by Kate Quinn
“How will you get rid of the Duke’s squire?” Bartolomeo had asked me when we planned this. “And the guards?”
“I’m to have this evening free, as I do all Wednesdays. Normally I stroll down to the printer’s in the Borgo where I used to rent a room, to see what new books might have arrived, and I arrange an extra duty of guardsmen for La Bella’s safety when I am gone. But this week—” I shrugged. “It slipped my mind. And by the time I looked to rectify my error, the other guardsmen were all assigned, so I was forced to suborn the Duke of Gandia’s men instead, just this afternoon when he visited before departing to his mother’s cena.”
“And it worked?”
Of course it worked. I was a man of importance in the Palazzo Santa Maria, after all; I played primiera regularly with all the guards, who had come to regard me with a little amusement and more than a little trepidation. And since my authority when it came to La Bella’s protection was paramount, and La Bella was still the Holy Father’s most cherished possession outside his children, the Duke of Gandia’s guards obeyed me without even a grumble.
“And Maestro Santini?” Bartolomeo had pressed. “How did you get him to stand in for the squire?”
“Easily. He’s a big strapping fellow, more than adequate to act as a guardsman for a few short hours on a fine summer night. And he was already part of the Duke’s entourage that evening. He often is, these days—the guards like him; they all play cards together. To make doubly sure of Marco’s presence I’d discreetly tipped one of Juan’s regular men to bring him along, pretending I wanted to settle a debt. Then one more bribe to Marco himself, and the deed was done. When did Marco Santini ever turn down money?”
“Sorry to inconvenience you.” I’d grimaced as Marco took hold of the other guards’ horses when they tramped off to guard La Bella under my orders, leaving the Duke of Gandia raging and spitting for his escort, Cesare making impatient noises about their mother expecting them, and Juan refusing to rely on Michelotto for his own safety, as that snake would likely put a knife in his back rather than guard it. Everybody had been scrambling to obey him, placate him, anything, and I’d taken a coin from my purse and shown it to Marco. “Can’t you act the squire for il Duche tonight?”
“Me?” Marco looked down at me from his vastly superior height. “I’m his maestro di cucina, not a squire. The guards only brought me along to finish out a zara game while they wait for him at Madonna Vannozza’s house.”
“So you’ve already left your kitchens behind for the night. It’s not as if you have work to go back to.” I looked at Marco, exasperated. “Look here, I’ll pay you thirty scudi if you volunteer as his escort. I want him gone before he troubles my mistress again. He tried to kiss her last time he came here, and I didn’t like the look in his eyes at all when she told him to get out.”
Marco, of course, had heard nothing beyond “thirty scudi.” He eyed the coins in my hand. “I’m not trained in the sword, you know . . .”
“Oh, all you cooks are lethal with your knives. Besides, don’t you owe the Duke of Gandia a favor? Something to do with a long-legged girl he wanted? Surely you can guard his back for an evening.”
Marco had flushed at that. “How did you hear about . . .”
“I hear everything. Apparently you haven’t heard I was the one who rescued your cousin from the ducal affections. Things got a trifle . . . rough.”
“I heard,” Marco muttered. “I’m glad you—that is—”
I hadn’t intended to raise the subject of Carmelina—it would be better if Marco Santini didn’t connect me to her, not in any possible way—but I was too curious to keep from asking. And he, I thought, was too dense to give much thought to my curiosity, or to anything outside his cards and dice. “Why did you do it, Maestro Santini?”
“The Duke plays zara at the guardhouse, sometimes.” Defensive. “I owed him money.”
“You could have asked Madonna Giulia for the coin.” I kept my own voice studiedly neutral. “I understand she has paid your debts before—or rather, Carmelina begged her for the money to pay your debts.”
“The Duke didn’t want money this time,” Marco mumbled. “After the masquerade, seeing her in that costume . . .”
“He wanted those legs of hers, didn’t he?” I gave a whistle. “And you didn’t think she’d part them willingly, so you didn’t bother telling her about this little arrangement you’d made with the Duke?”
“Now see here, I wouldn’t do that to my own cousin. He just wanted a chance alone with her, that’s all. Said he fancied her. If I could just make sure to get her some place quiet, he’d try offering her a little wine and a few pretty words, see if he had better luck.”
“And you believed him?”
“Why not?” Marco gave a shrug. “People like us—if the great take a fancy, well, that’s that. If she’d just gone along with him—”
“Women are so unreasonable,” I agreed silkily.
“Besides,” he burst out in a sudden eruption of spite. “She stole my place!”
“Mmm. Well, if you don’t want that thirty scudi . . .”
He snatched the coins from my hand and took himself to the Duke, doffing his cap, and Juan Borgia was so impatient to be gone that he barely noticed who took the squire’s place at his back. “Keep up, cook,” he ordered, and was gone in a storm of hooves to his mother’s villa, Cesare at his side looking back in the saddle to give me the faint flick of his smile.
But that was all this afternoon, hours ago. This was now, and night had fallen: a night without footsteps, a night when devils dance. I stood in my pool of shadows, fingering the blades I’d spent the day sharpening to a whisper’s edge.
Marco Santini would be yawning now, riding beside silent Michelotto as they trailed their masters through the twisty nighttime streets of Rome away from Vannozza dei Cattanei’s cena. I wondered if Marco was regretting this excursion; he should be in bed by now, dreaming of the day he’d win five thousand florins in one turn of the dice, and live like a lord all the rest of his days. Ahead of him, Juan and Cesare traded their usual barbed remarks, but finally they fell silent as they passed by the palazzo of one of the Sforza cardinals, scattering the nighttime traffic of beggars and drunks with lordly unconcern. Perhaps Cesare was tired, but Juan’s eyes glittered in the dark as he looked around him. And the young Duke of Gandia laughed when he saw Bartolomeo step out of his own pool of shadows, face hidden again by the black mask.
“You go on,” Juan Borgia said to his brother, and his voice rang excitement. “Go back to your priest’s hole, brother; I’ve got other amusements waiting for me tonight. Prettier amusements than any you’ve ever had.” He swung his horse about, a great pale beast with a white mane, and set off toward the Piazza degli Ebrei. Cesare looked after him for a moment, then shrugged and turned toward home with Michelotto trailing behind him. Good. I had not wanted to face Michelotto on this night’s work. That was why I had angled so carefully to get Marco Santini to fill in for Juan’s squire. I didn’t want my careful attack complicated by any of Juan’s hardened soldiers or professional guards; someone alert who could defend his master if things went wrong. A lazy substitute who could be easily distracted and separated from the Duke of Gandia; that was what I wanted.
In the darkness, I thought I could hear the distant ring of hoofbeats. What I imagined would turn soon enough into what I saw.
Pay attention, now.
Juan turned to Marco, still trudging dutifully along behind him. “Look here,” the young Duke said, impatient, and now I could very definitely hear his words, indistinct through the dark as well as ice-clear in my mind. “You stay here, will you? I’ll return in an hour.”
“Your lordship,” Marco began, eyes darting around him at the looming dark of the empty piazza. Of course, the night in this part of the city was never quite empty. There were always beggars and vagrants curled in gutters, pickpockets with little knives out for purses—and larger men with larger knives, looking for soli
tary travelers in the night.
“Wait an hour,” Juan Borgia rode over Marco’s voice. “If I’ve not returned by then, you have leave to return home.”
“Yes, your lordship,” Marco muttered, and I hissed silent satisfaction through my teeth. Any of Juan’s usual squires or guardsmen would have insisted on following at a distance—would have insisted on doing their job. Not indolent Marco Santini, who was going to regret very much that he had taken my thirty pieces of silver.
Juan was looking about for Bartolomeo now, who stepped out of the shadows in his black mask.
“Ride ahead, your lordship,” he said with a bow, taking care to keep his words low so Marco would not recognize a familiar voice. “Not too fast. You know the place. I’ll double back, be sure you aren’t followed.”
The hooves of Juan’s big horse clattered against the stones as he trotted ahead. I slid through the darkness to join Bartolomeo, who was already looking back to where Marco obediently loitered.
“There he is,” I said. “Here’s your chance. The Duke of Gandia will be out of earshot by now. Make sure you aren’t recognized—”
But Bartolomeo was already moving, low and fast through the dark. I heard him draw a rasping breath, and then he flattened Marco Santini with one massive backhand blow.
This was the part of the plan I liked least, but Bartolomeo would not budge. He wanted to give Marco Santini a beating, and he wanted it done before we followed Juan Borgia. I didn’t like the delay, but I needed Bartolomeo for what was to come next, and I did not think he would help me if I took his chance for vengeance away. That was something I understood well enough.
Grunts come through the dark, muffled swearing, gasps, short heavy blows that meant fists were finding ribs, and then the dull crunch that was the sound of a nose breaking. I hoped it was Marco Santini’s. He might have been caught off guard, but he was still a big strong fellow, and I saw his fist glance off Bartolomeo’s cheekbone. Bartolomeo’s head snapped back, and his mask went flying.
Oh, Dio. I had a moment’s hope that the dark would hide a familiar face, but—
“What are you doing, apprentice?” Marco slurred through bloody lips. Bartolomeo’s face was just a pale smear in the dark, but there was no mistaking that bright hair, even in faint starlight.
“This is for Carmelina, you bastard,” Bartolomeo growled back, and hit him again with another backhand swing of his doubled fist. I groaned inside, darting closer. Marco hadn’t been supposed to see who attacked him in the dark, that had been utterly crucial—
“For Carmelina?” I heard Marco pant through the dark, shoving his former apprentice back. “Don’t tell me the bitch is spreading her legs for pimply apprentice boys now—”
Bartolomeo just let out a snarl, coming for him again, and that was when I saw the flash of a knife in Marco’s hand. “Blade!” I called through the dark, darting closer with my own blades. I’d put the big cook down myself if things turned ugly, regardless of whether it angered Bartolomeo. But the red-haired boy had already seized Marco’s wrist, forcing the knife aside, and it flashed between them as they struggled. Blades in the dark now, instead of fists, and that changed the game.
I tensed, moving forward, but they were nothing but a lurching tangle of limbs in the shadows, no clear target to be had. I heard a hiss of pain, a lurch of boots and a scrabble of fingers skating across a knife hilt—and then the solid, punching thud of a knife finding its target. Bartolomeo gave a choked gasp, staggering. Marco reeled backward, giving a gurgling cough of his own, and in the faint light of the stars I saw him stumble and fall. There was another solid thud of skull against stone.
I lunged forward and caught the redheaded boy by the arm. “Are you hurt? Where did he hit you?” My heart thudded. Dio, to lose this chance for a boy’s rashness—
“I’m not hit,” Bartolomeo gasped, still reeling. His face was linen white in the dark. “Sweet Jesu, I stabbed him—”
I dove for Marco Santini then, finding his limp form. I had a blade in my fist, ready if he made a move for me, but the big cook lay limp under my searching hand. “Not dead,” I called, making my examination by touch. I felt the stickiness of blood on his shirt, but the wide chest rose and fell raggedly. “You caught him in the gut with the knife, but he’s alive.” I felt my way over the fallen form, finding a swelling knot under the curly hair. “Knocked his head on the ground when he fell, it seems.”
Bartolomeo’s voice quivered with relief. “I didn’t kill him?”
“No.” Soundly unconscious, at least for now, but the knife wound—you could never be sure about wounds to the gut. I thumbed through calculations. Marco had recognized us, or at least Bartolomeo. If he died . . .
“What if he dies?” Bartolomeo echoed my thoughts, but almost certainly not for the same reasons. He gave a gulp of the foul night air, his hand stealing unconsciously to the wooden cross about his neck. He was a good boy, after all; he went to Mass weekly and did penance for his small sins with good cheer. He hadn’t wanted murder on his conscience, because of course he found the thought appalling—as I no longer did. “I didn’t mean—I never meant to stab Maestro Santini. I was only trying to get the knife away from him, but it twisted in his hand and I got it from him and he came at me—”
“He drew the blade on you, when you were unarmed and looking only to avenge a woman’s honor with your fists. I’d say your conscience is clear.” I rose, rubbing the cook’s blood off on my breeches. “On your feet, now. Come along before we lose il Duche altogether.”
“We can’t—” Bartolomeo stared at me through the dark, hardly more than a black shape. “I’m not leaving an unconscious man to bleed to death!”
“He sold your girl to be raped by a madman,” I said. “I’d leave him.” Better if he died in the street, rather than lived to identify Bartolomeo as having any part in tonight’s work.
“I won’t leave him. I wanted to give him a beating, not kill him.” Bartolomeo’s voice was still shaky, but there was steel there and it made me start cursing inside as he took a breath and began to lecture me. “Marco Santini got a beating, all right. He got more than I bargained for, and I’ll live with that, but I won’t live with abandoning a wounded man in the middle of the slums to be robbed and murdered.”
“We’ve no time for your conscience, boy!” I snarled. But Bartolomeo was already hoisting Marco Santini up over one shoulder like a dead pig bound for the spit. It would have been too much weight for most men, but the boy was fueled by fear and used to hauling carcasses through his lady love’s kitchens, and as he staggered into the dark under the cook’s heavy form, I cursed viciously and allowed myself a moment’s violent envy that I had not been born so tall and strong. If I had been, I’d need no one’s help to deal with Juan Borgia, much less a moonstruck apprentice too principled for his own good. Juan Borgia, my masked murderer, drawing farther away on his horse with every moment we wasted, approaching the trap I’d laid for him—I didn’t mean to lose this chance just to make sure some gambling fool of a cook got a bandage and a cold compress.
Briefly I considered leaving Carmelina’s apprentice to his idiotic chivalry. But like it or not, I hadn’t been born a young giant with the muscles of a Hercules. For this night’s work to succeed, I needed Bartolomeo.
It seemed an age to wait, but it was only moments before Bartolomeo came bounding back out of the dark, masked and anonymous again. “I left him at the nearest house,” he panted. “Gave a knock, then stood back—I saw them pull him inside; they were calling for water and bandages. At least they’ll see his wound tended, even if they summon the constables—” Bartolomeo bent over suddenly as though he felt sick. “Oh, Jesu, what if he dies? What if I killed him?”
“So what if you did?” I said coolly. “I’m more worried if he talks.” The plan had been to let Bartolomeo beat Marco into the required pulp, and then let Marco run off ignorant of who had ever attacked him. I knew Marco Santini; he was far too yellow-bellied not to run if h
e was getting the worst of a pummeling. He’d have run off, and Bartolomeo and I would have been free to follow Juan Borgia with no one any the wiser about who had made both attacks.
But since he now knew Bartolomeo was neck-deep in tonight’s work, I was improvising.
“We can’t follow the Duke of Gandia now,” Bartolomeo was groaning. “Marco will say I attacked him. When he finds out Juan Borgia was beaten, too, he’ll assume I—”
“If Marco Santini lives, or at least lives long enough to talk, all he knows is that the Duke of Gandia left him to go see a mistress.” I cut Bartolomeo off before he could panic any further. “And then you came along, and the two of you got into a fight over a girl. I’ll act as witness, and threaten to have him arrested for drawing the knife on you. I’ll threaten to get him hanged for attempting murder, unless he leaves Rome. He’ll be too terrified to open his mouth about Juan Borgia.”
“But—”
“No buts!” I should have been frightened—already the plan had deviated, and that wasn’t good, but improvisation in danger had always been a gift of mine, and mainly what I felt was focus. I was coming for Juan Borgia, whether the plan blew apart or not. “You want to go back and fan Marco Santini’s brow till he wakes up, boy?” I seized Bartolomeo’s arm and lowered my voice to a steel-hard growl. “Or do you want a chance to beat the Duke of Gandia bloody, like we planned? We won’t get another opportunity like this, so make up your mind!”
Bartolomeo gulped. “Blessed Mother of Mercy, forgive me,” he muttered, crossing himself, but broke into a jog beside me as I plunged into the dark after Juan Borgia.
Good boy, I thought, but didn’t say it.
The circuitous route Bartolomeo had given to the Duke of Gandia took him looping back on his own footsteps—an absurd route, really, but young men love to feel they are being covert. “Must make sure we aren’t followed,” Bartolomeo said through his mask when he whispered the directions, and the Duke had breathed, “Of course.” Really the route was designed to buy time, time for us to deal with Marco Santini. We’d wasted more time than I liked; I had to run hard to close the gap, and the twisted muscles of my thighs stabbed like knives. But Juan Borgia rode on a long rein, taking his time on his ambling stallion, and though my heart throbbed in my throat, it wasn’t long before we caught up with him. I would have been looking about me constantly in such dangerous streets, but Juan whistled a cheery little tune and never looked back to spot me sliding along through the shadows behind him like a fish. He was a dreaming idiot, and I dearly hoped no footpads would realize what an easy mark he was and take him down before I had my chance.
