‘Now, I know I’m a stranger here, but that’s not the Vatican.’
‘Correct, my friend. That is the church of Sant’Agnese with its monastery and lands, and that is our current destination.’
Skiouros threw a questioning look at Cesare. ‘We’re not going into the city?’
‘Not yet. All in good time, my friend. First we have to prepare ourselves lest we walk into unexpected trouble. I said I had an acquaintance in Rome: my former teacher and confessor?’
‘Yes, but we’re not in Rome.’
‘Figure of speech,’ shrugged Cesare. ‘For now we are at our safest outside the walls until we are certain of the situation in the city. Possibly even then it would better suit our purposes to continue to base ourselves on the city’s extreme periphery. Come on.’
Skiouros tried to hide his irritation at having such an important decision made for him without any input on his part and focussed on the complex for which they were bound. Every step Sigma took brought it into better focus.
A heavy, rectangular church of modest size - with a brick exterior that was far plainer and more austere than its equivalents in Istanbul - stood on the near edge of the rise, the ground sloping away before it and to their right. A rocky cliff face torn from the fabric of the hill itself extended a little to the right down the slope, appearing bare of vegetation. Behind, slightly higher on the crest, stood a circular structure that dominated the ensemble, which was completed by a ruined wall of impressive size striding across the hill. As they closed on it, Skiouros could see a collection of other buildings on the far side of the main church, almost connecting it to the rotonda. He found himself thinking that if a man were to add some towers to the surrounding walls it would be as defensive as many smaller castles he had seen.
As they approached, Skiouros became aware of figures in black robes among the gardens and fields and orchards around the complex, stoop-backed in their work.
Ignoring the church itself, which failed to present a door facing them, Skiouros followed Cesare’s lead to a wide archway that led beneath a squat tower some centuries old, riddled with reused ancient stonework. The door to the complex was open but Cesare reined in before it and slid from his horse, wandering across to the bell whose chain dangled by the arch’s pier. Somewhat redundantly the nobleman yanked the pull, allowing the bell to clang half a dozen times, the visitors watched intently by black robed figures both inside the gate and out.
Finally, a particularly old specimen with a straggly beard and bushy grey brows that almost hid his eyes wandered over to the gate and acknowledged them with a look born of curiosity and suspicion, and a faint nod of the head.
‘Can I help you, my son?’
Cesare sketched a perfect bow and smiled disarmingly. ‘Greetings, venerable father. We are seeking Canon Bartolomeo of Nerola. Would you be so good as to have word sent to him that Cesare Orsini is at the gate?’
The old man’s brows beetled and his lip did some sort of dance as he mouthed words to himself and finally nodded in answer to his own question.
‘Come,’ he grunted and turned, walking off across the courtyard beyond the gate, muttering inaudibly to himself. Cesare looked at Skiouros and shrugged. ‘He probably doesn’t mean us to bring the horses.’ With a smile, he gestured to the hitching rail by the gate and strode across, tying his own beast’s reins to the wooden post and then hurrying to catch up with the old priest who was now waiting impatiently at the far side of the courtyard. Skiouros followed suit and rushed across, Parmenio and Nicolo tying up their horses and then jogging to catch up. Helwyg and Girolamo waved them on, staying with the mounts and keeping a watchful eye on the gathered priests as though they might suddenly throw aside their robes and steal the nags at sword point. Skiouros wondered what sort of place Rome was to elicit such caution.
The old priest led them across the courtyard and past fragments of ancient stone being reused as garden ornaments, the names of long gone senators and generals etched across planters filled with greenery and surmounted by delicate statuary. Beyond them, past a line of shrubs and cypresses, stood the ruined wall Skiouros had seen as they approached. Up close it was rather impressive, some hundred yards long to the far end, where it turned into an apse that stood proud at the top of the slope. The wall was easily the height of three men and enclosed an elongated garden formed of rows of shattered columns jabbing up to the blue sky and areas of coloured marble flooring all interspersed with flower beds, shrubbery arrangements, ancient trees and sections of low wall, dotted with classical statuary that had been placed in artistic positions. The great circular rotonda stood to one side, its doors firmly closed, exuding a powerful and ancient, brooding presence.
The old man led them along a pleasant gravel path which ran beneath the ruined wall and paused at a statue of a naked hero thrusting a blade at a bull-headed demon.
‘There!’ grumbled the old man, pointing at the apsidal end, where a white marble bench stood amid the trees. Two figures in black sat upon the bench and Cesare nodded his thanks before leaving the old man and striding across the gravel towards the pair.
Skiouros, Parmenio and Nicolo wandered along just behind their friend, keeping respectably subdued. As they approached, it became clear that the two black-clad clerics were involved in a heated debate of some sort. Both wore the same midnight robes as the rest of the complex’s occupants, and both had their heads bare, tonsures in evidence. The left-hand of the pair had pepper-flecked moustaches draped above his lip, his grey hair so wild and windblown that his tonsure was only sporadically visible, displaying skin in flashes as the wind whipped the locks about. The other figure, neatly arrayed with tidy hair and clean-shaven chin and yet giving off the same feel of borderline mania, was busy waving his arms like a flightless bird attempting to break the hold of gravity, speaking easily in Italian but with a strangely unidentifiable thick accent.
‘I tell you that silk is no crime against God, Barty. And the gentle lull of swishing fabric makes the very day worthwhile. It is like sweet birdsong to the nethers.’
The grey-haired cleric shook his head in a manner that suggested father admonishing son. ‘I am not denying the sensory value of good silk braies or their acceptability within the ordinances of the Lateran dogma, my deranged friend. I am simply questioning how a man who is so vocal about his vow of poverty managed to acquire not one, but two pairs of such silky blessedness.’
‘I have… contacts. What more can I say? You are aware that if this conversation comes to the attention of Father Laurentinus we will be flagellating ourselves ‘til our backs are salmon-hued, and said braies will be burned as unacceptable. Laurentinus is a savage in the matter of clothing. I swear the man wears apparel made from old sacks. His cassock is his most giving garment.’
‘I also know,’ said grey-hair with an arched eyebrow almost lost beneath the flowing strands of hair, ‘that you have some dubious contact within the wine trade and that there are at least three bottles of something of which Father Laurentinus would be most disapproving beneath your cot. A bottle of said beverage in return for my silence over your illicit braies should be an acceptable trade.’
Neat hair glared at his companion and Cesare was forced to clear his throat to make their presence known.
‘Eavesdropping is a wicked habit, young man,’ the neater-haired of the two garbled in his strange accent. ‘And eavesdropping on blessed sons of the Church could land a man in a whole heap of trouble. The wrath of God could be unleashed!’
‘Or the wrath of Alba, anyway,’ grinned the grey one, settling his gaze on Cesare. ‘Young Orsini, in the living flesh. You once told me that wild horses and a cart full of demons could not drag you to this city. Has the change in our Holy Father so readily eased your fears?’
Cesare smiled. ‘It is a matter of priorities, father Bartholomew. Without wishing to sound rude or impolitic, we have matters of a delicate nature to discuss. Perhaps we could find somewhere private?’
The neater
of the two canons looked at his companion, and father Bartholomew simply shrugged. ‘There is nowhere in the monastery more secluded than this garden during the heat of the day, and even given the nature of the business upon which I suspect you have come, you will find my friend Father Alexander here quite safe to speak in front of. He and I are partners in ecclesiastical crime, so to speak.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Silk braies indeed!’
The nobleman studied the other cleric for a long moment and then bowed at the waist.
‘Cesare Orsini, once the student of this fine man of God. Might I ask as to your place of origin, father? I cannot place your accent and it most assuredly is not Italian.’
The neater of the pair slapped his hands on his knees in a business-like fashion. ‘Young man, I am Father Alexander, formerly of clan Keith, from the holding of Dunottar in distant Scotland.’
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Father Alexander. If Bartholomew here trusts you then I would be advised to follow suit.’ He turned to his old confessor. ‘Father, I am here with my companions - a notable Lance of Condottieri - regarding matters upon which we have corresponded this past year.’
Skiouros watched the eyes of the two priests with interest, given the circumspect nature of Cesare’s words. A guarded acknowledgement arose in Bartholomew’s. Oddly, Father Alexander’s eyes also betrayed neither surprise nor interest. Either he could not care less, or he was already party to the matter.
‘The pretender sultan,’ sighed Bartholomew. Skiouros watched the other priest intently. His gaze did not even flicker. He knew, then. Cesare seemed to have reached the same conclusion, simply raising his eyebrow questioningly at the second cleric. Father Alexander smiled. ‘We are brothers of the soul, young man. We share everything.’
‘Except wine and silk braies,’ retorted Bartholomew with a meaningful look.
‘It would be unseemly and perhaps physically difficult for us to share braies, brother. As for the wine, the coming evening will tell.’ The second priest smiled at Cesare. ‘I cannot pretend to understand your interest in the Turkish prisoner, but I am as guilty of making a discrete enquiry on your behalf as Barty is.’
Parmenio and Nicolo both wore expressions that revealed their own misgivings over the involvement of an unknown, but all four of them were aware that the deed had already been done and the matter shared. Whether they liked it or not, Father Alexander was party to the affair.
‘Firstly, Fathers, we are newly arrived and I do not wish to become embroiled in the city until we are thoroughly prepared. I wondered whether you had any suggestions of a good place for the four of us and our two friends at the gate to reside until we are ready? As you know it has been many years since I was here, and my friends are all new to Rome.’
The two clerics looked at one another and shrugged. ‘I will speak on your behalf with Father Laurentinus. We shall secure you a place in the guest house. With the way things are at the moment, pilgrimages here are at a low ebb, and there are rarely more than two or three visitors. There will be plenty of room for all six of you there for the foreseeable future.’
Skiouros glanced back uncomfortably at the church. Memories of the chanting monks on the docks in Spain and of heretics hanging in cages and on gibbets all across that land leapt into his head. ‘Perhaps somewhere more secular might be advisable?’ he nudged Orsini subtly.
‘Nonsense,’ grinned Father Bartholomew. ‘We have the room, the comforts, the anonymity and the aid that you require. You need not fear for yourself young man. I will offer my hand and my protection as far as it will reach. So putting aside the matter of accommodation, what else is on your mind, young Orsini? I cannot believe you sought me out for hostelry advice?’
‘Naturally, Father. Could I enquire as to the latest on Prince Cem’s situation? We have heard some interesting rumours regarding him and the intentions of the King of France.’
Father Bartholomew folded his arms and leaned back on the bench, crossing his legs. ‘Little has changed in that regard, Cesare. For all the talk of King Charles marching on Rome to take the Turk into custody, His Holiness continues to hold Cem in the Vatican, allowing him the lifestyle of a courtier.’ It struck Skiouros as he watched the cleric’s face that Father Bartholomew was a man given to good nature and humour and was almost perilously open and accommodating, and yet something dark and dangerous flashed into his eyes at the mere mention of the Turk.
‘Courtiers are not hard to get to,’ Parmenio said quietly. ‘Easier than prisoners, anyway.’
The Father shook his head. ‘Merely gaining access to the Vatican is troublesome these days. Noblemen and mercenaries such as yourselves have more chance of rising through the air on a strong gust than walking the hallowed corridors of the apostolic palace. With so many cardinals and churchmen setting themselves against His Holiness, only those of us in the cloth who have been approved are given free access.’
Father Keith nodded. ‘I myself have only been accorded direct access once since the pascha crucifixionis, and even then I was under the escort of a member of the apostolic camera and two of His Holiness’ Catalan guards. And I am considered no threat to his papacy.’
Nicolo pursed his lips. ‘So security is tight.’
‘Always. And even at the occasional social events to which Cem Sultan is invited, he is inevitably surrounded by such a crowd of Hospitaller Knights that he looks like a gaudy bauble amid a congregation of magpies.’
‘We need access to the pretender sultan, Father Bartholomew,’ Cesare urged in low tones.
The priest sighed uncomfortably. ‘I am in something of a quandary, my young friend. I wish to help you as much as I can and yet I am hampered by my lack of specific knowledge with regard to your aims.’ As Cesare opened his mouth to reply, Bartholomew held up a silencing finger. ‘However, I do not wish to know the details, and neither does Alexander here.’
Skiouros saw the momentary flash of disappointment on the other priest’s face and almost smiled. Father Alexander clearly did wish to.
‘Even in these days of bloodshed and chaos in the halls of the blessed, murder is a sin of the deepest foulness and so I choose to believe that you require access to the sultan in order to put a proposal to him. Do not rob me of that. I have no wish to hear your confessions after the darkest of deeds.’
Cesare nodded. ‘We were planning to secure a contract with the Vatican forces. Though I understand the Pope hires only the stronger of the condottieri and we are but a single lance, we have a glowing letter of recommendation from the lord of Orvieto.’
Father Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Forgetting for a moment the fact that the Vatican does not pay its mercenaries well, no matter what you have heard, but relies upon the piety of its hirelings and the prestige they win from the contract, there is one prime reason not to seek such a position.’
Cesare frowned. ‘Because of the French?’
‘Because of the French. With the impending threat of invasion, His Holiness is indeed increasing his army, and you would likely secure such a contract with ease, but it would send you to war with Charles of France.’
‘Frankly,’ Nicolo shrugged, ‘I am no more afraid of fighting the French than any other man.’
‘But,’ sighed Cesare, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder, ‘the Pope will not wish to fight the French in the halls of the apostolic palace. The Vatican army will deploy in Charles’ path, along with every supporting city-state upon which the Pope can call. If we proceed with our plan, rather than achieving access to the Vatican, we will end up lurking in a ditch somewhere in deepest Umbria awaiting the sound of the French cannons. We would, in fact, be moving ever further from our goal rather than towards it.’
Skiouros closed his eyes and kicked angrily at a pebble on the path. ‘Damn it!’ He ignored the looks of disapproval at his curse from the two clerics. ‘Months of planning undone!’
‘In fact,’ Father Bartholomew sighed, ‘I would be happier if you were to leave Rome anyway until thi
s crisis had passed, though perhaps east, away from the coming war. I do not relish the thought of having to write to your father with the bleakest of news.’ His eyes flicked up to Skiouros. ‘Remember that vengeance is a harsh taskmaster, which as oft destroys the perpetrator as the target.’
‘I said something similar to my friend back in Genoa,’ Cesare shrugged. ‘I am afraid that we must stay and we must act soon. Our business with the sultan will be rather more troublesome if he is whisked away by the French and taken on a holy crusade. If service to the Vatican army will not gain us the access we require, we must needs find another way.’
Father Alexander tapped his lip thoughtfully. ‘There might be another way, Barty.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘His Holiness is not the only resident of the Vatican with a tendency to hire condottieri…’
Father Bartholomew smiled. ‘One of the more martially-minded cardinals? Dubious, though. Many of them are at odds with the Holy Father, and loyalties change every few minutes. Sadly, in the modern church, allegiances may as well be written upon holy water.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You have someone in mind, though?’
‘I do. And if he is amenable, it might gain your friends the access they require.’
‘You would approach him?’
Father Alexander smiled. ‘I have been of service to him in the past, as have you. He will at least listen to my words if not my advice.’
Skiouros shared a look of qualified hope with Cesare and the latter cleared his throat again. ‘How would we go about signing on with this man? You would make the introductions?’
Father Bartholomew rose, rubbing his back. ‘Leave that to Alexander. I will show you to the guest quarters and get you and your men settled in. You may have a while to wait, so get used to the place and have a bite to eat. We will send to you when there is progress.’
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