Marcus and Isabella were at the top of one of the improvised barricades when a group of Muslims gained a foothold. Most of the defenders had been pushed off the fortifications or killed outright, leaving only Isabella, two guardsmen, and Marcus to face a dozen of the enemy. Realizing that any delay would allow more Turks to reinforce the breach, Marcus charged directly into the Anatolians, who were prematurely celebrating their short-lived success. Isabella was right by his side.
Marcus brought his sword down and caught one man just below his neck, splitting open his light chain-mail and driving him to his knees. He ignored the blood that erupted from his dying body and used his momentum to swing his elbow forward, catching the next Turk directly in the chin. The blow sent him tumbling into the courtyard, where he was pounced upon by a group of older men and women. Marcus spun back toward the wall and watched Isabella sidestep a clumsy attack from a tall, thin Turk, after which she rammed her short sword into his throat. Using her hand to push his body away, she freed her blade and leaned back to avoid a spear thrust from another soldier. Marcus stepped in, sweeping his sword around in a compact arc. The blade sliced through the man's torso and pinned him against the timber of the bulwark. Ducking, Marcus barely dodged a battle-ax as it brushed past him and buried itself into the chest of the Turk he had just dispatched.
Isabella stepped toward the ax-wielding soldier who was busy trying to free his weapon, and grabbing him around the waist, threw him over the parapet. With her hands busy above her head, another Turk tried to skewer Isabella with a broken spear. The tip of the lance caught her heavy breastplate but slid across the smooth surface, slicing into the fleshy part of her shoulder. Angered, Isabella swung at the man with her sword hand, catching him on the chin with the pommel. As the man fell, the spear dropped to the ground, twisting out of her shoulder. Isabella growled in pain, then spun her weapon around and drove the blade deep into the chest of the fallen man.
Marcus shifted his attention away from Isabella and watched as the remaining Turks were killed by a squad of Venetians sent to seal the breach. He turned back to her and nodded toward her shoulder.
"You alright?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine."
"I like the pommel to the chin, very effective. Did I teach you that?"
"No," she wiped her blade on a dead man's tunic. "I figured that out on my own. It works well because I'm shorter. They never see it coming." Isabella nodded her head beyond the wall. "I think they've had their fill."
Marcus could see the second wave was fizzling out, having spent its energy gaining tiny footholds on the walls. They were retreating in mass confusion, stumbling across the crowded moat and abandoning their wounded. Marcus and Isabella took advantage of the brief lull, making their way back to the Adrianople Gate, and desperately tried to reorganize the weakened defenses.
Marcus was redirecting several defenders when the Janissaries joined the engagement. He watched their ferocious approach, and a chill ran down his spine. They methodically crossed the moat and sprung upon the outer wall like lions leaping upon a wounded animal.
By this time, Marcus noticed other citizens had snuck through the gates and joined the garrisons. Women, young and old, stood upon the wall and flailed at the Muslims as they scrambled up the ladders. Young boys, barely tall enough to see over the battlements, poked at the attackers with spears and swords. As before, Marcus and Isabella sprinted to the thickest part of the battle, fighting desperately to deny the Turks a foothold.
Isabella, covered in blood, dispatched a portly Janissary and nodded toward the moat below. Marcus looked down to see that this attack was faltering. From somewhere in the distance, they heard the Byzantine Emperor's voice cry out in the night.
"Christians, you bear yourselves bravely for God's sake! I see the enemy retires in disorder! God has willed it—victory shall be ours!"
A loud cry erupted from the battlements as the defenders waved swords, picks, and battleaxes high into the air. The men tossed the dead and wounded enemy from the ramparts, adding to the carnage below.
During the momentary lull that followed, Marcus and Isabella found a water barrel and took a few mouthfuls. Marcus ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt, wet it, and cleaned the gash on Isabella's shoulder.
"I hope you're not getting used to this," he said.
"Is that even possible?"
"I'm never surprised at what I get used to."
She was about to reply when the drums started beating again. They returned to the walls in time to see Mahomet relaunch the Janissaries against the city. The defenders responded, as best they could. They were out of oil, so they dropped boiling water on the Turks as they scaled the ladders.
A swarthy Turk led the attack on the section of the wall near the gate. Marcus and Isabella reached the barricade just as the giant clambered over the parapet and produced a massive battle-ax from a sling around his shoulder. He stood there shielding the other Janissaries joining him on the bulwark.
Marcus glanced at his companions and sensed their reluctance to engage the Turk. Smirking, Marcus charged forward, diving as the giant swung his ax. Marcus rolled on his shoulder, coming up on one knee as he angled his weapon downward. The blade carved through muscle and bone, severing the Turk's leg just below the knee. The man dropped his ax, howling in pain as he clutched at his bleeding stump. A pair of Greeks, having just arrived, charged at the wounded giant and buried their long spears into his thick torso, then pushed his flailing body back over the side of the bulwark.
Though discouraged by the loss of their champion, the Turks had gained a foothold on the wall. The Greek soldiers rushed past Marcus to engage the attackers as Isabella pulled Marcus up by his breastplate, the latter wiping his bloody hand across his forehead. Marcus turned back toward the city, where a disturbing sight caught his eye. High above one of the main gates flew the crescent pennant of the Turkish Empire.
"Look!" He pointed at the tower.
The blood drained from her soiled face as she saw the fluttering standard. Without a word, they sprinted down the nearby steps and mounted a pair of horses. They galloped across the courtyard toward the tower that flew the foreign banner. A hundred yards from the gate, they met one of the Venetian officers assigned to guard that wall segment.
"What's going on?" Isabella asked.
"They came through a small, unlocked door. The Kerkoporta…maybe twenty men." His breath was labored. "I don't know who unlocked it, but they killed the tiny garrison and placed their flag on the tower."
"Are they still there?" Marcus was trying to settle his unruly mount.
"No, they've moved on to loot the palace. I sent men to recapture the tower."
"We have to pull down that flag!" Isabella said. "If the men see it, they'll think the city has fallen!"
Just as she finished, a loud cry erupted from the section they had just left. In the early morning light, Marcus could make out another crescent pennant fluttering from the Adrianople Gate. It looked like the Janissaries had taken the wall.
Marcus and Isabella remounted their horses and sped off to investigate. As they approached the gate, they could see men were fleeing in all directions, screaming that the city had fallen. Waves of Janissaries were pouring over the unprotected battlements and into the courtyard. Marcus and Isabella dismounted and tried in vain to stop the tide of fleeing men. Marcus recognized one other man trying to rally the defenders. Constantine turned toward him, his features stained with blood and soot. Marcus and Isabella joined him, along with several members of his guard.
"Sire, you must leave—" Isabella pleaded with the Emperor. "You can still escape by ship!"
"What? And miss dinner?" He winked, his smile fading to a look of grim determination. "No, God forbid I should live as an emperor without an empire!"
The emperor tore the purple cloak from his shoulders, threw it to the ground, and drew his sword, ready to face the charging Turks.
Isabella fell in beside Marcus. "Well, this seems to be
going as planned."
With no appropriate response, Marcus drew his sword and prepared to meet the horde. They tore into the Janissaries with untamed fury. For a moment, they stemmed the advance, but a renewed assault reversed their initial success. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw several men strike down the Emperor. Only Isabella and Marcus remained as the tide of Muslims broke upon their swords, an island of hope in a sea of despair.
A sharp cry marked her fall. Marcus beheaded her assailant with a lightning strike of his angry blade. He stood above her bleeding body and turned his rage upon those before him. However, sheer numbers overcame his anger and sealed his ruin. A lance pierced his back, its tip puncturing his lung and forcing him to his knees. Marcus swung his sword one last time before someone pulled it from his grasp. As the sun rose upon the captured city, Marcus fell across her body and gave in to the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Vatican is a dagger in the heart of Italy.
— Thomas Paine
Modern Day
Rome
The air was thick with the scent of dying books. From a dark recess, Marcus watched an old monk move from case to case, his bony hands slipping the ancient volumes into openings on the various shelves. His name was Brother McLaughlin, but most people called him Brother Mac. Satisfied they were alone, Marcus stepped out from the shadow, clearing his throat in the process so he would not startle the old fellow.
"I was wondering when you'd join me." The heavy wrinkles on the man's face deepened as he frowned. "You've been standing there like a statue. I almost dropped our only copy of Augustine's memoirs—I'm not as young as I look!"
"I had to be sure you were alone."
"Heck, I'm always alone." The monk flicked a thumb over his shoulder. "Ramirez sent all my apprentices away, and now I'm stuck doing everything."
"Why would he do that?"
"Who knows?" Brother Mac shrugged. "I gave up trying to figure that man out."
"Probably a good idea."
"So, what kind of trouble are you in?"
"What makes you think I'm in trouble?"
Brother Mac rolled his eyes as he took another book from the cart, handed it to Marcus, and then pointed to a slot on the top shelf.
Marcus slid the book home. "Okay, so maybe I got myself into a little trouble."
The old priest glared at him.
Marcus grimaced. "Well, more than a little."
"So, what do you need from me for?"
"I need to talk to you about the last couple of months."
"Is this something I could get in trouble for?" Brother Mac eyed him suspiciously.
"Probably—"
"Good! I haven't been in trouble since the fireworks incident in ninety-eight."
"I don't believe that!"
"Maybe that was the last time they caught me." Mac grinned. "Let's sit. My old bones are getting stiff."
Marcus followed him to a long table and several chairs in the center of the room. A single lamp stood in the middle of the table, trying to hold the darkness at bay.
"Want some tea?" Mac called over his shoulder as he hobbled toward a counter on the nearest wall. There was a sink and hotplate, plus a teapot and cups.
"Sure, if it's not too much trouble."
Marcus took a seat, tilting his head to read the bindings of the several books stacked on the table. Most were in Latin, though a few were in Greek and one in Italian. He did not recognize any of the titles.
After a few minutes, Brother Mac returned to the table and handed him a cup.
"So, what do you need to know?"
"Has anyone been snooping around?" Marcus studied the priest, cup poised in front of his lips. "You know, looking for something unusual, or something people rarely look for?"
"Marcus, I've spent the last sixty years of my life working in this library, serving the church and its clergy. One secret to my longevity has been my discretion."
"I understand." Marcus down set his cup. "You know me…I wouldn't be here if this weren't important."
"I know, I know…" He looked down as he slowly stirred his tea with a worn silver spoon. "Two men visited about six months ago, right after the Cardinal became Secretariat. They asked about several subjects but only read through one volume I brought them. It came from the Domini Restricti."
"The Forbidden volumes?"
"Yes."
"What were they asking about?"
"Ritual Banishment."
"What? Why would they want to know about that?"
"I can't imagine."
"And you don't want to." Marcus fixed his eyes on the worn surface of the wooden table.
"That's not the worst of it—"
"What do you mean?"
"They took the volume with them."
"That's impossible! They never remove the volumes, especially the forbidden ones."
"I know—but the Holy Father signed the paperwork." Tears were forming in his eyes.
"Are there any other books that contain references to ritual banishment?"
"A few, but that's the only one that listed the actual steps…"
"Can I see them?"
Brother Mac stood. "Give me a minute."
The crackling flames from the fireplace cast a series of wispy shadows across a massive chamber. A sofa and two wing chairs surrounded a mahogany coffee table sat atop an ancient Persian rug. The cherry-paneled walls boasted several original paintings and twice as many flawless copies. Towering windows lined one side of the room, the heavy curtains drawn to shield the occupants from the Vatican square's bright lights. The opposite end of the room was more functional, with an antique wooden desk resting beneath a drab painting of a long-dead Pope. Two more wing chairs sat before the desk, with a leather office chair nestled behind. A banker's lamp and phone were the only items on the desk. A door near the back corner of the room blended into the woodwork.
The double doors in the front of the room swung open, and a heavyset man in a white and gold-trimmed robe stepped into the chamber, a crimson skullcap clinging to his pale scalp. A second man, dressed in black pants and shirt, followed close behind, his attention focused on a leather portfolio.
"A package arrived by courier." The younger man looked up from his planner. "I placed it in the side drawer."
The Cardinal walked to the desk. "When did the package arrive?"
"Two hours ago."
"And why wasn't I told?" He sat in his chair and pulled off his cap, tossing it across the desk. It skidded along the smooth surface and fell onto the hardwood floor.
"Well, sir," the young man picked up the cap and placed it on the desk, "you were in a meeting with the Holy Father, and you told me you were not to be disturbed."
"Yes, but I wanted to know the moment that package arrived!"
The young priest bowed slightly. "Of course, your Holiness. Please forgive my mistake."
"I always do."
"Can I get you anything else?"
"No. I'll be going to bed soon. Please wake me at five AM."
"Yes, sir. Good night, Cardinal." He closed his portfolio and nodded.
Without replying, the Cardinal watched him leave, then switched on the lamp and opened a drawer. He pulled out the package and reached for a letter opener.
"You won't be needing that."
Marcus stepped out from behind the curtain. The Cardinal looked down at the envelope, a shocked expression on his face, and realized it was already open.
He dropped it onto the desk. "I guess I won't."
Marcus scanned the room as he moved forward and pulled out the chair closest to the window, shifting it so that he could keep both doorways in his line of vision. He unbuttoned his jacket, settled into the soft leather, and crossed one leg over the other.
"I've been expecting you." The Cardinal leaned his elbows on the desk.
"Why?"
"I knew you couldn't walk away."
"And this is where you tell me how perceptive you are…an
d how well you know me?"
"Perhaps…"
"Save the bullshit."
"Then what do you want to hear?"
"When? And where?"
The Cardinal flinched but recovered quickly. "What?"
"I'm not in the mood, and you're not good enough for this. I've read the report."
Ramirez settled back into his chair. "Then you know it all."
"No…I need to know when and where."
"I don't know."
Marcus glared at him.
"Do you think Thomas would trust me with that information? Would you?"
Marcus let him stew.
"What are you going to do, torture me?"
Marcus reached into his jacket. Ramirez, sweat glistening on his forehead, watched him pull out a pack of cigarettes. Marcus patted one out, put it to his lips, and flicked on his lighter. After taking a long pull, he exhaled. "Forget it. If Thomas were stupid enough to tell you, he'd just change it."
"Yes, yes, that's true."
"So, I guess I should just kill you right now." Marcus reached into his jacket, the cigarette hanging from his lips.
"No, no, wait!" Ramirez stood up. "I can help you."
"I don't need your help," Marcus mumbled past the cigarette.
"Yes, you do…I can tell you where Thomas is."
"I don't care…and even if I did, I wouldn't trust you." He pulled out his pistol.
"I'm sorry!"
"Sorry for what? Sorry you gave up on God?" Marcus pulled the cigarette from his mouth, blowing a cloud of smoke at Ramirez. "Or sorry you got caught?"
"I'm sorry for everything!"
"Too bad I'm not a priest; I could absolve you." Marcus took another pull from the cigarette, then stood up and flicked it across the room.
"I don't want to die!"
"Yeah? Well, you haven't lived long enough." Marcus waved his pistol toward the bedroom door. "Go…I'm not going to kill you, though Lord knows I should."
No longer fearing for his life did wonders for this man's courage. Ramirez glared at Marcus. "You can't stop him."
The Last Roman: Book One: Exile Page 17
