by Den Patrick
‘My lord, this way,’ shouted Dino. He regretted it immediately. Margravio Contadino turned toward Dino’s path of escape. A halberd smashed into his shoulder. His attacker struck again, knocking the margravio to his knees. Massimo cried out, his blade falling in a sunlit glare of steel. The sword cleaved through the wrist of the man responsible, but it was too late.
Margravio Emilio Contadino stumbled to his feet, bent double, a savage slash across his broken ribs, now slick with crimson. Massimo knocked aside two more killing blows, desperate to delay the inevitable death of his master. The swordsman split another attacker’s face open, a soundless howl of fury on his lips. Dino ran forward to gather the wounded lord in his arms, but was separated by yet more attackers. For one hateful second the margravio locked eyes with the Orfano.
‘Run, Dino.’ He coughed blood. ‘Avanti.’ His head was severed in a single strike. Dino stumbled back, almost losing his footing as he knocked over a grave marker. So much death.
Massimo broke into a flat run, disappearing through the trees pursued by six men, rags flapping about them like diseased skin. The veiled and hooded leader looked on, immobile at the edge of the clearing, arms folded across his chest. If he had orders to kill Dino he appeared unwilling to execute them.
Dino ran, fear a jagged song playing on his nerves. Frustration snagged at his boots; shock made a knot of his stomach. The willows sighed and shuddered in the wind, roused by the ecstasy of violence. The woodland was oppressive with shadow, occasional flashes of sunlight blurring Dino’s vision, threatening to blind him. His flight was long and panicked, thrusting him into a meadow, gasping for breath. He dared snatch a look behind. Shapes and colours beneath the trees coalesced into figures, lurching, sprinting.
Dino dropped the halberd, fleeing across the yellow grasses of the meadow, waiting for the moment his flesh would fall prey to implacable steel. Nardo waited ahead, astride his mount, holding the reins of Dino’s. His face was marked with questions.
Margravio Contadino dead. And Massimo too most likely. The thought almost brought Dino to his knees, momentum carrying him on. He vaulted the hindquarters of the mount, landing in the saddle with such force he nearly slipped past the horse’s neck. Thighs grasped at the horse’s flanks, hands clutched at reins. The beast complained, then took off. Nardo looked on astonished and silent.
Dino struggled to find the stirrups, cursing, clinging on, desperate not to fall to the road below, as it slipped past under hooves that beat the dust into tawny clouds. With each beat he was carried away from where Margravio Contadino had fallen.
And Abramo.
And Marcell.
And Massimo emerged from the woods breathless and ashen-faced. Dino veered in to meet him, the horse leaping the fence beside the road into the meadow. Nardo followed, his own blade free of its scabbard. The first of the pursuers broke free of the trailing limbs of the willows, lunging after Massimo. Dino’s breath caught in his throat, chest constricted. The Contadino swordsman hadn’t seen his pursuer. Dino put his heels to his mount, the horse surging forward. He reached for his sword but found nothing: the blade remained lodged between a dead man’s ribs. Dino gritted his teeth and trampled the attacker into the long grass. The impact near shook him free of the saddle; a curse slipped his lips. The horse’s momentum carried it past the grey man, but it sagged a second later. Dino wheeled around to pull Massimo up into his arms. Nardo had engaged another of the attackers, but the man’s halberd was proving dangerous to both horse and rider.
‘Mass! Porca miseria! Get over here!’
Massimo stumbled toward him, confusion crowding his features, his gait stumbling and unsure. Dino reached down, pulling the swordsman up with a grunt. His hand came away bloodied.
‘Picked up a few more scars,’ said Massimo with a weak smile, arms folding around Dino’s waist. So many times had Dino wished for this, but never under such hateful circumstances.
‘Nardo!’
The messenger didn’t waste time trying to finish his opponent, content to let the speed of his mount protect him. They fled from the woodland edge as more and more attackers in grey spilled from the shadows.
‘Dottore! Someone fetch a dottore!’
The horses were all but forgotten, abandoned in the Contadino courtyard. Dino carried the wounded swordsman in aching arms. The pain in those strong limbs was as nothing to the fear that racked his chest.
Don’t die on me. Don’t leave me here.
A silent prayer to any who might hear it, even Santa Maria herself. They stumbled through Demesne, porters and cooks’ faces stricken with shock and concern. None looked more stricken than Massimo, who had slumped from the saddle, eyes closed, into the arms of Dino.
‘A dottore! Please!’
Dino pressed on, out into the rose garden, from which shocked courtiers fled. Others remained, desperate to know Margravio Contadino’s whereabouts. Windows opened on all sides of the garden, on all floors of Demesne. Faces appeared beneath pointed arches, regarding the unfolding tragedy, hands pressed to mouths and chests, powerless and aghast.
‘Don’t leave me here alone, Mass. You can’t leave me.’ He was whispering now. Blood-red and cloud-white roses surrounded them, roses the colour of Massimo, bleeding freely from uncounted wounds, staining his tabard. The swordsman’s face was paler than Dino had ever seen it.
‘Please don’t die on me. I’m begging you.’
Massimo’s eyes fluttered a moment but remained closed.
‘A dottore for my friend.’ He’d meant to shout, but the words were no more than sobs.
‘Put him down here. We’ll improvise some bandages.’ Nardo was grim-faced, dusty from the road. He gestured to the centre of the garden, where the calming gaze of Santa Maria looked over a congregation of flowers.
‘Please don’t leave me,’ repeated Dino like a mantra, not realising the words escaped his lips. Massimo’s eyes opened slow, his gaze unfocused. Staff emerged doorways, some brave enough to investigate further. They edged closer among the roses, eyes intent on the fallen swordsman, watching the Orfano hold back tears, regarding the messenger, whose face foretold the outcome.
‘Please don’t leave me,’ whispered Dino. He’d sunk to his knees in the shadow of Santa Maria, clutching the swordsman in arms slick and red. ‘Don’t you leave me, Mass.’
‘I’ll always be here for you.’ The tiniest of smiles creased the corners of Massimo’s perfect mouth. How many times had Dino’s eyes lingered on Massimo’s lips, barely hearing the words, only watching their shape and curve.
‘I never told you—’
‘I know.’ Massimo laboured a weak cough. ‘You never needed to; I always knew.’
‘How?’
‘The way you look at me. No one else ever looked at me like that.’
Dino tried to swallow, stomach hollow and collapsing, his chest like rubble, heart fractured at the centre.
‘Don’t leave me, Mass. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ The swordsman smiled, impossibly serene, his eyes wet with unfallen tears. Dino bowed forward, pressing his lips to the beautiful man in his arms, but when he opened his eyes there was just the body of a swordsman – another casualty, another corpse, another funeral to be planned, another name to be added to the rolls of Demesne’s history.
‘Mass?’
Nardo dropped to one knee, reaching out a tentative hand for Dino’s shoulder. That simple touch told him the very thing his mind would not accept. Could not accept.
‘Mass? Please. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. Anything you ask, just don’t go.’
‘It’s too late, my lord.’ Nardo’s voice cracked with the telling of it. The Orfano shook his head, clutched the dead man tighter, eyes pressed shut, willing the tears away.
‘No, I won’t allow it.’ His voice was like gravel scratching on wood.
‘He’s gone,’ whispered Nardo, ‘There was nothing we could do.’
‘Where’s the d
ottore?’
The dottore, when he arrived, could do nothing but shake his head sadly.
‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ was all he said. Dino was numb and broken. By now the windows of the rose garden were packed with every stripe and rank of person that inhabited Demesne. They had all borne witness, not just to the loss of life but the loss of love. Scandalised whispers would come later, but for now the gossiping tongues were silenced by the outpouring of Dino’s grief. Until tomorrow it mattered not that he’d loved a man, only that he’d been parted from him in such a brutal fashion.
Camelia appeared, viewing the scene with tears frozen in her eyes. One arm curved around the Orfano’s shoulders. She hauled him up and led him step by step through Demesne to House Erudito. He’d yet to open his eyes, blinded by grief, the sight of Massimo’s serene smile etched into his memory.
‘I never told him I loved him.’
Camelia could say nothing, only wipe the bloody tears away as they appeared at the corners of his eyes in greater and greater profusion.
39
The Brooding Drake
– 25 Agosto 325
The wine glass hit the door, shattering into a hundred jagged slivers. Many of the pieces that fell to the floor were coated with dregs, tiny bloodstained blades. The door had seen its fair share of projectiles over the last seven days. Other glasses had been thrown, a wine bottle and three books. All had followed the same fate, now forgotten on the floor. Drink combined with anger had seen a stiletto cast at the offending portal, impacting hilt first. This proved fortunate, else the blade be stuck firm for all to see, a painful marker of a time that would haunt Dino long into the future.
The summons issued from the door yet again, the rapping loud and raucous. Achilles hissed and pushed his head beneath his tail. Dino cursed under his breath. There was nothing else left to throw, bar the bottle of Barolo in his hand, half full.
‘If you think I’m wasting this on—’ The knock interrupted his slurred soliloquy. ‘PORCA MISERIA!’ he bellowed, then lurched up from the couch like a windblown scarecrow. He almost lost his footing on the short walk to the door. The knocker was keeping up a steady percussion now, the sound driving Dino to murderous intentions.
‘WILL YOU PLEASE FUCK OFF?’ he bellowed through the door. The rapping continued unabated. Dino struggled to fit the key in the lock, finally dropping to his knees so he might finally fill the offending keyhole. He opened the door still kneeling, peering through the gap. A familiar face waited in the corridor above him.
‘Are you deaf, old man?’
‘Profoundly. Now stand up, you little shit.’
To his great surprise Dino found himself doing just that. Virmyre entered, giving the Orfano a long and withering look. He turned his attention to the apartment and folded his arms, one hand straying to his chin.
‘Well, I’m glad the rumours of your decline are unfounded.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Dino, holding on to the couch for support.
‘Yes.’ Virmyre looked at the room with distaste. ‘Interesting interpretation of “fine”.’
‘Interesting how?’ Dino slumped against the arm of the couch and tried to swallow. He felt as if he were suddenly plunged back into his schooldays. Virmyre had ever been a stern teacher, his reprimands legendary.
‘Well, I hadn’t thought the word included such descriptors as unwashed or unshaven.’
‘So I took a few days off from—’
‘And the apartment?’ Virmyre took in the desolation. ‘Is deep and unrelenting squalor the new fashion?’
‘I didn’t feel like letting Fiorenza in.’ Dino’s voice withered with each exchange.
‘And the fact you smell like you took a shit in your britches.’
‘I do not smell like I took a shi—’
‘Shut up, Dino.’
‘I just …’ He gagged on the words, his chest filling with the all too familiar pain of his grief.
‘I know,’ said Virmyre, laying one hand on his shoulder. ‘I know. Go to your chamber.’
A bath had been prepared by a team of maids before Dino was fully aware. He’d sat on the bed while Virmyre urged him to drink coffee.
‘Is this to sober me up?’
‘No. All the coffee in Landfall couldn’t achieve that miracle. Besides, that’s a myth. Coffee keeps a drunk awake, which means they’re a good deal more manageable. I simply want you to stay awake long enough to perform your ablutions.’
The staff departed the wreckage of the bedroom, shooting wary looks at Virmyre. He nodded to them with his usual stern demeanour, then locked the door.
‘I’d throw those britches from the window if I were you. I couldn’t give them to the laundry staff in any good conscience.’
‘They’re not as bad as all that.’
‘How about we burn them and I’ll never mention it again?’
Dino peeled off the offending garment and slipped into the wooden tub, gasping as the heat of the water seared his skin. Virmyre seated himself on a stool, drawing a straight-edge razor from inside his jacket.
‘Well, get some soap on your face then. You really don’t suit a beard and I’m not here to help you kill yourself.’ Virmyre eyed the razor, the blade reflecting the sunlight. ‘However, I must congratulate you: you’re doing a remarkable job of that by yourself.’
‘I’m not killing myself.’ Dino frowned. ‘I’ve only been drinking. What time is it?’
‘Around seven,’ replied Virmyre, tilting Dino’s head back. ‘In fact seven seems to be a number you’re rather keen on.’ The blade was pressed to his face and began to scrape the whiskers from his cheek. ‘Seven days cooped up, wallowing in your own foulness. Seven breakfasts untouched. Seven dinners not eaten. Seven messengers turned away.’
Dino could feel waves of disappointment emanating from the older man.
‘I just want to be left alone,’ he protested between scrapes of the blade, now working at his throat. Virmyre held his head firm with his free hand. He was sitting so close that Dino could smell scented soap and laboratory chemicals.
‘You’ve also missed four funerals.’
Dino tensed against the man’s grasp but stayed still. The insistent scrape of steel on stubble, the only sound in the room, suddenly deafening. The suffocating grief in his chest became a dull spike.
‘Couldn’t you have killed off another three people? Just to round it out to that seven I’m so fond of?’
‘I considered it.’ Virmyre sighed. ‘But there are so many worthy targets I rather lost my focus.’
Dino said nothing, allowing the news of Massimo’s burial to filter through his mind. There was the usual sting of denial, a hot flash of anger to no avail. Only resignation remained. He’d never see the Contadino swordsman again, never spar with him, never drink with him, never hear his voice. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. Wanted to breathe and at the same time wouldn’t have cared if he’d never drawn another breath.
‘It does get better,’ said Virmyre in a quiet voice.
‘Really?’ Dino couldn’t keep the sneer from his lips. ‘When?’
‘When you start facing it and stop hiding behind the drink.’ Virmyre still had a hand on him, still patiently scraped the blade over his beard, now thinning with each stroke.
‘I don’t want to face it.’
‘And the alternative is what? Staying here? Drinking yourself to an early death? Refusing to eat, like some damn fool lovesick teenager?’
Dino broke free of the man and turned to face him, lip curled back. If Virmyre was surprised he refused to let it sully his features.
‘And what do you know about losing anyone? You’ve never loved; you’re as bad as Anea and her infernal machines.’ Dino stood up, displacing a good deal of bath water onto the floor. Staggering out of the tub, he snatched a towel to hide his nakedness, fully aware how ridiculous he must look. ‘Please, if you’re such an expert, tell me all there is to know.’ His teeth were bared now, fingers balled into fis
ts of frustration, the yawning emptiness of his stomach knotted with anger. Virmyre’s gaze was steady, face impassive. He rinsed the blade, dried it on a small towel and folded the razor neatly.
‘My wife died in childbirth the night Lucien appeared on the steps of the castle. My son died too.’
It was as if a great hand had placed itself on Dino’s chest and pushed down. He slumped onto the bed.
‘I may be an educated man but I’m no dottore. And I’m no midwife.’ The words were evenly paced – no inflection, no emphasis, just the pleasant rumble of Virmyre’s baritone sharing his most intimate defeat.
‘Angelicola was supposed to deliver the baby, but he was busy. It was different back then. There were hardly any dottori, and most were reluctant to leave the houses they served. Not one came to us. I lost the most precious woman in the world and the boy too.’
Dino’s shoulders slumped, head bowed.
‘Where was Angelicola?’
‘Delivering Lucien.’
‘Oh.’ No word existed to respond to such a revelation. Dino wished he’d remained silent.
‘So you see –’ Virmyre’s voice was a calm hush ‘– I know quite a lot. About death. About blame. About guilt. Powerlessness. About missing someone so badly you’d rather forget their name. Easier to persuade yourself you never knew them that way, easier to pretend they had never existed.’
