The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  Just ahead of Sparke was a large open-bed truck, filled with semi-liquid asphalt giving off a faint haze of smoke. Once cooled, it would set like stone, so it was loaded hot at the depot and delivered ready to use and was still hot enough to burn the leather from workers' boots.

  Sparke sat well behind the truck and enjoyed the experience of seeing the world flash past the windows of his new car as Tilly gazed over the lake. Speed limits are generally well observed in Switzerland, so the speeding car that overtook Sparke was even more notable than it might have been elsewhere.

  "Why can anyone be in that much of a hurry at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning in Switzerland?" said Tilly.

  "Probably rushing to beat the queues at the famous salt mine. I need to pull in and get some gas. I love this car, but Range Rovers just drink fuel."

  As Sparke turned the car off the highway and into the gas station, he looked at the speeding car. He had an eye for detail and he noticed that the suspension had been lowered until the car's body barely cleared the road. The wheels had been replaced and thin, racing style tires fitted. The paint job was custom and the windows heavily tinted. He didn't like being anywhere near cars like that.

  The driver overtook the asphalt truck, then cut inside another vehicle to get past.

  "I must be getting old," said Sparke. "People who drive like that really annoy me nowadays. I mean, why create risk for no good reason?"

  "Just kids," said Tilly. "Boy racers. Noisy but harmless.”

  Battle of the Two Hills

  "When will Massimo be back from Siena?" said Salvatore as the family led the procession to Gaiole that afternoon.

  "Ha, once he gets his nose into the Bishop's Palace we will never see him again," said Rosso. "His earnest desire is to creep around the ankles of the powerful, and that means the bishop."

  "But he has a vocation to follow the priesthood."

  "My arse, if we lived in Milan he would be the perfect merchant and the church would never see the sole of his shoe."

  "There are no banners," said Salvatore.

  "What?" Rosso looked along the road towards Gaiole. The walls of the town were bare. Even the flag poles were empty.

  As the group reached the gates of Gaiole, they were met by the town's Captain of the Guard. Despite today being the feast of Fra Muratore, he was in half armor and carried his long halberd. He bowed towards Rosso, Salvatore and their father.

  "The young lord is dead," he said, his eyes fixed on the ground.

  For a moment, the Radda party stood, facing the closed gates of Gaiole. Then, without a word, their father turned his horse back towards home.

  "We killed him!" hissed Salvatore. "It was him in the tower, I told you so."

  "Now their family has no son," said Rosso.

  "The first thing you think about is inheritances?"

  Rosso shrugged. "It could be good news for you."

  Salvatore ignored the comment. The idea of even discussing Mellissa with Rosso was appalling, all the more so now that she was the eldest daughter to a neighbor with no son and heir.

  "She believes that it was you who killed her brother," said Salvatore, eventually.

  "Good. Let everyone believe the same."

  Once back in Radda, preparations for fighting were redoubled. A turf war over a single watchtower, and the taxation from a bridge that it brought, had now escalated into a blood feud.

  Salvatore and Rosso were summoned to their father's Uffizi, where Podesta, the English mercenary Captain and their father were already deep in discussion. As they walked in, Rosso looked at the three men, but none of them spoke to him.

  "So, Englishman," he said. "What is the fast way to win this little war we have?"

  "The fast way to win a war is a battle. Would you like us to arrange one?"

  "Do you have a better idea?" said Rosso.

  The Englishman smiled.

  "Gaiole has brought men in from the Broken Wheel Company. Cheap, heavy and violent. Good, but they lack crossbows. If we can bring them out we should be able to bring enough of them down with bolts."

  "Will they come out for battle?"

  "If they have bait."

  "And the best bait would be the man who killed their only son."

  "Of course," said the Englishman.

  "Tomorrow?" Rosso glanced towards his father, but saw neither encouragement nor disapproval.

  "We are hired for forty days. Tomorrow or next month is all the same to us," said the Englishman.

  At dawn the next day, Rosso, Salvatore a group of ten Radda militia rode out towards Gaiole, taking the old, high road over the hills. As they crested the pass, they raced towards the flour mill that served the whole of the Gaiole region.

  Seeing the advance of a dozen armored, mounted soldiers, the handful of Gaiole guards bolted back towards the town. There was nothing they could do against a force of this size. One of the guards was mounted and he sped ahead of his comrades to raise the alarm.

  Losing the mill would be a worse blow to Gaiole than the loss of the Winter Store would have been to Radda. Grain could be bought, but finding a way to mill flour would be almost impossible. Rosso already knew that destroying a mill would be no easy task. Burning out the timbers would put the building out of use for a month, but to really put it out of action would mean smashing the massive grinding stones and that meant dismantling the mill.

  Rosso and his detachment had no intention of spending hours trying to destroy two massive stones. They were here for effect.

  "Watch for the Gaiole men," said Rosso to Salvatore. "We need to give them some incentive to move a little."

  Salvatore watched as Rosso rode out to the small hill near the mill, halting his horse at the crest. Over his armor, he was dressed from head to toe in the bright green of his family, his horse clothed in the same fabric. From Gaiole it was clear that the leader of the raid that had left the family without an heir was now calmly watching his men destroy the mill on which the entire area depended.

  Salvatore watched as his men set about burning the timber framework that supported the millstones and within half an hour, a thick plume of smoke rose from the ancient building.

  "At last," shouted Rosso. "Those Gaiole men have woken up."

  Salvatore rushed up the small hill next to his brother and watched as a long line of men filed out from Gaiole, twenty mounted men followed by two dozen foot soldiers all in half armor. Neither brother moved as the column wound towards them until it was formed up across the valley between the hill they stood on, and the low hill to their left. From their position, the Gaiole force guarded the approach to the town and now blocked access to the main road back towards Radda, but they made no move to approach the mill. Charging uphill into a possible trap was not the way of mercenaries. As soon as they were formed up, Salvatore saw movement on the left, from the second hill that formed the valley. The Englishman's force of mercenaries trotted over the hill's crest, followed by a loose group of men on foot. At this, the Gaiole men reformed, turning to face them, now ignoring Rosso and his small band.

  The foot soldiers with the Englishman moved forward until they were fifty paces in front of their mounted troops. For a few moments, Salvatore watched as the two lines faced each other, then, for no apparent reason, one of the Gaiole men fell from his horse and another horse began to settle on the ground. At this, the Englishman's horse soldiers began to walk their mounts slowly through the line of foot soldiers. Another of the Gaiole men jumped from his horse as it reared up.

  "Crossbows," said Rosso.

  The Gaiole men, led by the mounted troops, now formed up and began to retrace their steps to the town. As they turned, five of the Englishman's horse soldiers moved quickly across to the hill where Salvatore and Rosso sat.

  Leading the small detachment was the Englishman himself.

  He reached the position where Salvatore and Rosso sat, lifted the full helmet from his head and watched the column return to Gaiole.

  "My Lord Rosso,
" he said, "you have just won your first battle."

  Tunnel

  The car, in which Max was about to die, had been bought ten years previously as a runabout for a local dentist. Five years after she bought it, she sold it on, and three owners later, Max bought it.

  Not being a mechanic, there was little he could do to improve its performance, but he could make it look faster and meaner.

  Endless weekends in his widowed mother's garage with his friends, and long searches on eBay for accessories, had turned the former runabout into something that certainly looked like a racing version of the car. If he could do nothing about the actual capabilities of the vehicle, he could at least get the most out of it. As he often told his friends, "It's how you drive it that makes the difference."

  As he entered the last kilometer he would ever travel, he was driving, by his own estimation, to the limit. With little traffic to contend with, he swept along the motorway, deftly switching lanes and overtaking the dullards who plodded along the road. He drove into the long tunnel just to the east of Lausanne and was almost at the exit when he was faced with a classic driver's dilemma. Two ordinary cars bumbling along, one in each lane, with only the slimmest gap between them, effectively blocking his progress. He roared up the inside lane, ready to slip into the fast lane and squeeze in front of the car that hogged his space. He had done this hundreds of times and was well used to the looks of shock and anger of the ordinary drivers as he danced between them.

  The car on the inside lane, seeing Max approach, lights blazing, panicked and braked. The space which Max had planned to slide into was now much tighter. Seeing the sudden movement the driver in the outside lane followed suit, braking sharply. The gap was now incredibly tight, but Max was committed.

  As he flipped between the lanes, his left tail clipped the car he was overtaking, spinning him around. Both cars, now out of control, crashed into the third car. Now all three vehicles travelled sideways at about seventy miles an hour. The car on the inside lane hit the wall of the tunnel and Max's car was catapulted forward, crashing into the wall and starting to roll. His seatbelt, salvaged from a wrecked Porsche and fitted by Max personally, gave way under the stress, throwing him against the steering wheel and dash board, crushing his chest, snapping his spine and killing him instantly.

  All three cars, a single mass of twisting metal continued in a shower of sparks until they came to a rest a dozen yards from the tunnel mouth. Amazingly, the drivers of the two other cars dusted off the powder released by their airbags, opened their doors and stepped out on the roadway.

  Max, dead, was hanging upside down in his wrecked car, pools of fuel forming from the ruptured tanks just beneath him.

  One of the drivers called the emergency services.

  The only vehicle inside the tunnel behind them was a coach carrying twenty-three members of the University of Kansas Marching Band, heading to Montreux for a music festival.

  The driver, seeing the chaos just ahead, slammed on his brakes hurling the band members out of their seats, causing a number of broken bones and concussions. The force of the braking caused the coach to slew across the tunnel roadway, bringing it to a halt jammed hard against the only emergency exit in the tunnel.

  Several hundred yards behind the coach, the driver of the truck carrying the hot bitumen heard his phone ring, just as he approached the entrance to the tunnel.

  In the seconds it took him to reach for the phone, juggle it in his hand and look at the screen, he had travelled several hundred feet, just long enough to take him from bright sunlight and into the relative dark of the tunnel.

  He glanced up just in time to see the stopped coach and to make out the outline of the chaos at the far end.

  The force of his emergency braking caused the heavy, semi-liquid load to shift and his windscreen was immediately obscured by a curtain of hot bitumen cascading over the top of his cab. For a moment he hesitated, amazed to find that he was in once piece, then he smelled the stench of hot, oily tar beginning to sizzle on the hot engine covering. He saw smoke rise from the front of the truck and leapt out his cab. He landed in a pool of steaming tarmac and immediately felt the heat burning through his boots.

  Going forward was not an option, so he turned and ran back towards the entrance he had driven through only seconds before. The heavy tar clung to his feet and he fell forward, his hands plunging into the burning mass. Screaming in pain, he pushed himself up, driving his arms deeper into the agonizing heat, but eventually heaving himself upright.

  He stumbled out into the sunlight, his feet two circles of burning black tar. The first driver who appeared tried to help him by wrapping a dog's blanket from his car over his hands, without realizing that the polyester fabric had such a low melting point that it would melt onto the burning bitumen, dripping molten plastic onto open wounds.

  Just at this moment, the heat, from the truck's still running engine, transferred enough energy to the bitumen to ignite some of the vapors that came from it. A boiling wave of smoke now erupted from the load and began racing towards both tunnel entrances. At one end, the stricken driver and the man who was trying to help him were engulfed in stinking, black, oily smoke, causing both to double up and heave for air.

  Inside the tunnel, the leader of the University of Kansas Marching Band, who was only just now starting to bring some sort of order to the screaming and moaning people in his charge, looked out of the back window and saw a wave of smoke rushing towards them. He stared as he saw the tunnel lights begin obliterated one at a time until the wave was upon them.

  The bus shook as wave of pressurized hot gas crashed into it and the world outside their windows went black.

  Siena

  Siena was heaven. Every sight and sound of the city filled Massimo with a longing to be far away from the backwater of Radda. At the Palace of the Bishop they were kept waiting for an hour by the master of the guard until a young priest, wearing a habit of white lambs wool, arrived.

  "You have a letter for the Lord Bishop," he said. "I can take it and you can return tomorrow for a response."

  Massimo smiled and bowed deeply. "I would love to oblige, but the Lord Radda, my father, has ordered me specifically to give the letter only into the hand of the Bishop himself."

  A flash of annoyance crossed the face of the young priest. "His Lordship does not speak with messengers."

  "Of course, and rightly so," said Massimo, "but I am the son of Lord Radda and I would be grateful if you could assist me in carrying out this small task."

  Without a word, the priest turned and walked away. Another hour passed before he returned.

  "Only you," he said pointing at Massimo.

  The escort who had come with Massimo smiled; discussions with Bishops would doubtless take a long time and Siena was a world of excellent diversions while they waited.

  The Palace of the Bishop was more than Massimo could have wanted. In every room fat white candles burned and groups of men huddled, deep in conversation. Every table seemed heaped with documents and servants moved silently among the talking groups bearing wine and fruit.

  The personal office of the Bishop was the size of the main church in Radda. Heavy tapestries hung from every wall and the room buzzed with low conversation. Massimo looked around in awe.

  "You bring a letter from our Lord in Radda?" The Bishop's loud voice carried across the room and for a moment the buzz of conversation stopped as all eyes turned towards him.

  "You may approach. Bring it here."

  Massimo had rehearsed his greeting a hundred times on the journey.

  "My Lord Bishop," he began, but was distracted by the young priest who snatched the letter from his hand and passed it to the Bishop.

  The Bishop snapped the wax seal and read the dozen lines quickly before looking up.

  "You are the son of Radda?" he said.

  "His second son, my Lord."

  "I think he did not write this, and it is not the crude hand of his man Podesta."

>   "I had the honor of penning the letter myself, sir."

  The Bishop passed the letter to a man who stood behind him. "You must be tired after your journey. Take some wine with me." Immediately a servant appeared at the side of Massimo with a glass goblet on a tray. Massimo lifted it, bowed and sipped the deep red wine. It was as fine as the best wine his father's lands produced and better by far than the wine he normally drunk. He thought back to the morning, only a few days ago, when he and his brothers had shared a jug of kitchen wine on the walls of Radda and smiled at the difference.

  "You find my wine amusing young..."

  "Massimo, sir, my name is Massimo."

  "Well, Massimo of Radda, let me consider this fine letter of yours. In the meantime, Father Spianti will look to your comfort."

  Massimo realized that he had been dismissed and bowed, making sure that he did not spill the wine. Unsure of the protocol when leaving the presence of a Bishop, Massimo began to back out of the room with his head still slightly inclined. The House of Radda, rich as it was by local standards, was not a place which had Moorish carpets on the floor. As he tripped and stumbled backwards, Massimo had a clear view of his glass as it performed a perfect arc through the air, crashing onto the stone floor and smashing into a hundred pieces. Time stood still for Massimo as he listened to the appalling silence. Then, across the room, the dozen conversations simply picked up where they had left off. Massimo saw that he had become invisible to everyone in the room and meekly followed the young priest to the bedchambers reserved for guests.

  "Radda and Gaiole have already started fighting," said the Bishop the next morning.

  Massimo had been ushered into his presence immediately after Morning Prayer.