Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  In the front seat John and Caravaggio engaged in a more animated discussion. John had wanted Caravaggio to ride up front, curious to learn more about him. Before the journey had begun John could tell from the sadness in Antonio’s eyes that Caravaggio would have a hard time taking the place of Luca in their quartet. But after the first few hours of wicked banter, it was apparent they had accepted the painter as one of them.

  John steered around some deep ruts in the road and said to the young man bouncing beside him, “I’ve been in three royal palaces, in England, France, and Italy, and Borgia’s palace was the only one with any significant amount of art work, all of it yours.”

  “I have had much time to paint. Five hundred years! In life I had but twenty years as a grown man to make art. Borgia was a pig but he was a pig who gave me canvas and pigments. And wine and women too. What can be said?”

  “It sounds like Hell’s not so bad for you.”

  “You think this? You are wrong. Without the sun, without hope, without God’s blessing, without fellow artists and musicians and poets, it is a hard and heartless place.”

  “So, you’re a rare bird, is that what you’re saying? Not many artists around?”

  “Most artists keep their passion in their hearts. They pour this passion into their work. Few are men of action who would do acts that would condemn them to the darkness of Hell.”

  “But here you are.”

  “My fellow artists were mild men. I am not. I have always been as comfortable with a knife as with a brush. When I drink I want to fight and when I fight I want to hurt those who would hurt me.”

  “So I’m guessing you killed someone?”

  “That is so. He was Ranuccio Tomassoni, a—what is the English word?—A pimp. I liked very much one of his whores who he treated very bad. One night I was full of wine and I decided to cut off his balls. Alas, I am a better painter than a surgeon. I cut a vessel and he died. Oh, well. What can be said?”

  They spoke for a while about what it was like living in a world so devoid of art and culture and then John asked, “Do you have any idea how famous you are? I mean right now, on Earth?”

  Caravaggio smiled and shrugged.

  “Years ago I went to see an exhibition of your works in New York City. That’s one of the biggest cities in America. There were so many people trying to get in that I waited in the blistering heat for three or four hours before it was my turn. You’re a star.”

  “I am flattered.”

  “Fortunately I was with a hot woman.”

  “Were you able to cool her?”

  “Hot, meaning beautiful. Not warm.”

  “Ah, I think I understand you. Was this woman your Emily?”

  “No, that was a long time before I met her.”

  “Is your Emily hot?”

  John saw her then in his mind’s eye, floating above the road. “She is. She’s very beautiful. With skin like the finest marble. And small, perfect lips. And a smile that melts you. But she’s also very intelligent, way smarter than me, a brilliant scientist.”

  Caravaggio suddenly pointed at the road and said, “Is it your want to murder that rabbit?”

  John braked hard, causing Simon to swear and the bunny to bolt.

  When they were on the go again Caravaggio said, “I would like to paint your Emily.”

  King Henry had not yet grown tired of the yellow-haired women of Gothenburg but with newly forged singing cannon loaded onto barges, it was time to go.

  He had taken up residence in King Christian’s palace, bedding Norse women in the old king’s fur-draped bed and supping on reindeer meat and strong ale. He used the king’s chamber, its walls crowded with taxidermy, for his war planning, and there, he had his final council with Suffolk, Oxford, Cromwell, and his top commanders.

  Oxford was an unusual lord in Henry’s court because he had risen to his prominence absent noble birth during his life. He had been a major in the British army during the Crimean War and had been with the 17th Lancers at the charge of the Light Brigade. Leaving service, he returned to England where he fell in with a bad lot of ex-soldiers operating a burglary ring in the tonier environs of Victorian London. Murder wasn’t their goal but they didn’t shy away from it when challenged by an armed homeowner or a policeman. In Hell, Oxford had been rolled up by none other than Solomon Wisdom who sold him to the court as an able soldier. His intelligence and military skills caught the attention of Henry who promoted him time and again and some fifty years earlier, elevated him to hold the duchy of Oxford, vacated by a noble who was gored by a boar. Now that Norfolk had been lost on the Hellfire, Oxford found himself in a commanding position in Henry’s court, second only to the duke of Suffolk and in a land campaign, Suffolk had to take a back seat.

  Oxford’s mutton chops and flat nose gave him a pugnacious air. He pressed a thick finger against a map laid out on the table and used it to draw an imaginary line from north to south across Francia.

  In his typically clipped manner he said, “Here. Dunkirk. This is where we make landfall.” He stabbed the map again. “Here. The northern walls of Paris. We breach the walls with conventional cannon. No need for the new models. Simple operation done at close range. Here. Once we secure this district we set up the new cannon and pound Maximilien’s palace complex from a great distance. If he doesn’t surrender, we launch an infantry attack against his weakened position.”

  The king sloshed back some ale and nodded pensively but Cromwell looked less than convinced. He had never completely trusted Oxford’s judgment and he felt vulnerable without Norfolk.

  “See here,” Cromwell said. “We will be marching in strength through the French countryside, undoubtedly skirmishing along the way. Our arrival in Paris will hardly be a surprise. In fact, I believe we should assume that French spies already know of our hostile intent. Oxford’s captains have been spouting off drunkenly in all the taverns of Gothenburg. If I were Maximilien, I would not sit back in Paris with the mentality of a man resigned to a siege. I would take the fight to the English at a position north of the city. Here.” He stabbed the map with his finger, aping Oxford.

  “What say you, Oxford?” the king asked.

  Oxford rubbed his sideburns and said, “I can’t deny the possibility. We must be prepared and we must be flexible. I will deploy scouting parties ahead of our main force to reconnoiter French troop movements.”

  “Satisfied?” Henry asked Cromwell.

  Cromwell nodded curtly. “More so, Your Majesty.”

  Maximilien sat on the edge of his bed and tested his weight on his throbbing leg. The extract of willow bark had reduced the swelling and the pain was less but none of that improved his black mood. Supported by a servant, he hobbled to his desk and began railing at Forneau.

  “Has Henry landed on French soil? Yes or no?”

  Forneau had the look of a boy enduring a tongue-lashing from a cruel father. “As I said, we have not yet received word from our troops on the coast. Hopefully we will have news soon. The Duke of Orleans has instructions to send a steam automobile back to Paris as soon as there is a sighting.”

  At the mention of steam automobiles, the king, still fuming that one of his machines had been stolen, became incandescent.

  “I remain wholly unsatisfied with your explanation of how Monsieur Camp escaped. None of the guards admitted to complicity under torture. The only one I have not tortured is you, Forneau. Tell me, should I torture you too?”

  “If you did, sire, you would find I had no role in the affair and you would be deprived of a loyal and valued advisor in a time of great danger for Francia.”

  The king seemingly agreed with the merits of the argument because he calmed down and unrolled a map, flattening it with an inkwell on one side and a ceremonial dagger on the other.

  “What if our spies in the Norselands were mistaken?” the king said. “What if they were fed false information by Henry’s men? Then, on your counsel, we would have invited Borgia into our kingdom, which is l
ittle different from inviting the wolf to the chicken yard.”

  Forneau knew that Borgia was no more, but he did not let on. A rider had arrived from Milan the night before. On entering the courtyard of the safe house, his horse had collapsed and died from the exhaustion of the long gallop and the rider fared only a little better. The news that Garibaldi had toppled Borgia had gladdened Forneau’s heart; the plot was progressing as well as could be hoped.

  “The information we received is sound,” Forneau said. “We know that Henry is coming to Francia and so does King Frederick. The Germans, we know with certainty are marching toward us. Without Borgia’s help, he would be defeated in a two-front war. With his help, we may hope to beat back both invaders.”

  “And after our victory, then what? What will Borgia demand?”

  “I assured the Italian ambassador that we would allow Borgia to take the lead in sacking Brittania and that we would provide the ships to defeat the leaderless English navy. Brittania will be his rich prize and he will wish to take his army there forthwith. And we will remain vigilant against the return of a weakened Germania.”

  “And after Borgia has Brittania? Will he not return to Paris, the scorpion that he is?”

  “In the interim, we will make an alliance with the Iberians, who, though diminished by the destruction of their navy, remain a fierce presence on land.”

  “You seem to have this all mapped out, Forneau.”

  “It is my duty to do so. I am but your humble servant.”

  “Summon my field commanders. We must make plans for the defense of Paris.”

  Forneau frowned. “I do hope your highness is not advocating a defensive posture within the city walls.”

  “Why not? Let Borgia engage Henry on the plain. When Frederick moves against the victor and all the foreigners are bloodied, we will send in our troops. Until then we might husband our resources in the safety and comfort of Paris.”

  “If it is so that John Camp has taught Henry how to make new, long-range cannon from Norse steel then there is always the chance that the English might prevail over Borgia’s army. They might then establish a position from afar to pound your palace and your army to dust. The Germans would capitalize and swarm Paris. We must let the Italians engage Henry and send our army into the field to ensure Germania’s defeat. We cannot sit back in a siege.”

  Maximilien winced and rubbed his leg. Once again the mention of Camp sent him railing bitterly about his escape but when he got back on track he said, “Forneau, you are not a military man. I will have my commanders advise me on the tactics of the coming battle. Now go and fetch my doctor and tell him my leg is hurting.”

  Barbarossa bounded out of bed naked, his shriveled genitals dangling like the desiccated produce of a late-in-season fruit tree. A manservant threw a robe over the royal body and followed him to the privy where Barbarossa grunted his way through his morning evacuations.

  Himmler was waiting in the king’s antechamber and was summoned while Barbarossa was being dressed.

  “Well?” the king asked.

  Himmler understood the question. “It is done. Stalin is on the move eastward.”

  “What did we have to concede?”

  “He wants the Norselands and Brittania.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I am quite sure he will want more.”

  “Us?”

  Himmler nodded. “It has been his undisguised ambition.”

  “How will we stop him?”

  “It will be important for us to seize Henry’s new cannon with our best troops so Stalin will be unable to use them against us.”

  “Your Sturmtruppen?”

  “Yes, they are prepared,” Himmler said proudly of his hand-picked fighting force. “I was told Stalin had no idea why Henry had invaded the Norse. We must do our best to keep all knowledge of the singing cannon from him. Our iron mines might not be as fine as the Norse mines but I am sure they will be adequate. While the Russians are off on their adventure to Brittania, we will study the seized cannon and learn how to produce hundreds to use in our defense or offensively against Moscow.”

  Barbarossa smiled as his servant buttoned his tunic. He repeated the word, offensively.

  “Why not? Stalin will surely not leave his realm completely unguarded but with a substantial Russian force across the channel, Moscow could be ours for the taking.”

  “I no longer miss my old chancellor,” Barbarossa said to Himmler’s delight. “However, make sure you finish your breakfast before starting your supper. Be ready to march for Francia so we may secure the best positions on the field of battle before the Russians arrive.”

  The longest Garibaldi would allow his column to stop for rest was a mere four hours per day, mostly for the sake of the horses. Time was of the essence if he was to arrive before Henry’s assault on Paris. Word had spread via Francia’s nobility that an alliance had been struck with the Italians. For that reason there was no armed challenge to Garibaldi’s presence on French territory. South of Lyon, a battalion of French led by a viscount briefly merged with Garibaldi’s larger army, and soldiers on both sides regarded each other frostily. The viscount rode up to the steam car and asked whether Borgia was in the formation. Garibaldi told him he was not and offered no information or comity and the man galloped away toward Paris uninformed.

  John was driving when Garibaldi indicated they might find a suitable place for a respite. The evening light was soft and the road fairly flat and straight. John saw the man in the road from a good distance. He was able to brake progressively and come to a halt only feet away. At first John thought he must be injured because he was immobile but when they were upon him it became evident the hooded man was kneeling.

  “What’s he on about?” Simon asked from the back seat.

  “He appears to be praying,” Garibaldi said.

  Caravaggio pulled out his notebook from his shoulder bag and began furiously sketching.

  “What are you doing?” John asked him.

  “I must paint this monk,” Caravaggio said, standing in the passenger seat to get a better view. “I have never seen a man pray in Hell.”

  He was middle-aged and emaciated, his eyes and cheeks like sinkholes. Dressed in rough brown cloth fashioned into a cloak, when he lowered his hood he revealed a tonsured pate. Around his neck hung a simple wooden cross on a strip of leather.

  Caravaggio addressed the man in Italian but the monk answered in German. When it was clear no one understood him he tried French and finally English.

  “Ah, English,” the monk said. “Fine, fine. I am Brother Adolphus. I heard your miraculous machine from a great distance and I prayed you might stop and offer me food. I am very hungry.”

  Garibaldi got out first and Antonio scrambled down to protect his master from any nefarious intent. Garibaldi looked around, heard the sound of running water from a brook that ran parallel with the road, and declared that this was as good a place as any to rest. The word went out and the long column began its dismount.

  Adolphus joined Garibaldi, John, and the others around a hastily built fire and greedily ate everything he was offered. In between swallows he spontaneously offered his story. He had been a Franciscan monk who lived his life in Alsace before dying of the plague in 1820. He left his monastery as a young man to wander among the poor for the last twenty years of his life in self-imposed exile after placing poison in the porridge of a verbally sadistic, older priest who had tormented him for years. In Hell, he had continued to wander, permanently adrift.

  “I have never seen a priest here,” Antonio marveled.

  “Let me think,” Adolphus said, scrunching his forehead. “I have met three. Two in Germania, one in Francia. Yet none had retained his faith.”

  “But you do,” Garibaldi said with clear fascination.

  The monk sighed, “I have never lost it.”

  “How can this be?” Antonio asked. “We have forsaken God and he has forsaken us. His light does not penetrate down here
.”

  “We may have been punished for those deadly sins which have barred us from His heavenly grace but that does not mean that He has left us. If we keep Him in our hearts then perhaps He will keep us in His heart.”

  Simon would hear nothing of it. “Sorry, friend, I don’t buy what you’re selling. There’s no salvation. There’s no way out. We’re up a shit creek without a rowing boat.”

  “I wouldn’t be so fast to dismiss our monk,” Garibaldi said. “Some hope is always better than no hope. What do your fellow men say to you when you are met, Adolphus?”

  “Most laugh at me and throw stones. A few cry with the remembrance of something distant. Fewer still pray with me. On the days I meet such men, my heart soars like a bird.”

  Garibaldi smiled at the monk. In life he had been a tolerant man, but one known for his anti-clerical views. “I will not pray with you,” he said, “but I will not laugh either. I respect you for your beliefs.”

  “Thank you,” the monk said. “You seem a good man. Yet it seems you lead a war party.”

  “In good cause, friar, in good cause. We hope to establish a new, better way to live in this harsh world.”

  “I believe you and I will pray for you. I have faith you will succeed.” Adolphus patted his belly in satisfaction and turned his attention to John. “You, sir, you are different, very different, are you not?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “You are not dead?”

  “Not yet.”

  “A true miracle! If a live man might come down then perhaps a dead man might rise up. I take this as a sign that my prayers have not been in vain.”

  “You can take it any way you please.”

  “What is the present year on Earth?”

  John told him and Adolphus crossed himself in amazement.

  “And in the earthly domain, do men still fervently revere our lord, Jesus Christ?”

  “Christians do, yes.”

  “And tell me, who is the Roman Pope?”