a careful mix of admiration and irritation.

  “Because the Guards are poorly paid, if it comes to that,” said da San-Germain at his most urbane.

  “But—” She stopped herself saying more. Her face became inscrutable as they neared the open maw of the gate.

  The lead wagon passed through unimpeded, and the rest followed behind, moving slowly as they entered unfamiliar, crowded streets. The Guards offered them ironic salutes, a few of them making suggestive remarks to Olympe, riding on the driving-box of the third wagon; she waved back at them, laughing and flirting.

  As da San-Germain started through, one of the Guards signaled him to halt; Photine looked about her as if seeking the means of escape.

  The Guard approached da San-Germain. “These carts, tied together. Why is that?”

  “Two of our drivers left us at Avignon,” said da San-Germain calmly. “We’ve had to make the best of it. It’s easier to pony the second cart than a loaded wagon.”

  “Two drivers left?”

  “Yes. Ask anyone in the troupe,” said Photine majestically, her fear masked by the grandeur she so often used on stage.

  “Why did they leave?” the Guard persisted.

  “They wished to return home, or so they said,” Photine said with even more hauteur. “I took them at their word.”

  The Guard considered this, then chuckled. “So you have all the mules to contend with?”

  Da San-Germain shrugged. “I don’t mind mules.”

  “You like mules? What man likes mules?” Stepping back, the Guard motioned them on. “Good luck to you.”

  When they were out of earshot, Photine turned to da San-Germain. “What do you think he meant by that?”

  “I think he meant what he said,” da San-Germain replied kindly, puzzled by her growing anxiety. “He was wishing us good luck.”

  “Are you sure? Was he giving us a warning instead?” She pulled her cloak more closely around her. “Why didn’t he stop any of the others? Why you?”

  So that was it, he thought. She is afraid that the Guards are looking for me, that they know what I intend to do. “Because of the mules, as he said. He has no idea who I am, nor would it matter if he did.”

  “Are you certain of that?” Her voice had risen three notes and grown sharper.

  “Not absolutely, no, but sure enough not to worry about it. He’s enjoying the little authority he has, and there is no reason to deny him that.” He looked around, trying to recall what the city had been like a little more than seven hundred years ago, when he and Roger had passed part of a winter within the old walls, on their way south. The basic skeleton of the city was not much changed—and had not altered at the center since the Romans had been here—but the look of the city, its tendons and ligaments, were different: many ancient buildings had been replaced with newer ones, and the limits of the city had expanded to walls that were built before the arrival of the Black Plague, more than four hundred years ago, giving the city itself more than twenty additional acres inside its protective ramparts than it had had in the thirteenth century.

  “Where do we look for lodging?” Photine asked. “I don’t know where the markets are these days.”

  “Feo will manage for us,” said da San-Germain. “He’s made inquiries in Saint-Vallier and Vienne about the most advantageous places for us to consider, and how to find them. He knows where he is going.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Don’t you?” da San-Germain asked calmly.

  Photine turned to him, umbrage stiffening her posture. “Why did he do that? I didn’t give him the task of … of…”

  “No; you had so many things claiming your attention that I suggested it to him. You have enough to deal with.” He did not add that Roger had also used their time in the towns and cities to learn what he could about conditions in Lyon, but not for the reception of the players; Roger had asked about the political prisoners. “I have an obligation, as your patron, to see that your way is smoothed as much as is possible. Isn’t that part of our agreement?”

  She peered at him, measuring his candor against her pique; then she allowed her attention to be claimed by a procession of tradesmen holding aloft signs declaring their right to sit with the officials of the Revolutionary Assembly, and to cast votes at odds with their Guilds. “Look! Why do you suppose they’re marching?”

  “As a sign of disagreement with Guild policies, I would assume, since that is what their banners say,” da San-Germain observed.

  She turned to watch the marchers as the carts rolled on. “Why would they want to vote contrary to the wishes of their Guilds?”

  “Would you like me to turn around so you can ask them?” His manner was wholly unruffled, and his offer genuine.

  After taking a moment to think, Photine said, “No; we’d lose track of the rest, and that could be awkward. You don’t know where we’re going, do you?” There was a note of spite in her question as she settled back on her seat, but remained edgy, staring around her as if she expected to be confronted by angry townspeople at every turn.

  Feo led the troupe around the swell of the hill toward the west, passing two streets of shops, some of which were open, some of which were boarded up with bits of smashed windows on the flagstones in front of them. He slowed down as he approached a square with a statue of two medieval knights fighting from the backs of warhorses, their swords at a perpetual clash, in front of an empty church bearing the marks of fire along its facade on the north side of the oblong; there were a pair of inns on the south, one a large pile three centuries old, the other a more elegant, smaller building from the time of the Sun King. The troupe went toward the pair of inns, halting in front of the older building. Feo drew in his wagon, set the brake, and jumped down from the box, making his way back toward the carts, giving instructions to the drivers as he went. When he reached the team of mules, he called out, “This is the Place des Chevaliers. The Revolutionary Tribunal allows performances here, or so the Guards told me. They recommend the Jongleur. The tumblers and clowns stay there at Carnival.”

  “Very good,” said Photine. “If they will take us.”

  “Roger will make the arrangements for us,” said da San-Germain. “As soon as we’re installed here, I’ll go get us a license for performances. Would you think five performances to start with will suffice?” da San-Germain asked as he got down from the driving-box and held up his arms to assist Photine to descend.

  “Why do you bother to inquire of me?” she
countered, a trace of petulance in her voice. “You have made up your mind already what will suit your purpose, and, as you remind me, you are our patron. Though I would prefer six.”

  Da San-Germain remained at ease. “Then six it shall be.”

  “If they won’t interfere with your plans,” she flung at him.

  He realized that denying this would only lead to more rancor, so he said, “Yes, I have my own reasons for being here—you’ve known that since we left Padova—but that doesn’t mean I want to put your troupe at a disadvantage. I would like to see you given the attention and praise you seek, because you are greatly gifted and your troupe is a fine one. You gained many admirers in Avignon; you will do the same here as well.”

  Photine looked away from him as she allowed him to lift her out of the driving-box and onto the paving-stones of the square. “The Deux Canards and the Jongleur,” she said, looking at the two sign-boards hanging over the entries to the inns, taking the time to scrutinize their fronts. “I suppose it should be the Jongleur, though it’s older than the Deux Canards; it has more rooms, and the stable looks larger.”

  “It also appears to be more hospitable to players and other entertainers,” da San-Germain remarked, and saw Roger approaching, his driving-coat spattered with bits of mud.

  Feo nodded to Roger. “You agree with the Guards, then? The Jongleur would seem to be preferable?”

  “It would, especially since the Guard recommended it,” said Photine quickly so that da San-Germain could say nothing that might seem to demean her. “We’ll need space in the stable and enough rooms for us all.”

  “Of course,” said Roger, and added in an undervoice, “Madame, if you can spare a moment for your son? He has been restive for the last hour and wants to go to a tavern before you have settled into your quarters.”

  “Oh, dear,” Photine murmured. “I’ll have a word with him,” she said more loudly, and set off toward the wagon in which he rode, her cloak flapping around her like a thundercloud.

  Roger watched her go. “She seems discomfited.”

  “Yes,” da San-Germain agreed. “I wish I knew why.”