Highlander: The Measure of a Man

by Nancy Holder

  “Monsieur, signor,” Jean-Pierre said excitedly, batting at him, unknowingly hitting his wounded arm. “It is of that very man I must speak!”

  “What?” MacLeod whipped his head toward the direction of Jean-Pierre’s voice.

  “That person, that St. Cloud. He was with Ruffio at the Calegri’s canalazzo. Together they started the fire. They were waiting for you! I heard them—”

  “You were there?” MacLeod cut in. “You were at the banquet?”

  “Yes, I was. Machiavelli sent me to meet up with you. He said you might not come, and that if I didn’t sec you, I was to tell Ruffio and St. Cloud. He said there were others waiting at another location should you decide on another course of action. What course of action? What was he speaking of? Is St. Cloud an old enemy of yours?”

  “We must leave,” MacLeod said, taking Maria Angelina’s hand. He couldn’t sort this out here, now. He had no idea if he could trust her, no time to decide. “Tonight we leave Venice, and no one will know where we’ve gone.”

  “Oh, where will I be safe?” she cried.

  “I’ll protect you.” Every instinct within him told him that she must be innocent of this, that he must shelter her, care for her.

  Every instinct told him that she must be, but not that she was.

  “I’ll protect you as well. I’ll come with you,” Jean-Pierre pleaded.

  MacLeod grunted. There was little he could do save fight him to prevent him from accompanying them. But he wasn’t welcome company.

  And although his heart was warming for the lady on his arm, it would be better if he could trust her a little more as well. Her face resting against his chest, his heart begged her to be true. Murder crept these halls, and he would not prove a sacrificial pawn in anyone’s gambit. No matter her scent, the lips, her touch.

  “Duncan,” she whispered.

  No matter.

  In the Doge’s splendid private quarters, there was a fire in the richly carved fireplace, music by Pavel Vejavanovsky. the Moravian trumpeter, fine wine compliments of the duke of Burgundy, and twin blond page boys serving sweets and pomegranates. A lovely finale to a long, yet productive day.

  Machiavelli had only just arrived. His cloak was still damp with canal water, and the brandy warmed him through.

  Now, as the august and aging Doge, Carlo Contarini, studied the reports of Machiavelli’s spies and examined the most recent of the couriers’ pouches, Machiavelli remembered the thrill of his first life when dining with popes and kings. He chuckled with the fondness one has for childish pleasures gone by. Yet the excitement that coursed through his veins now was equal. A hundred years ago, his efforts were to keep Florence out of war. Now, he exerted his considerable acumen and influence to thrust Venice into one.

  And to the victor he would go.

  “You see, Excellency?” he insisted. “Attack is imminent. Our Greek subjects on Mythenos have led an uprising and are on their way.”

  Contarini shrugged his shoulders and waved a hand al an exquisite painting of Christ walking on the water as the frightened apostles were tossed by the waves. Such was Venice, he seemed to imply. And he had the right: Every year he married the sea in an ancient ritual endorsed by Holy Mother Church. It was the pope himself who sent him the wedding ring each season that he would cast into the lagoon. “What can they have, two or three leaky ships? That is nothing against the Venetian fleet. We have nothing to worry about, Machiavelli.”

  The gilt door to the private salon opened and a little old man in a black robe peered in. Several other pale, wrinkled creatures joined him. The Doge had many counselors, many elite groups of three or four who gave him advice, sought favors, and funded ventures such as civic building projects and, more importantly for Niccolo, wars. It drove them to distraction when the Doge favored Machiavelli with exclusive audiences.

  “You disturb us,” the Doge bellowed, adjusting the sleeves of his purple damask robe. The old fools drew themselves up; combined, they were richer than the State and deserved respect.

  Machiavelli smiled apologetically at the unhappy group as if to say, “What can I do? I can’t help it if he demands my company.” The old men pursed their lips, bowed, and shut the door.

  He would kill them with the same poison he had used on the Cardinal. But first he would find out why the king of France and His Holiness the Pope had survived it.

  “Tradesmen,” the Doge sniffed.

  “They want only the best for you. Who am I, they wonder, that I should merit your attention? Just some strange old Florentine with a famous ancestor.”

  “You are too modest, Niccolo.” The Doge smiled at him. “You’ve inherited the Machiavelli mind from your famous ancestor. I’m most pleased with the progress we have made.” That being the fact that Contarini had been very obliquely hinting that he would like very much to be made Doge for life, something unheard of in the Republic for centuries. Doges past who had quested after the power of monarchs had ended up banished, deposed, or assassinated. That Machiavelli had destroyed the Doge’s most hated enemies, the Calegri, had not yet been directly spoken of. But this audience, the fine wine, the delicacies—all spoke of gratitude, and of riches to come.

  “And I am also pleased, my lord.” Machiavelli smiled at him over a goblet of wine. “If we could contain Crete…”

  “Ah, Crete.” Contarini shook his head. “I wish by Christ that damn island would sink.” He crossed himself. “God forgive my blasphemy.”

  “It won’t sink. We’ll have to control it, just as we need to rein in these upstart colonies. The Mythenians arc just the ringleaders.” He held out a report carefully written by the little friar, Andre, shortly before he’d beheaded him. The Quickening had been brief but satisfying. He was in need of another bishop for his board now, and as soon as Jean-Pierre was dead, he would need a second one. MacLeod’s fate was still undecided. Shackled, he must be. Killed, perhaps.

  His agile mind ticked back to the matter at hand. “Four hundred men from neighboring islands are reported to have joined them. And they have purchased the arms of German condotierri.”

  The Doge was silent, then grunted. This news clearly worried him. He made a steeple of his fingers and peered through it as if at an approaching armada. “Donna Maria, they’re finally coming. In all the days of the Republic, no foreign invader has touched our city.”

  It was very difficult not to burst out into delighted laughter. The old fool was going exactly where Machiavelli directed. Playing along, Machiavelli clouded his face with worry and inclined his head.

  “So it would appear.”

  Maria Angelina most sensibly pointed out that they would need money to get off the island, but she and Jean-Pierre both cried poor. MacLeod had the money Machiavelli had given him, but they would need much, much more for bribes and passage back to Algiers.

  “I’ll take you to the dungeon,” Jean-Pierre said. “That’s where he keeps his treasure chests.”

  “Yes,” Maria Angelina agreed. “He’s shown them to me. You can’t believe how much money he has, Duncan.”

  MacLeod thought a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “We’ll go to his rooms.”

  “Are you mad?” Jean-Pierre said, agitated. “What if he’s in there?”

  MacLeod said nothing.

  “Oh, let’s go to the dungeon,” Maria Angelina said. “If he sees us together, he’ll…”

  “He’ll what?” MacLeod asked. “He will think nothing. Why should he?”

  She said, “We must assume that the Beauties are against us. St. Cloud has tried to kill you. He has probably bribed everyone here to kill me. We’re like pieces on one of those damn boards.”

  “Aye,” Duncan said grimly, and led the way down the corridor toward a sconce. A candle burned softly there; he lifted it out and carried it. “You’re right in that, milady. But I won’t go deeper in this house than I have to. I’ll not go to any dungeons today.”

  Machiavelli’s doors were shut and locked. With his shoulder
, MacLeod easily forced them. Maria Angelina covered her mouth at the loud crack of broken wood, then hesitated on the threshold until MacLeod urged her inside.

  “There’s a panel,” he said, trying for a moment to remember how Machiavelli had opened it.

  He looked around, retracing the Immortal’s steps. He had sat in that chair. He had risen and walked past his bed. He had turned his back.

  A lone chess piece sat on a mosaic table. MacLeod touched it, tapped it, tried to pick it up. It was stuck fast. Then he turned it.

  The panel opened.

  “Ah,” Jean-Pierre murmured, as rows of gilt boxes glittered in the candlelight. Eagerly he approached. MacLeod indicated that he should pull back the lid of the nearest box, and the man did so.

  “What is this?” Jean-Pierre asked in dismay as he rummaged through the contents.

  “More of his lies,” MacLeod grumbled. “I should have listened to Antonio more carefully.”

  MacLeod surveyed the vast array of counterfeit seals and wrinkled pages of practiced forgeries of the signatures of the most powerful families in Venice—Sforza, Calegri, Vedramin, Sarpi. “’Tonio is the Cardinal’s page. He heard Machiavelli talking about sticks of metal to some peasant but I didn’t make the connection.”

  “Who knows what mischief he’s been into?” Jean-Pierre riffled through the stacks of papers. “Oh, no, these look just like the letters Andre was supposed to have written us on his travels.”

  “He’s dead, then,” MacLeod said bluntly. “Machiavelli took his head.”

  Jean-Pierre went white and touched his throat. Maria Angelina crossed herself and held on to MacLeod’s arm.

  “And here’s your supper invitation to the Calegri, or an exact duplicate,” Maria Angelina said. She held out the paper to MacLeod, who recognized the paper and the seal. “He was trying to get you to the Calegri palazzo so my husband and Ruffio could kill you.”

  MacLeod forced himself to stay calm. “And these scarves?”

  “Drop them anywhere, and another is blamed for whatever you’ve done.” Maria Angelina picked up a blue, gold, and red scarf and draped it over her arm. “Now I am a Vedramin.” She put it back. “Now I am not.”

  “To think I ever doubted you,” Jean-Pierre said to MacLeod. He shook his head. “There is a Game, is there not?”

  MacLeod only looked at him.

  “What are you speaking of?” Maria Angelina asked in a tremulous voice.

  MacLeod sighed. If he could believe her, Machiavelli and St. Cloud had not told her of the Game. He would have to reveal everything if they were to be together. It was only fair. “When we have more time, I’ll explain. But now, we’ve got to go, with coin or not.”

  Jean-Pierre tried to open the next strongbox, found it locked, and started to reach for MacLeod’s sword. MacLeod jerked violently, staring at the man.

  “Have you no sense at all?” he demanded.

  “I’m your student,” Jean-Pierre said in a small voice.

  “I have no time for a student.” MacLeod hacked at the strongbox and Maria Angelina opened it. It was filled with coins and jewels. “Look. Duncan,” she said. She gathered treasure in both hands and stuffed it into the purse at her waist.

  MacLeod nodded, but kept his attention on Jean-Pierre. “Get out of Venice and head for another country. I cannot take you on.”

  Jean-Pierre hung his head. He stood dejectedly as MacLeod swept Maria Angelina out of the room and back into the darkness, candle in hand.

  “Perhaps you should kill him,” Maria Angelina whispered, grimacing as though the words cost her.

  “Perhaps I should,” he replied.

  “I would be true to you,” Jean-Pierre called brokenly. “Always.”

  MacLeod shook his head. “Go now. Find your own way.”

  “They may be waiting for me!”

  “Then hurry.” He walked Maria Angelina away. “Is there another way out of here?”

  She nodded and took his hand. Together they moved slowly through the palazzo. That they had not been discovered worried him more than the prospect of being discovered. Something was not right.

  “We’ll go to the docks,” he informed her. “I’ll find someplace to hide you when we reach the mainland.”

  “Yes, Duncan.” She took his hand and squeezed it hard. They moved silently down a blackened passageway lined with rusting Roman armor.

  “I must confess my love for you,” she whispered. “It cannot be wrong to declare myself a free woman.” She touched his chest. “Does love beat in your heart for me?” He remained silent. “I know it does. I shall make you happy for as long as I live.” She sighed. “If you will have me.”

  His answer was to take her hand to his lips. There could be no other answer, not now.

  “Ah.” She sighed, then added, “We’re there.” She felt along the wall and found a doorway. Pushing on it, MacLeod found himself outside.

  The moon was brilliant, illuminating the garden. He swore in. Gaelic that their flight would be so brightly lit.

  “Hurry,” he told her, and they began to cross the lawn. A small object cast a shadow on the grass. He walked toward it, picked it up. A frisson skittered up his spine.

  It was a small, red, high-heeled court shoe with the Cardinal’s crest emblazoned on the buckle. A shoe the size a boy would wear. A page.

  Such as ’Tonio might wear, and it was badly scuffed and dirty. There was dried blood on the instep and heel.

  “Antonio? Lad?”

  “What is it?” she asked, clearly not understanding.

  There was no reply. He ran across the vast lawn, keeping his gaze sharp. There, to the left! A crouching boy.

  No. It was a well, the cover removed and lying on the ground. MacLeod noted the ornate metal design of a unicorn with its head in a maiden’s lap. ’Tonio had said something about such a thing, had he not? He reconstructed the conversation. The metal things had been in this very well. It was a drop-off point, perhaps, for stolen seals to copy and letters to forge and God knew what else. And the reedy man with Machiavelli must have been his go-between.

  MacLeod unsheathed his scimitar. The stench of death hit his nostrils and he reared back; among his people, such a smell was an offense to God and a curse on all who came too close.

  “We must go.” Maria Angelina urged him away.

  “Wait,” he said, straining to see. He lifted the candle.

  Peering in, he was sickened at what he saw: the remains of ‘Tonio’s corpse pushed against the side of the well.

  “Oh, heavenly Mother,” Maria Angelina said, falling to her knees. She covered her mouth. “Oh, help us. Death is on his way to us all.”

  * * *

  The moon hung over the well, now covered, as MacLeod bowed his head. Tears wanted to fall, but he held them in check as Maria Angelina paced, frantic.

  It was stupid to pause like this, to risk their lives to mark a death. But an Immortal’s life seemed to be about little more than death. Dealing death, escaping it, watching it overtake lovers, friends, and little boys.

  But it was the way of it, of the Game, and of the Rules of the Game.

  He turned to her. “How do we hire a gondola at this time of night?”

  “The gondoliers live quite close to the docks,” she said. “We’ll have to walk there.”

  It was a chilly night, and he had no cloak to offer her. They moved swiftly, she shivering now and then, turning her head slightly as if to bid good-bye to the life she had known on the island. He knew that feeling of loss. He had already said good-byes to many lives.

  An owl hooted. She jumped and put her hand around his arm. “You have warrior’s limbs,” she said. “Oh, Duncan, shall we live? Shall we have a life together?”

  She stopped him, faced him, put her arms around his neck. He found her lips. He put down his sword and swept her into his arms, bending her backward as he rained kisses on her forehead, her closed eyes, her temples, the curling satin of her hair.

  “
I cannot help it. If you are untrue, then I am undone. I love thee, bonnie Maire,” he said, in a language fast dying, of a people who might die, too, save for those like him and Connor. A son, I must fill her with a son, he thought irrationally for a moment forgetting what he was. Then he heard his thoughts and shook his head. They were running for their lives.

  “We must stop this,” he said hoarsely, in Italian.

  “Oh, I don’t want to.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed the line of his jaw.

  “To live, we must.” Firmly he pulled himself away and, taking her hand, walked on.

  They reached a small cluster of houses, almost a tiny village. He said, “Machiavelli has forbidden me to leave. He said no gondolier would take me.”

  “I may come and go as I please.” She held up her hand. “Stay here in the shadows.”

  He watched as she negotiated their passage at one house and then another. There was much shaking of heads, and MacLeod began to make plans to steal a craft if necessary.

  “They’re afraid.” Maria Angelina told him. “They don’t want him to find out they’ve put out to sea tonight. He left orders that no one is to leave the island, not even me. It will cost all the money we brought.”

  “Bloody hell,” he swore, but was relieved they were to be off.

  He watched her hand their booty to a man wearing a half-mask and a hood. The man gestured for them to follow him to the dock.

  Once there, they found a luxurious craft larger than a gondola festooned with feathers and ribbons.

  “What on earth?” MacLeod asked, amazed. “We canna take that!”

  “It’s a Carnival boat,” Maria Angelina told him. “Machiavelli won’t think of it. He would miss a gondola, though.”

  “We’ll be as obvious as a peacock.”

  “There’s no other choice.”

  “Och.” He shook his head and led her to the edge of the dock.

  The masked man got on deck first, helped Maria Angelina next, and slid the cabin lid back. MacLeod stared at him, at the eyes, and frowned.