by Glenn Cooper
Garibaldi leaned over and whispered to John in English, “He is the painter. His talent gives him license to be impertinent.”
Another several minutes passed and suddenly all eyes were upon the gallery where a solitary man slowly made his way to the rail.
“The king is keeping his distance,” Garibaldi whispered. “He is cautious indeed.”
Cesare Borgia was perhaps the youngest man in the hall, but at only thirty-two at the time of his death, he had ruled in Hell for so long that he had assumed the bearing of a much older monarch. He held his head high and kept the fingertips of one hand pressed against the other, as if in a state of wise contemplation. The painter was handsome; Borgia was not. He had a pan-shaped face and eyes too close together which gave him the appearance of a hawk.
The king looked curiously at John and addressed Garibaldi. “Good duke. I received your news this morning with interest. Is this your trophy?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Does he have a name?”
“It is John Camp.”
“Is he an Englishman?”
“No, he is an American.”
“Is that so? How very rare. I have known many live men, when I was alive, of course, but I have never once known an American.”
He laughed at his own comments and the audience dutifully tittered too.
“Can he speak Italian?” the king asked.
“Unfortunately, no. If you have questions for him, I can make a translation.”
“Indeed I do have questions. I was telling Queen Caterina earlier that my breast was positively exploding with questions, did I not, my dear?”
Caterina craned her neck and with a sour expression confirmed that it was so.
“Well then,” Borgia said. “Have him explain his presence.”
John gave his standard answer and while Garibaldi translated, he alternated his gaze from the queen to the king. Antonio had explained the twisted life history of Sforza, a refined Milanese noblewoman, and Cesare Borgia, the illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI. Caterina had been married at the tender age of fourteen to a man who was rumored to be the son of Pope Sixtus IV. The newly married couple had flourished in the world of high society that was Rome during Sixtus’s pontificate and Caterina became notorious as the most elegant and beautiful woman in all of Rome. But her glittering life crumbled when Sixtus died in 1484 and her husband lost his source of power. In the ensuing chaos in Rome, her husband was killed and a rival family took her prisoner with her children. In the years that followed, she plotted and took her revenge. Strategic remarriages followed, her children were thrust into prominent positions, and she crushed her enemies with a fury. Not content to merely murder her rivals cleanly, she sought to have them tortured in the most painful ways imaginable before they were dispatched, and then she made sure their wives and children suffered the same fate. Even infants were tortured under her iron hand.
The only rival she could not conquer was Cesare Borgia, who, during the papacy of his father, used his positions as a cardinal and commander of the papal army to carve out his own Italian state in Romagna with a cunning and abject ruthlessness that impressed his contemporary, Niccolò Machiavelli, to glowingly write of his character and exploits in his epistle, The Prince. Cesare’s motto then was Aut Caesar, aut nihil, Either Caesar or nothing, and his single-minded drive to conquer and dominate served him equally well in life and death.
The paths of Cesare and Caterina crossed in 1499 when Borgia, in his quest for domination in Romagna, led him to seize her properties in Forlì. Though the widow possessed an army of able knights and soldiers, Cesare’s troops bombarded her fortress with cannon fire day and night until he had his prize and she was his prisoner. He mocked her and spat on her but he secretly admired her resolve and let her live.
They would die within two years of one another and in Hell they found each other again and forged a powerful bond that persisted to this day. Adversaries in life became allies in death.
Borgia asked what skills this man, John Camp, possessed. Garibaldi replied that his interrogation had convinced him that he had considerable skills in the art of weaponry. He went on to describe the decisive role John’s singing cannon had played in the recent English defeat of the Iberian fleet. As he talked, John steadily and stealthily worked his way out of his own wrist knots.
“Can he produce these cannon for us?” Borgia asked.
“I would say yes,” Garibaldi answered.
“Well, ask him directly,” the king demanded.
“Sure,” John said with a straight face, after listening to the translation. “It would be an honor to help one demented asshole blow up another demented asshole.”
Simon stifled a laugh but Garibaldi simply told the king that the American would be happy to cooperate. The painter too, seemed to understand English because he hid his smile behind a hand.
“Ask him how long it will take?” Borgia asked. “I would like to have them soon for our campaign against the English.”
Garibaldi translated and John responded by quietly telling him that his hands were free. The painter overheard and stiffened.
“He says it will not take long,” Garibaldi said. “However, he wishes to give your highness a demonstration of his abilities.”
Garibaldi’s words were the signal. His men reached under their tunics to tug at the strings that held two hand-grenade balls hanging alongside their own balls, an anatomy that had not been searched. The act was so absurd and the objects in their hands so foreign that the captain of the guard and his men, indeed everyone in the hall did nothing, absolutely nothing.
The king was about to open his mouth when a dozen grenades sailed through the air up into the gallery. John let his hands dangle free and put an arm around Garibaldi’s shoulders to pull him out of harm’s way and turn him away from the blasts. He wasn’t as sure as the old man that the decapitation strategy would work, or at least work quickly enough. Soldiers were soldiers and they operated by instinct. If the shrapnel didn’t take out friendlies, enemy musket fire and sabers might.
He readied himself for action.
Then something happened, or rather failed to happen. The grenades thudded harmlessly off the gallery walls and fell back to the main hall where still they did not explode.
Then Borgia added to the surreal quality of the moment by leaning hard against the railing and opening his throat in loud and raucous laughter.
“Tell me, where is the fire, where is the sound, and where is the fury?” he bellowed.
John let go of Garibaldi and turned around to face the monarch. Caterina was immobile on her throne, frozen in fear and confusion, several of the grenades resting harmlessly near her feet. Garibaldi had the calm presence to whisper translation into John’s ear.
Borgia kept up his tirade. “You are a lowly rodent, Giuseppe Garibaldi. You are the scum on a pond. You are a filthy insect. You defy me? You would topple me? Did you think I would not discover your filthy plots? Machiavelli urged caution. He said, ‘This duke can be useful to you. Be sure of your suspicions before you act against him.’ So I bided my time. I sent a spy into your midst. From his mouth to my ears I have learned of your treachery. By his hand were your bombs emptied of powder and rendered harmless.”
“Who? Who has betrayed me?” Garibaldi yelled.
“This man!” Borgia said, pointing toward the wall. “Luca Penna.”
Luca must have known this moment would come but he still looked stunned. His first impulse was to stare at his boots but he summoned the courage to acknowledge the hateful glowers of Garibaldi and his traveling companions.
“I’ll destroy you!” Antonio shouted. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I serve the king,” Luca said. “That’s all I have to say.”
“Bastard,” Simon spat.
“You will be rewarded handsomely for your service, Luca,” Borgia said. “Now, captain, seize these rogues and take them all to the dungeons. We shall spend the a
fternoon in the delightful pursuit of breaking bones and tearing flesh.”
John said to Garibaldi, “Get ready to fight.”
“A fine idea,” the old warrior replied.
John looked up to the gallery and began speaking in English to a non-comprehending Borgia as he slowly slid his hands into the pockets of his cloak. “You say you’ve never met an American and you’ve damn well never met a Green Beret, but I’ll just say this. A Green Beret never goes down without a fight and he always has a Plan B. And Luca, I just want to say this to you: go fuck yourself.”
With that he withdrew his hands from his pockets clutching a grenade in each fist. Before the king’s soldiers could react he hurled one into the gallery. It sailed just over Borgia’s head and hit the wall behind him, catching the firing rod flush on.
With a deafening explosion, the gallery erupted into a fireball and everyone in the hall was showered with remnants of the king’s head.
Caterina stood and began screaming hysterically.
John wheeled to his right, transferred the other grenade into his throwing hand and locked onto Luca who was still standing against the wall amidst the group of Borgia’s stunned ministers.
Luca’s face was a study in terror and resignation and if he wanted to run he seemed unable to do so. The handsome painter who was standing nearby was not as rooted and he took off like a sprinter coming out of his blocks and launched himself into a flat-out dive, belly-skidding across the floor.
John let loose his hardest, fastest spiral, a rifle-shot of a throw straight from his football days, and the grenade impacted Luca’s forehead, just over the bridge of his nose.
The explosion blew off his head and maimed nearby ministers.
Now the king’s guard acted. Some raised muskets, some charged with drawn swords. As a musket ball whistled past his ear, John ran toward the line of soldiers, sweeping the legs out from under one man and punching another with a crushing roundhouse blow. He picked up the saber of one of the fallen and tossed it to Garibaldi who seemed to forget his arthritis and began engaging the enemy like the vigorous soldier he had once been.
Hand-to-hand combat broke out throughout the hall. Several of Garibaldi’s men, absent weapons, fell to Borgia’s lot but Antonio and Simon managed to disarm their opponents and get their hands on swords that they used to good effect. John continued to pummel the enemy with his hands and feet but he froze when he felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his neck from behind. He was about to try and execute a Krav Maga spin and takeaway move, which had, at best, a fifty-fifty chance of working, when he heard a groan and felt the barrel fall away. He turned to see the captain of the guards run through with a sword.
The painter flashed a smile, pulled the sword out then engaged another soldier. John picked up the pistol and used it to blast a man tussling with Garibaldi.
Garibaldi, fighting for breath, surveyed the scene and decided to try to reason with the remaining enemy. “The king is no more!” he shouted. “Let us cease our fighting and unite. I will not touch a hair on the head of any man who lays down his arms and joins my just cause. You are all my brothers. Let us make a better world together.”
His words had an immediate effect, as if awakening men from a feverish dream. Borgia’s soldiers turned their stances from offensive to defensive and blinked away the sweat flowing from their brows. They solemnly took in the sight of the bloody bodies of their king, their nobles, their captain.
One by one they threw down their arms and held their breaths to see if Garibaldi had been lying, but he too threw down his sword to back up his promise.
The room grew silent except for the groans of the wounded that could still make sounds. Even the queen who was in a state of hysteria quieted down, but then she let out one more scream as one of Garibaldi’s soldiers came at her with sword raised, spouting about her complicity in the Borgia reign of terror.
Antonio ran forward, tackling the man to the ground. He slapped his face and told him that Garibaldi’s pledge applied to all, especially a lady. The soldier apologized and blubbered that anger had made him lose his mind.
John, puffing hard, said to Garibaldi, “Mission accomplished?”
“Thanks to you, yes. You are a resourceful man, John.”
“I’ve got no choice. I’ve got a lady who’s counting on me to get home.”
“Then we must not rest on our laurels. There is work to do.”
Antonio approached a quivering Caterina. There was a splash of Borgia’s blood on her cheek and she stood rigidly as he slowly extended his thumb to wipe it away.
“You saved me,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I am at your service, my lady.”
“What is your name?”
“Antonio Di Costanzo.”
“I do not know my fate, but if your master does indeed spare me, I would know you better, Antonio.”
The young man blushed. “I will try my best to survive the coming travails, my lady, and endeavor to return to Milano to allow you to know me.”
John went to the handsome young man with unruly hair and called Simon over to translate. “Tell him, hello, and thanks for saving my life.”
“I speak some English, signore. It was my pleasure, although I am angry for you.”
“Why’s that?”
“You ruined some of my canvases with blood.”
“Sorry, couldn’t be helped.”
“I would like to join you.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I heard you say you are acting for a lady. That is good. And I have heard something of what Duke Garibaldi wants. He is a good man.”
“You worked for that bastard, Borgia. Why?”
“The relationship between painter and patron can be, well, difficult. You must to swallow some bad things for art.”
“Well, I’m no expert but I’d say you’re a damned good painter.”
Garibaldi had been listening and he limped over, once again succumbing to his arthritic pain. “You don’t know who this man is, do you, John?”
“No, we’ve just met.”
“Allow me to introduce him properly. He is the esteemed artist, Caravaggio.”
“Christ almighty,” John said. “What are you doing here?”
“There is a long story to tell,” Caravaggio answered with a twinkle in his eye.
Garibaldi clapped both men on the back and said, “We have a journey ahead of us, to Francia, and there will be ample time along the way to tell long stories.”
24
John spent the next several days in a frenzied impatience. When he wasn’t obsessively checking his pocket watch to make sure it stayed properly wound, he challenged Garibaldi on his plans. While he sympathized with the old man’s need to strike while the iron was hot, Emily was in Germania not Francia and his time was running out. The third MAAC restart was three days away and the fourth and final, in ten days.
Garibaldi tried to set his mind at ease as best he could. He said he now possessed solid intelligence that the Germans were massing to enter Francia. Barbarossa, he argued, always personally commanded his army in a great battle and the coming war in Francia would be one of epic proportions, even by the bellicose standards of Hell. Never in Garibaldi’s time was there such a conflict involving as many great kingdoms. He further argued that Emily was a great trophy for Barbarossa. No, more than that, a unique possession, more rare and valuable than any other person in Hell. She was alive. She was a woman. She was beautiful. She was a scientist. As a woman, a live woman, she would give his court unrivaled prestige. As a scientist, his ministers would seek to thoroughly exploit her technical skills, just as King Henry had done with John. Barbarossa would never leave her behind in Marksburg, guarded by untrustworthy non-combatants, while his army fought far afield. And even if his assessment was wrong, Garibaldi’s army, now dramatically swelled by the addition of Borgia’s imperial forces, would have to cross Francia to reach Germania as an Alpine crossing would t
ake too long.
“At the right moment,” Garibaldi said, “rest assured I will give you a formidable contingent of men to attack Barbarossa’s camp in Francia. There, I wager, you will find your friend.”
Once again, John found himself dependent on others, a stranger in a strange land. He was always a leader but he had little choice but to follow this new Italian monarch.
“All right, Giuseppe, or should I be calling you King Giuseppe?” John said. “I guess I’m in your hands.”
“You should call me Giuseppe,” he laughed. “I will have my men call me king for a time to maintain order and continuity, but in the future, I hope we can reach a more perfect egalitarian state where I may simply be called Giuseppe once again by all.”
On the day of disembarkation a column of armed men on horseback, stretching as far as the eye could see, streamed from Milan heading southeast toward the French coastal plain. The column included dozens of horse-drawn wagons laden with tents and provisions and caissons bearing heavy and light cannon. One wagon was brimming with barrels of John’s grenades, freshly manufactured in around-the-clock campaigns at Franco’s forge. Leading the column was the steam car with John at the wheel, Caravaggio in the passenger seat, and Garibaldi safely sandwiched in the rear between Antonio and Simon.
Those three men found themselves conversing about Luca, as if talk could soothe the wounds of his betrayal.
“I was completely fooled,” Simon said. “I can’t believe how stupid I was.”
“We were all fooled,” Garibaldi said. “He came so close to ruining our years of careful planning. There is nothing so loathsome as a traitor.”
Antonio listened to the two men go back and forth about Luca’s years of treachery before finally saying, “Here is what vexes me the most. I know what Luca did and I hate him for it. But he was still like a brother to me and for that I will always miss him.”
Simon mumbled that he’d always be able to visit him in his rotting room but Garibaldi quieted him and slapped Antonio’s knee and they spoke no more of Luca again.
