by Nancy Holder
“Insult,” Ruffio whispered.
The blood drained from Machiavelli’s face. “Go to your room,” he said dismissively to MacLeod. “You may not leave Murano. No gondolier will transport you until I say you may, and I’m not finished with you.”
The room crackled. Hands went to sword hilts. MacLeod knew in that moment that were Machiavelli to command anyone else to take him on, they would.
His back stiff, he left.
In the palace gardens, he sat on a stone bench and watched the windows of the palazzo blaze with torchlight and candlelight. Many inside would be awake when the tallows guttered in the rosy glow of a new day.
The moon rose over the garden, and still he sat with clenched fists. It was too dangerous to remain here any longer. He would get a conveyance however he had to, get Ali, and quit this decadent place.
“Signor MacLeod?” It was Jean-Pierre, white as a statue in the moonlight. He wore a gentleman’s sword, a thin, useless :hing no Arab nor Scot would be caught dead with. He approached hesitantly, glancing left and right as if he feared being discovered. “If I may?” He pointed to the place beside MacLeod on the bench.
MacLeod nodded. Jean-Pierre exhaled as if in relief and primly held the flared skirt of his doublet as he sat. He crossed his legs and ankles, uncrossed them, and blurted, “I am as good as unarmed.”
“I’m not here for your head.”
Jean-Pierre flushed. He was very, very young. Practically a boy. “This Game…”
“Your master doesna believe such a thing exists.”
“I, ah, I have heard of it before. I simply didn’t believe it.”
MacLeod said coldly, “That’s your choice.” He cocked his head. “Why are you here?” To rid Machiavelli of him? If so, it was a poor and dishonorable act on Machiavelli’s part. This one could not defend himself from a starving dog.
“I love him as I love my life. Ah, but well…” He cleared his throat. “Some of us have gone missing. I had a close friend from my village, Brother Andre. Master Machiavelli sent him on a mission to Lombardy and he hasn’t come back. He hasn’t written. When I ask about him, il maestro says all is well. But if another Immortal found him, and as you say…”
He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Maestro tells us we can never die. I have never seen a dead Immortal.”
MacLeod shook his head. “He’s lying to you. To all of you. The purpose of having a teacher should be to defend yourself. Sooner or later, others will come to take your head.”
“Teacher?” Jean-Pierre echoed, clearly confused. “He’s my master.”
“Good masters teach their subjects,” MacLeod ventured, not sure how to even start explaining the Rules to this ignorant Immortal. Not sure he should even attempt it, for he had no desire to take on the role of teacher himself.
Jean-Pierre ran his hands through his monstrous curls. “I died only a few months ago. Andre and I were at a monastery in Rome. Yes, I was a monk. Brother Jean.” He smiled as if embarrassed. “Signor was visiting His Holiness the Pope, and I… I…” He hesitated. “You see, he told us he could make miracles. That he could bring us back from the dead.”
“God’s blood, man, you let him kill you?” MacLeod’s earlier premonition of danger swept through him again, doubled, tripled in intensity. This was madness.
“He called us his bishops. Andre went first.” His face took on an expression of adoration. “We lived again, as my master promised.”
Did the man refer to Jesus Christ or Machiavelli? Or were they to him the same?
“We’re born this way,” MacLeod said flatly. “No one makes us so.”
Jean-Pierre blinked at him. “How can that be?”
“You say some of you go missing.”
Jean-Pierre tapped nervously at a ribbon on his doublet. “Si. Often his favorites. Andre was a favorite. He calls us his ‘pieces’ and he sends us on errands. I have lost several friends in this way.”
“What does Machiavelli say?”
“That he has released them to go on their eternal adventures.” He looked hopeful. “Perhaps he has.” He raised his hand to his mouth and gnawed at his thumbnail. All his fingernails were chewed to the quick. He saw what he was doing and stopped, folding his hands like a proper brother of the cloth.
“Why are you here, Signor MacLeod? Did you come to warn us? To make some Immortals of your own?”
“I just told you… och.” MacLeod moved his shoulders. Sleeping in a feather bed was making his body ache. The rich food at Machiavelli’s table disagreed with him. He wanted to go home and found, to his surprise, that he thought instantly of Algiers.
“To warn us, or to murder us?” Jean-Pierre jumped up and drew his silly little foil. His hand shook. “If that is the case, en garde, monsieur.”
“Lad, put that away.” MacLeod made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll no’ fight you. ‘Twould be unfair.”
“But that shouldn’t matter, if your only goal is the killing of us.” Jean-Pierre took one step forward. “If you’re a man, fight me.”
“Jean-Pierre,” MacLeod began, and before the young man could react, MacLeod drew his scimitar, disarmed him, and held the evil half-moon of his weapon at his throat. “Do you see how it is? You must be prepared.”
“Oh, help me,” Jean-Pierre whispered. He fell to his knees. “I beg you, let me confess the sins of a poor monk to God before you kill me.”
MacLeod resheathed the scimitar. “Your master told you you nae can die. Why believe me?”
“I don’t know.” He hung his head. “But I know he’s lying, and you’re telling the truth.” He held out his hands. “Save me, signor. Save us all.”
“I’ll save ye with some advice: get out of here. Find yourself a teacher with some honor, who follows the rules and won’t get you killed.” MacLeod turned on his heel.
Jean-Pierre called, “Per favore! Signor, be that teacher! Be him! We need your help!”
“Aye, you do,” MacLeod answered softly, knowing the boy couldn’t hear him.
Trapped.
Racing along the thicket walls, twisting, turning, fumbling for the way out.
Flailing and sobbing and darting this way and that like a rabbit. The thorns slicing his hands; he felt nothing. The thorns pricking his cheeks and temples, dangerously close to his eyes.
He felt nothing.
Spinning in circles and fighting the panic. Dizzy and lost and panicked out of the ability to reason. The way out. The way out. Madonna mia, the way out.
The other, his footfalls heavy and closer, the smell of him pungent and evil. He hacked the barriers with his sword and charged into corridors; he thrust his sword through the foliage as he charged, several times missing his prey by centimeters.
Feeling his way, knowing no way. Drowning in the scent of the tamarind trees as he panted fire into his lungs. Still the other shuddered the earth, still he cut through the maze, charging like a giant in seven-league boots.
Then, by the grace of God, out! The prey tumbled to the exit and fell to the ground. Dirt covered his face. He struggled to rise. Failing that, he crawled to the copse of tamarind trees and pulled himself up on a thick trunk.
The prey trembled on legs of water, struggling to stay standing, his lungs bursting, his heart thundering one long shriek of terror. There was nowhere else to run, no other hiding place. His next dash would be across an expanse of lawn. The moon was out and full, a torch illuminating the gardens of the Palazzo Machiavelli.
Inside the palace, people supped and laughed. He could not comprehend how they could be so happy while murder flew at him like a mad dog. He held out a hand toward the yellow glowing windows, a drowning man struggling in the frigid sea beside a fine, gay ship. Tears streamed down his face at his futile effort, and he dropped his hand to his side.
If he could have a moment to rest; if he could only get some air, he knew he could save himself. But his pursuer was relentless. Even now he emerged from the maze and bellowed, “It does no good
to hide! You know that, don’t you?”
The quarry whispered, “Mama,” and tried to run. He fell, rustling the branches.
The assassin swiveled his head in his direction. Madly the prey tried to still the movement. “Mama, Mama,” he whispered. Sweat poured down his forehead, salt water in his drowning eyes. “I love you.”
He heard the footfalls, so close now, whimpered, dragged himself behind the nearest trunk. Held on to it, pressed his forehead to the ground, and closed his eyes.
“There you are,” said Death as the shadow of a man. The quarry sensed the rush of air as the other heaved his weapon above his head. There would be blood, gouting into the air like the fountains of Rome. There would be evidence.
“Pray,” said Death.
He braced himself and begged for Heaven, begged for Heaven, begged for—
Who was it died?
Someone inconvenient. Someone who had heard too much and could say too much, and who had made friends with the wrong person. Someone who could cause problems. Nothing less, and nothing more.
Chapter Four
“It is truly a natural and ordinary thing to desire gain; and when those who can succeed attempt it, they will always be praised and not blamed.”
—Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince
Was it a Quickening?
MacLeod stopped at the lightning sound and turned around. There, on the other side of the palazzo walls. Did he see the flashes and crackling that signaled the death of one of his kind?
“It matters not,” he muttered, turning back around. He was more determined than ever to quit this place. It was naught to him who had just lost his head. If anyone.
He took two more steps, and thought of Jean-Pierre. “God’s blood,” he muttered angrily, and went back in the direction of the palazzo.
As he crossed the garden, a figure stood shadowed against the night torches in their sconces. It was Machiavelli.
“Good evening,” he said. MacLeod made no reply. “Tsk tsk. In a foul humor, are we?”
“What happened?” he asked bluntly.
“Happened?” Machiavelli cocked his head. “What are you speaking of?” He swept his arm in a gesture of welcome. “I believe we have something to discuss.”
MacLeod put his hand to his sword. At that moment, Ruffio stepped from the shadows. Two other male Beauties as well. He was sorely tempted to take them on, hut Ali was depending on him. Better to bide his time.
Seething, he followed Machiavelli inside. Ruffio followed.
They climbed the stairs to Machiavelli’s apartments. He opened the door, ushered MacLeod inside, and then blocked the way of the others. “I must speak alone with Duncan,” he said. Ruffio jerked as if slapped. He took a deep breath, glaring past Machiavelli to MacLeod, promising him with a look that they would settle this score later. With a curt nod, he withdrew.
Machiavelli shut the door. “Now we can talk about your unhappiness,” he said pleasantly.
“I weary of the life here,” MacLeod said.
“I can end it.” Machiavelli chuckled and sat in a large chair on the opposite side of his great bed. “But I’m sure that’s not what you meant.”
He gestured for MacLeod to sit. MacLeod remained standing.
“The fault lies with you.” Machiavelli sighed. “Do you not regard how I comport myself with the great and near-great? All this I will share with you, if you but bend a little.” He rose and walked to the other side of the bed. Turning his back to MacLeod, he concealed his movements; a panel to his left slid open, but MacLeod was too far away to see what it contained.
He saw MacLeod’s interest, and said, “I keep my most treasured possessions near me.” He reached inside and retrieved a large wine bottle and two gold goblets. Filling them, he offered one to MacLeod. When MacLeod did not move, he shrugged and drank from the other as he sat back in his chair.
“Why do you do it?” MacLeod asked. “This island. This Court. You’re Immortal. What is the purpose to all this?”
Machiavelli raised his shoulders, lowered them. “Must I have one? Why do you play chess?”
“It does not dominate my life.”
“No, of course not. But what does?” Machiavelli slung one leg over the arm of his chair. “The need to survive. That is at core what motivates us all, don’t you think?”
“Not you.”
“Ah, there you are wrong. Thicker walls, better weapons, smarter followers. What puzzles you is how much I enjoy it all. For you, life is a deadly business. For me, it’s the most exalted of games.”
“Then you are in the Game,” MacLeod said. “You know what I spoke of is true.”
Machiavelli inclined his head. “We all have our religious beliefs. It would be much easier for me if you would leave off trying to convert my people.”
“They have a right to survive as well.”
Machiavelli flared. “I protect them.”
“You use them.” MacLeod glared at him. “They’re nothing to you but cannon fodder. You’d sacrifice them all if it got you what you wanted.”
“And what do I want? That’s what you want to know.”
“You just told me. To win the Game.”
“Oh, but I know I’ll do that. There’s no sport there. It’s simply a matter of time.”
“Then why—”
“Because I can.” His narrow face glowed as if from within. His eyes flashed. “Power, Signor Mackio. What is the point of this so-very-long life, if not to dominate and control? To snap my fingers”—he did so—“and shape my surroundings to my pleasure? From the top of a battlement, you can see your enemies coming. Down in the mud, you must slash blindly.”
An alarm went off in MacLeod’s head. The only person to call him Signor Mackio was Antonio.
“As I was saying to the Cardinal the other day,” Machiavelli added, grinning, “God created a world, so why can’t I?”
“And he said?” MacLeod asked, as he was certain he was supposed to. Was Machiavelli threatening him with ‘Tonio’s safety?
“He laughed and repeated the words of St. Theresa to me: ‘God favors the bold.’ And you know, God does.”
He sipped his wine. “The Cardinal is off to Rome to quiz the Pope about his intentions toward us. His Holiness and the French love to attack us when we appear weak and friendless. I remember in Florence, when Cesare Borgia—”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “That’s over. Alas, poor Cesare. I knew him, Horatio.” He waited for a reaction from MacLeod. “Ah, you don’t know Shakespeare. Pity. Duncan, I wish you to sit.”
Against his better judgment, MacLeod obeyed. Now that his concern for ‘Tonio had been piqued—as he was certain had been Machiavelli’s intention—he would listen carefully and well to what the Immortal had to say.
“This country is terrified, Duncan. High and low, the Venetians are drowning and gasping for air. And I am the only boat.”
“Are you.”
“Does it matter? They believe I am. What’s the difference?”
In that moment, MacLeod saw him as he truly was, a grasping conniver expertly painting himself as a genius, a strategist, a master collector of intelligence, that an entire nation could look to for rescue. Poor, foolish Venice. The political situation must be worse than MacLeod had realized. The government had poured its hopes into a man who didn’t care what happened to the people and to their nation. He was reaping the spoils of their fear, and no doubt would continue to do so if Venice fell.
“You look troubled,” Machiavelli observed. “Do you worry for the Republic?”
MacLeod shook his head. “These arc not my people. Nor my cause.”
“Your cause. A strange term, but not the strangest word I have heard you speak. I rather like ‘Sassenach.’ It refers to the English, does it not?”
Warily, MacLeod said, “Aye. It’s our name for them.”
Machiavelli laughed. “You bear them such a grudge. I thought we in the Mediterranean were the only ones to hold ve
ndettas. Perhaps you shall be the next king.” He sat forward. “Think of that, MacLeod. Who better to reign than one of us? I can help you. I have been a popemaker and a dogemaker and a kingmaker. Surely I can make you king of Scotland.”
“You know nothing of my people. Our kings die.”
“I know about people. And people are the same everywhere. What did I write in The Prince? ‘For the mob is always impressed by appearances and by results; and the world is composed of the mob.’ As for dying, why, you’re Immortal!”
Machiavelli’s dark eyes flashed. “This we must do. It would be glorious. First you must reread The Prince. It will be your handbook to greatness.”
MacLeod had never read The Prince, nor any of Machiavelli’s other books or plays.
“But for now, let’s play chess,” Machiavelli said, reaching toward the chessboard on a trestle table next to his chair. “All great men should know chess.”
He picked up two pawns, put his hands behind his back, and held out his fists. MacLeod pointed to Machiavelli’s left hand, who, with a flourish, revealed the white pawn.
“You move first, my friend,” Machiavelli drawled, and sat in the curved chair behind the chessboard.
As MacLeod took the other chair, Machiavelli went on.
“Those two spies are in trouble. The Signory is talking about executing them sooner than planned. Burlingame had long wanted to trade with Venice. As you know, we have a rule that all such commerce must be conducted in vessels of our own construction. Our ambassador took Burlingame a letter from the Doge granting him safe passage through Venetian waters.”
“But that Doge died. The affairs of state altered.” MacLeod moved P-K4, pawn to king’s four.
“Ah, you are learning something. The classical defense. By Seor Ruy López.” Machiavelli mirrored the move on the chessboard. “Watch your bishops, young Scot. Your holy men. Your prelates. I delight in clearing them. It’s so much easier to play without them zigzagging all over the country.” He raised his brows. “I mean, all over the chessboard.”
“His English ship was given to a pirate,” MacLeod persisted, imagining the course of events.
