Assassin's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

A bunching of muscles and he sprang, landing atop the narrow wall and almost tipping straight down the other side. As his breath calmed, he secured his equilibrium and rose to his toes, balancing carefully. It was perhaps thirty yards to the point where they would be hidden from view by the building for which they were aiming. Carefully he took half a dozen steps along until he was in the open. As he turned back to the others, the first heavy drip of rain blatted against his forehead.

  Wonderful!

  In a few minutes, a high, narrow wall would become a high, narrow, slippery wall…

  As he opened his mouth to whisper for the next man to join him, Girolamo leapt. His landing was not particularly graceful, but he made it safely enough and rose to his feet, shuffling along to Skiouros and urging him on. As the Greek moved out of his way, he watched Helwyg cast the rope across, which was caught by the crossbowman and anchored on a protruding brick. Not wonderfully safe, but it would make the others’ crossing so much easier.

  Skiouros watched with held breath as the Silesian crossed the gap with little grace and had to be grabbed by Girolamo so as not to fall again. As soon as Helwyg was secure, Skiouros turned his attention to the next stage, happy that if the big man could cross then so could the others.

  Carefully, and as quietly as he could, he made his way along the wall, listening to the muted conversation of the guards in the yard, which was becoming slowly less audible beneath the rising din of the rain, which was now starting to come down with force. Skiouros had become used to Roman rain these recent months, and knew that they had minutes at most until this spatter of fat droplets became a torrential downpour.

  Finally, gratefully, he slid out of sight behind the bulk of the building, his eyes locked on the window from which golden light issued. Glancing back, he could see that all his companions were safely on the wall, and were now removing the rope - shaking the coiled loop free - to bring with them. With a nod to Girolamo at the front, Skiouros turned and took a deep breath. Wishing he had his old soft leather boots rather than these clumping military things he’d picked up in the autumn, he failed to curl his toes over the wall’s edge and instead threw up a prayer to the Lord and leapt out into the open air.

  It was only ten or twelve feet down to the yard, but that would be enough to make a return to the wall top extremely troublesome and time consuming. And potentially painful, too, of course.

  His fingers closed on the sill of the open window and he gripped tight as he slammed hard against the wall, the wind driven from his breast for a moment. Then carefully, yet with speed, he hauled himself up to the window and dropped inside, hurriedly rising to his feet in case of unforeseen enemy presence.

  Cardinal Borgia stood in the centre of the room, a travelling cloak already about his shoulders.

  ‘What kept you?’

  Skiouros heaved out a breath. ‘We need to go now, Eminence. The rain is getting worse and that will make the wall more dangerous.’ He paused. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll need to change first.’

  Borgia raised one eyebrow, but began to remove his travelling cloak and doublet without question.

  ‘We have a groom’s clothes for you, Eminence. A man who bore a passing resemblance to yourself.’

  ‘I would say lucky him,’ Borgia smiled as he unlaced his doublet. ‘But I suspect he is not feeling very lucky at the moment.’

  ‘He will live, Eminence.’ Turning his back, Skiouros peered out of the window. Girolamo was waiting on the wall with a bundle. As Skiouros gestured, the crossbowman threw the wad of clothing to him. Skiouros rolled his eyes as the grey hose and rough leather doublet fell to the paving below, but he caught the tabard by some stroke of luck. With an irritated shake of the head to Girolamo, he turned to the cardinal. ‘You might as well leave the doublet on, Eminence. Just throw this tabard over the top and muss up your hair and beard like a commoner.’

  Borgia did as he was bid and Skiouros turned back with another gesture to the wall top. This time, Girolamo tossed over the rope. Skiouros glared at the man as the rope fell into the wide gap between buildings. Though he couldn’t shout, and a whisper would go unheard in the increasing rain, Skiouros tried to convey his feelings in a glance: How could such an accomplished marksman not hit a wide, bright window with a bundle of clothes or a rope?

  Clearly the crossbowman’s broken arm some half-a-year back was still not quite right. Quickly, Girolamo wound back in the rope and coiled it for another try. This time, Skiouros caught the end and secured it to the solid leg of a huge, heavy oak table in the room.

  ‘You first, Eminence.’

  As the cardinal climbed up to the window, Skiouros saw Helwyg cast the rest of the rope down the outside of the perimeter wall and, gripping it tight, slide down it and out of view. With the giant’s weight on the other end, it went taut and at a nod from Girolamo, Skiouros urged the cardinal out onto the rope, where he gripped the line with both hands and looped his legs over it, crossing his ankles and then quickly - and rather lithely for a cardinal - shuffled along it to the wall.

  Skiouros waited until the cardinal had been helped up onto the wall at the other end and then began the crossing himself, illuminated by another flash of light, blanketed in the clouds. By the time he reached the wall top, the only other person still there was Orsini, who gestured for him to go next. Skiouros nodded, and almost slipped from the wet wall as there was a fresh crack of thunder and the rain suddenly increased in intensity tenfold, coming down with such force that it was hard to see anything, his vision akin to a view through a waterfall.

  ‘Good thinking,’ Borgia was saying as they landed in the alley. ‘The tabard, I mean. No one we bump into in town will look twice at a groom.’ Orsini nodded. ‘We have our uniforms in the alley opposite. In less than ten minutes we can be at the walls, hopefully without raising an alarm. My only worry is what happens at the gate. I can argue most cases, and there are a thousand reasons for a groom to be leaving the city, even in the company of guards, but not in the middle of the night and in a rain storm.’

  The Cardinal nodded. ‘Fear not, Orsini. Close to the church whose belfry you can just see over there is a postern gate. It is guarded, but only by one man. A good condottiere should be able to open the way for us easily enough. The only difficulty would be not being heard from the walls, but I suspect the rain will deal with that for us.’

  Orsini nodded his clear relief. ‘And then we find Francesco del Sacco, retrieve the horses and ride for Rome, yes?’

  ‘After a fashion,’ the cardinal laughed lightly. ‘I have urgent business in Rome and beyond - far away from the French - but I think you will have once last task to perform for me, I’m afraid.’

  Leaving Velletri had proved to be a far easier prospect than entering it had been. Overcoming the one guard at the small, generally-unused postern gate had been a simple enough matter, and Helwyg had hit the man hard enough that he probably wouldn’t wake until there was a new pope.

  Twenty minutes later they had been back at the cart track where their own kit waited, along with their horses. They had abandoned the tunics, pikes and helmets of the town guard in a small copse and walked their beasts the five minutes to the unused barn where Captain Francesco del Sacco waited with Borgia’s horse and important baggage. Back in their own clothes, the eight men had begun the ride north along the Via Appia towards Rome at speed, for fear of the French giving chase.

  Now, some twenty minutes later, having moved alternately at a canter and a gallop in order to eat up the miles without breaking the horses, they slowed at Cardinal Borgia’s gesture as they made their way up the steep slope from the stream bank towards the vertiginous streets of Albano.

  The rain was coming down in a continual sheet of water now, punctuated by the blinding flashes of light and crashes of thunder, though the latter had clearly just passed over Albano and was now working its way south, leaving torrential rain in its wake.

  The riders slowed to a trot, drenched and cold, water running from their extrem
ities and blattering down to the street, which ran like a shallow river, carrying dirt and refuse with it. Finally, as they reached the crest of the slope that carried the Appian Way up into town, Borgia signalled for a stop.

  ‘This, my friends, is where we part ways,’ he called loudly enough to be heard above the rain. ‘And, sadly, for now, I think we shall part services as well.’

  Orsini leaned back in his saddle, giving the cardinal a questioning look.

  ‘I will be required to disappear for a while,’ Borgia shouted. ‘Else His Holiness could find himself in an embarrassing position. He can currently tell King Charles with all honesty that he has no idea where I am, and I intend for things to remain that way. You have served well in my household and when this affair is over, should you find yourself in Rome, you can be sure of a new contract.’

  Orsini shook his head. ‘Eminence, you of all people must know that to break the terms of the condotta would…’

  The cardinal smiled and slapped a reassuring hand on Orsini’s shoulder with a squelch. ‘I have no intention of breaking our agreement. You will continue to receive your pay, which will be placed in the account with the Medici house, as well as your final payment and a substantial bonus for your recent work. Moreover, I will waive the usual restrictions on change of service and will make sure that the authorities in Rome are aware of your loyalty and aptitude. If you do wish to re-employ with me, I would ask that you avoid any contact until after the French have left the peninsula and have embarked upon their crusade, and then seek me out through the Vatican offices. I trust that these conditions meet with your approval?’

  Orsini nodded his agreement, and Skiouros felt a horrible conflict coursing through him as fast as the rainfall upon him. Leaving the cardinal’s service effectively severed any links with the Papal household and negated all their efforts in attempting to get close to Cem. But then the pretender Sultan was no longer in Papal custody anyway, and there seemed little likelihood that continued service to the Borgias would bring them any closer.

  ‘Our last task?’ Orsini prompted.

  The cardinal rolled his shoulders. ‘The French will be well aware of my departure by now. The guards had taken it upon themselves to check in on me once every hour or so. As we crossed the countryside and made for the horses, we heard bells pealing in the city, but it was not to mark the hour. Rest assured that French horsemen are even now on our trail. They will not need to track us - everyone will assume we are heading for Rome.’

  ‘But you are not, Eminence?’

  ‘My destination is now none of your concern, Orsini, but I do require a little more certainty that I will reach it unmolested. Consequently, we will part ways here. Del Sacco and I will ride north and make for a safe house. You and your men will remain in Albano and waylay the French pursuit.’

  ‘Now I understand why you had us spend last night here,’ Orsini smiled his understanding. ‘Familiarising ourselves with the city.’

  ‘Indeed. I care not whether the French dogs live or die, but I require at least an extra hour lead on them. Can you do that for me?’

  Orsini laughed. ‘Of course, your Eminence. God go with you.’

  ‘And with you, condottiere. Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.’

  With a twin-fingered signing of the cross, Borgia inclined his head in respect and then wheeled his horse, his turncoat friend joining him as they broke into a canter, clattering along the ancient paving of the Via Appia north through the city in the direction of Rome.

  As soon as they were out of sight and the sound of their hooves was masked by the hammering of the rain, Orsini cleared his throat and raised his voice over the din once more.

  ‘I think we need to settle upon a new plan in due course, but in the meantime we must deal with the French pursuit. Thoughts?’

  Girolamo shrugged. ‘There were only four horses in the compound stables. That means that the French soldiers with the cardinal were infantry with a few officers, and not cavalry. Even if they commandeer steeds from the city guard, there will be few competent riders among them. I cannot see any likelihood of more than a dozen men in pursuit.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Orsini nodded. ‘And they will not be looking for anything other than the cardinal himself and an accomplice. They will most certainly send a rider or two to Marino to warn the larger French force of what has happened, and then on to Rome, where the bulk of Charles’ army is still preparing to leave. But any rider will have to come through Albano unless he feels like riding through thick forest around the lake. Borgia chose his spot well. We are almost guaranteed they will all pass through here.’

  ‘A thought occurs,’ Parmenio coughed and everyone turned to him. ‘I assume that everyone else has made the natural leap in assumption that our next move is going to have to be siding with the French?’

  ‘Possibly, though nothing is certain yet.’

  ‘Then we either have to imprison these men without their seeing us clearly and being able to report on us, or we have to kill them all and leave no witnesses. Otherwise there is every chance that we will be actively targeted by the French and will never get close to Cem again.’

  Skiouros nodded. Deep in his heart he was still troubled by his faltering blade that day in the castle, but unless he wanted to spend his life knowing that Lykaion lay unavenged and with the face of Bayamanaco burning on his arm, he would have to grit his teeth and finish the job.

  ‘Did these Frenchmen do anything to us?’ he asked, more concerned than usual over the idea of killing men with whom he had no issue.

  ‘If you need to focus on anything to drive your sword arm,’ Nicolo rumbled, ‘just remember all those screams of women and children you heard across the river in Rome, where the occupying Frenchmen - men just like these ones - raped, murdered and looted with gay abandon. I for one will lose no sleep in the knowledge that half a dozen of them are sliding down the slope to Hell.’

  There was a moment’s silence as the roar of the rain insisted itself upon them, and they all nodded solemnly. Nicolo had made a point that would drive each of their blades this night.

  ‘Very well,’ Parmenio said quietly. ‘How do we do this?’

  ‘We split up,’ Orsini replied. ‘The French will be looking for Borgia and for a man who aided him. I am well-dressed and with a similar hair colour. If I hunch in the saddle, there is a good chance they will mistake me for the cardinal and the man with me for my accomplice. That man will be Parmenio, I think. We will sit in the open until they spot us and will then turn and bolt up the hill, leading them with us.’

  ‘And the rest of us?’

  ‘Helwyg will wait at the northern end of the city with his rope. String it across the road to drop any riders and then deal with them. They will surely send one or more men on to Marino and Rome, so it is your job to stop them and prevent word of our actions reaching the French.’

  Helwyg nodded his understanding.

  ‘On his own?’ Skiouros frowned but Helwyg grinned. ‘Unfair, no? I outnumber French, maybe one to three?’

  ‘I think we can rely upon Helwyg’s abilities. Similarly, Girolamo will return to the southern end and take up position to watch for any further pursuit and prevent any survivors making a break for Velletri. However many come, we want to contain them and not risk their sending for friends.’

  The crossbowman nodded professionally.

  ‘This will come down to blades and to cunning,’ Orsini announced. ‘There will be no use for arquebuses or bows, as the powder and strings would become too damp to use in moments. I am of a mind to lead them up to the amphitheatre at the top of the hill. Yesterday I spent an hour strolling about up there, and it would be a good place to deal with them without drawing too much attention from the residents. Skiouros and Nicolo, you lie in wait up there and we shall spring an ambush there. Many of the arches are already blocked with rubble or earth and with four of us we should be able to pen them up in the arena and deal with them.’

&
nbsp; Skiouros and Nicolo looked at one another and nodded.

  ‘Alright. We may have only minutes, so let’s go.’

  Skiouros crouched low on the wet, slippery stonework high among the crumbling arches of the ancient amphitheatre which rose like the bones of a long-dead empire from the hillside above the city. The rain continued to pound down at a pace that astonished the Greek and would surely soon empty the sky and evaporate the clouds to reveal the panoply of stars beyond. Almost slipping for the hundredth time, he reached out and grasped the thick stem of the bush that grew from the crack in the wall, its roots eating away at the mortar.

  His eyes once more raked the slope below with as little result as the past dozen times. The rickety arches provided the best viewpoint of the city, which lay in an extended trapezium below, the two angled main streets converging on the high amphitheatre and then fanning out to intersect with the Appian way at the far end some two or three hundred feet below. However, with the continual curtain of vertical water, visibility was as poor as could be and despite his location, Skiouros could hardly see a few streets past the nearby church into the city, let alone way down to the main road or the hillside that continued to slope away beyond to the valley some three hundred feet lower again.

  Once more, he adjusted the hood of his sodden wool cloak, doing nothing to alleviate the cold or damp, but granting him a momentary relief from the feel of the cold, drenched wool sticking to his body. A fresh trickle of freezing water ran from the disturbed hood into his eyes and down his cheeks.

  Behind him, he could feel the gaze of Nicolo boring into his back. His friend had remained, sensibly, it seemed, on the lower parts of the amphitheatre, sheltering in one of the huge tunnels, most of which were blocked and filled with rubble, plant life and thick mud.

  A quick survey had revealed that the amphitheatre had until recently been in use as a cemetery, two Christian chapels having been carved out of the corpse of the Roman arena. Much of the stonework had been robbed over the centuries, but what remained was still a good oval amphitheatre with arcades along the downward slope towards the city, while the other side had been shaped from the solid rock of the hillside. With the robbed marble of the seats and the centuries of weather-wear of the carved side, it was difficult to clamber up the sloping sides, especially with the rain having turned them into cataracts of water tumbling into the oval centre as continual torrents.