Highlander: The Measure of a Man

by Nancy Holder

  Now, in the night, perfume masked the ordure and blood of battle. Dressed in white, the youngest daughters of all the illustrious houses, the novitiates of the convents, and a discreet distance away, the little orphan girls who depended upon the largess of Holy Mother Church, sang a Te Deum of jubilation composed scant hours before by the man of the hour, Niccolo Machiavelli. After all, it was he who not only learned of the insidious surprise attack, but had masterminded the city’s defense.

  Altar boys carried the statues of the saints through the city. Huge bonfires blazed in the squares. St. Mark’s cathedral and the Doge’s palace shimmered in the fires, while overhead the sky burned with hour-long volleys of brilliant fireworks.

  Dagger tips indenting his sides, MacLeod sat at an immense banquet table between Ruffio and Jean-Pierre, who was all smiles now, all laughter. Before him, the bounty of the sea and land was heaped on golden platters. Huge golden bowls of fruit made entirely of sugar decorated long embroidered runners of silver and cloth of gold. Sculptures of ice—unicorns, griffins, and the lion of St. Mark—glistened and gleamed.

  At the crowded high table sat various exalted persons, including the Doge in his ceremonial robes and his jeweled corno, his cap of office; the Dogaressa, in red-and-blue damask, filigreed lace of gold clutching her elderly sagging bosom; Machiavelli, splendid and imposing in his signature statesman black, and a stunning companion:

  Maria Angelina.

  She was dressed in mountains of silk and lace, in the Doge’s purple and Machiavelli’s ebony. When she saw MacLeod, a smile played over her lush, full mouth. She saluted him with her goblet and leaned forward on her elbows.

  “Drink, sir?” asked a page.

  MacLeod touched his arm. “What is that woman?” he asked.

  The page was surprised. Cautiously he looked left and right. MacLeod dug his fingers into his arm.

  “She… she is a great lady, signor.”

  MacLeod dug into his purse and held up a gold coin. The page licked his lips and bent to his ear. “Some say she is the Doge’s, ah, friend, signor. His friend. So it is said. But I know not. Her husband is very famous, very great. Ah, he’s gone some time now, signor.”

  He scurried away.

  Ruffio and Jean-Pierre tittered. “Gods, you are arrogant, Scotsman. You really thought she wanted to play your bagpipes,” Ruffio said. They burst into laughter.

  MacLeod’s face flamed. “Strega,” he whispered, the Italian word for witch.

  “Have a care, Highlander. The same is being said of you,” Ruffio observed, gesturing toward a table of clergy who were devouring chickens in thyme and rosemary. “They want to know, where are the scars from your accident?”

  “You’re fools. He’ll kill you. He has no thought for your lives save how he can use them up before your heads are taken.”

  “That again.” Ruffio rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen, Jean-Pierre.”

  “Oh, mais non, of course not. I never did.” He patted his lips with the edge of the tablecloth and pressed his finger into a piece of sugar pineapple. “But I am a very good actor, am I not?”

  “To a man, he’ll kill you,” MacLeod pressed.

  “You’re a tiresome, dour creature,” Jean-Pierre flung at him.

  MacLeod glared at Ruffio. “The Frenchman’s stupid, but you’re not. You must know the truth.”

  “And my master has been training me most efficiently,” he said beneath his breath so that only MacLeod could hear. “He and I shall go on, ridding ourselves of men like you. The others, they’re dispensable.”

  “And so is your honor.”

  “Honor is an outmoded concept. I’m practical.”

  “Like your master,” MacLeod said with contempt.

  Ruffio inclined his head. “Even so.”

  “And his whore.” He was ashamed of the tenderness she had raised in him. She must have laughed at him when he’d told her how alone he was. He had been so stupid to believe the lie about St. Cloud. He hadn’t had time to think it through. He hadn’t had enough evidence to convict her.

  Och, he’d loved her, pure and simple. And that had been all they’d needed to trap him.

  “Have a care, sir.” He wagged his finger. “She is devoted to my master.”

  Machiavelli stood and clapped his hands. “My esteemed lord, my lady, all assembled here on this great and glorious day of victory. I give you the heroes in our midst.” There was thunderous applause as his arms embraced the entire company. The wealth and power of all Venice overflowed the huge golden salon like a living, invincible behemoth. Gold and jewels glittered from gowns and throats. Firelight swept the renowned paintings and statuary. MacLeod wished upon himself the strength of Samson, so that he could bring down the colonnades on them and avenge the house of Ali and all the Turks who had died this day.

  With great ceremony, Machiavelli unfurled a scroll and began to read from it. He proclaimed name after name, most of them titled and listed in the Golden Book. The men stood, receiving the accolades of the grand house.

  MacLeod heard his own name, stayed seated, and felt Ruffio’s blade in his side. Grimly, he stood.

  “Welcome, good sir,” the Doge said to MacLeod, hefting his goblet. “I’m sure your name is being cursed from one side of the Ottoman Empire to the other.” The throng laughed. He drank, his knowing gaze meeting MacLeod’s over the rim.

  Can it be that he knows it all? MacLeod wondered. About our Immortality, and that Machiavelli has set Venice on an inevitable course with war? Is she really his mistress?

  “What now?” he asked Ruffio, inclining his head as the Doge watched him, his own gaze never wavering.

  “I have no idea,” Ruffio said. He and Jean-Pierre burst into more merry laughter.

  “You bastard.” MacLeod balled his fists.

  “Careful, careful.” Ruffio turned to Jean-Pierre. “Maybe he doesn’t really care about the Turkish spy.”

  “But surely he cares about his own head,” Jean-Pierre rejoined.

  Fireworks and cheers punctuated the hours as the reveling continued late into the night. MacLeod ate sparingly and drank less. He looked for his moment as Ruffio and Jean-Pierre drank too much and began to grow tired and careless. As he had hoped, they did both.

  Just as he prepared to make his move, a man flew into the center of the room with his sword drawn. His face was red with fury.

  “Where is the accursed foreigner, Duncan MacLeod?” he shouted. “Where’s the son of a Turk who cuckolded me?”

  Gradually the merrymakers quieted. All eyes turned toward MacLeod.

  “MacLeod?” The man’s voice was high and shrill.

  MacLeod stood. “I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

  “And I am the Duke d’Fabrizi, and I call you out.” The man rushed at his table. Ruffio and Jean-Pierre made a great show of rising and coming to MacLeod’s aid. “Whoreson! Fornicator!”

  MacLeod held out his empty hands. “I have no quarrel with you, signor.” But the man looked vaguely familiar. MacLeod couldn’t place him, but he went on alert.

  On the dais, Machiavelli made a great show of looking concerned. Maria Angelina’s hands covered her mouth. Her eyes were enormous, her face drained of color.

  “I have been in Tuscany, on business. You took advantage of my absence and made love to my wife! I left her in the protection of Signor Machiavelli, but he, too, failed me.” Spittle flew.

  “Nay, not I. Never.”

  “This cannot be. Have you proof?” Machiavelli asked, rising.

  “Si, signor, I do! This man wrote her a note to run away with him last night.”

  The man pulled a paper from his coat and shook it in MacLeod’s face. MacLeod caught the words, “My darling,” and his own signature. It was a forgery, and a good job of it, too.

  “I will be satisfied.”

  The Doge frowned. “Dueling is not permitted. But neither is adultery.”

  “Signor,” MacLeod said. “On my honor, I don’t know what t
his is about.”

  “Liar! I was there! I saw you touching her!”

  MacLeod shook his head. “You’re mistaken, sir.”

  “Let me see the note,” Machiavelli said. “With your permission, sir.” He waited for the Doge to indicate his consent.

  The distraught man ran to the high table and handed Machiavelli the letter. Machiavelli scanned it and looked dismayed. “My liege, it is true. This is in MacLeod’s hand.” He handed the letter to the Doge.

  The Doge’s face went ashen. He said, “This is a private matter. We will discuss it later.”

  Maria Angelina swayed as if she were about to faint.

  “Friend Duncan, as you are my friend, what do you say to this? This lady is in my care,” Machiavelli said, ignoring the Doge.

  MacLeod shook his head. “That it’s a forgery, and I know nothing of it.”

  “I want satisfaction,” the duke insisted.

  “You’ve been drinking,” MacLeod said.

  “Insult on top of insult! I will have satisfaction now!” the man shrieked, and stabbed MacLeod in the leg.

  “Stop!” the Doge commanded.

  MacLeod grabbed at the wound and parried a second attempt. “Stop, man, you’re no match for me,” he growled beneath his breath. “I didna write that letter.”

  “You liar!” D’Fabrizi flew at him, holding his sword with both hands in front of himself like a battering ram.

  “Stop! Stop it now!” the Doge ordered.

  It would be an easy thing to deflect the attack; MacLeod was confident of the outcome and paid only mild attention to what he was doing. But the drunk man tripped and fell forward. Before MacLeod could move, d’Fabrizi was impaled on his scimitar. MacLeod’s mouth dropped open as the other fell to the floor in his own blood, gasping, the brutal weapon in his chest.

  MacLeod dropped to his knees. “Sir, signor, are ye sore hurt?” He pulled open the man’s coat to check the wound. It was bad; nay, worse, it was mortal.

  “My… wife…” the man gritted out. “I saw it all. I was warned. I saw you.”

  “On my head, I nae touched her,” MacLeod said. “I don’t know her.”

  The man lifted a shaking hand and pointed it at Maria Angelina. A hushed murmur went through the hall. “My… wife…”

  MacLeod stared at her, then at the man. He heard again his voice. “Gods,” he whispered. In his arms lay the masked pilot who had shot him the night before.

  The man stared at him, his accusation no longer denied. Scant satisfaction for him: he was dead.

  “Take MacLeod,” the Doge ordered. “We said there was to be no dueling, and we see the outcome of ignoring our wishes. There’s danger in combat for the sake of honor.” He looked coldly at MacLeod, then at Machiavelli. “And in the bedrooms of women who are by law and conscience denied to us.”

  Guards surrounded MacLeod.

  “But, my lord,” Machiavelli protested. “This man saved Venice today. Do you remember the funeral oration for Pericles? Thucydides wrote these words:

  For even those who come short in other ways may justly plead the valor with which they have fought for their country; they have blotted out the evil with the good, and have benefited the state more by their public services than they have injured her by their private actions.

  “Duncan MacLeod did the state a great service today. Does he not deserve pardon?”

  “No one who has done ill deserves pardon.”

  Maria Angelina touched her throat and reached for a goblet, then put her hands in her lap as if sensing that she was calling attention to herself. The faithless mistress of the Doge, the equally faithless wife of a man who had died because of her. She was disgraced forever. Machiavelli must have written the note, hoping that the jealous, wronged man would dispatch her when MacLeod had been killed and stowed aboard the galley.

  Machiavelli had tired of this particular queen.

  MacLeod cared not. She had used him. lie hated her. At that moment, any tenderness left within him shriveled and died. He wanted to kill her.

  “I would request custody of him,” Machiavelli persisted. “I will stake my honor on his behavior, and I swear that he will remain in Venice until my lord finds it convenient to question him privately on this matter.”

  “If it please the Doge,” said another voice. It was one of the priests who had been wolfing down the chicken. “Signor, is it not true you were in a terrible fire?”

  MacLeod said firmly, “I thank Jesus Christ for protecting me,” and crossed himself.

  “And that while you were on the galley, Cross of St. Ursula, a man was beheaded and demons poured out of his body? And the crew tried to abandon the cursed ship, but you were unafraid? You told them it had nothing to do with curses?”

  Machiavelli looked startled. He hadn’t been there; he must not have known about Jean-Pierre and the Quickening.

  Before he could answer, another priest said, “We have witnesses. Sailors who were aboard the vessel you commanded.”

  “Take him, then,” the Doge said unhappily. “Take the Duchess d’Fabrizi as well. She will be questioned as to her hand in the murder of her husband.”

  Maria Angelina stumbled and held out her arms. “My lord,” she pleaded. “I have done nothing.”

  The Doge turned his back on her and left the room.

  MacLeod ticked his attention to where Machiavelli had been standing. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Seven

  “… for men do harm either because of fear or because of hatred.”

  —Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

  The lash, soaked in salt water and studded with metal teeth, sliced his naked back and tore it open. Manacled between two pillars, MacLeod exhaled between his clenched teeth, arched, and slipped in his own blood and sweat. As the pain burned down his spine and into the backs of his legs, the surface wounds began to heal. They had stripped him completely, to make him feel vulnerable, he supposed.

  It was working.

  After a beat, the lash came down again.

  “By the Virgin, why don’t you confess?” his torturer, grunting. “I’m exhausted. Have pity on me, if not on yourself. We’ve been at this all night.”

  The dungeon door behind him squealed open. “Paolo,” a man called. “You’re off duty. Gi’anni will take over.”

  “Praise to the Virgin,” the torturer said. “I have a cramp in my arm from all this lashing.” There was rustling, some footsteps.

  “Aren’t you going to take him down?” the first speaker asked in surprise. “It’s freezing in here.”

  “Him? Not on your life. He’s a savage.”

  The door shut.

  MacLeod was alone in the half-lit room with pots of boiling lead, braziers, the rack, the boot, an iron maiden, cobwebs, and rats.

  He shook his throbbing arms, trying to bend his wrists to reach the fastenings on the manacles. A rat ran over his bare foot. He made a face and raised one leg, then the other. His tormentor had informed him that at daybreak, the priests would observe his questioning. He tried to remind himself that as long as they didn’t behead him, nothing they did mattered. All physical pain, no matter how intense, was temporary.

  There was a noise in the opposite corner. MacLeod turned to look. A small boy crept forward, dragging an old-fashioned broad sword behind himself. It was Zulian, the boy MacLeod had saved at the hiring yard.

  “A friend sends his compliments, signor,” the boy said, grinning. He showed him a ring of keys.

  He raised on tiptoe to unfasten MacLeod’s manacles and raced for the door. “Come on!”

  “A friend? What friend?” MacLeod took the sword and hefted it. “Who sent you?”

  Zulian ignored him. He ran to the door and tried the first key, then the second, and opened it. It squealed as before, and MacLeod winced. Zulian gestured for MacLeod to follow.

  “A great, rich man. He’s paid off all the daytime guards,” Zulian said impatiently. “Come.”

  “What
did he look like, this great, rich man?” Had it been Machiavelli?

  “He spoke only to my mother.” Impatiently, he gestured for MacLeod to follow.

  Silently, MacLeod took the sword and tapped Zulian on the shoulder. He laid odds the entire thing was a trap. Poor Zulian. He was sure to get the gallows—or the block—for this.

  A man in ecclesiastic robes—perhaps one of the Inquisitors—hummed as he sauntered toward them. The two fugitives pressed themselves into the shadows and held their breath. As soon as he was near, MacLeod sprang on him, cuffed him, and knocked him out. Hurriedly he undressed the man and put on his robe. It was too short by half a meter. His shoes were also too small, and pinched.

  As they dragged the unconscious man around the corner, Zulian pointed to the left and said, “We can leave that way.”

  “Are the Englishman and the Arab imprisoned here?” MacLeod picked up the broadsword. Its blade was nicked and the blood groove caked with grime. “The ones they mean to behead as spies?”

  The boy blinked. “Spies,” he echoed, bemused. Then he nodded. “I know who you mean. The Englishman was sent home, signor. In a fine ship with many presents. He’s not a spy. He’s a hero of the Republic.”

  Paid off, then? Or compromised in the first place? MacLeod narrowed his eyes. “And the other?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then he might still be here. I need to find him.” Seeing the fear on the lad’s face, he added, “Tell me how to get out and then hie yourself home. If I know your mother, she’s worried sick about you.” He tousled the boy’s hair and thought with a pang of ‘Tonio. “Have a good long life. Have many adventures and grow up to be an honorable man.”

  “Si, signor.” The boy shyly ducked his head. “Good luck to you, signor.”

  “Grazie.” He figured he would need it.

  It was Hell, the dungeon of the Republic of Venice. Men shrieked and begged; jailers laughed. Brands sizzled and whips cracked. Women, held down in moldy straw, screamed for help.

  Down dank passages lined with thick jail doors, MacLeod floated like a ghost, growing suspicious of the fact that no alarm had been raised over his escape. Surely they had discovered he was missing by now.