The Usual Santas

by Peter Lovesey

  “Yes?”

  Eggers told her who they were and showed his ID. “We had a report from a passenger on the metro who saw someone fall from a balcony in this area. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

  A whimpering came from within the apartment. It sounded like a baby.

  “Just a moment,” she said, and closed the door in their faces.

  Eggers and Janus glanced at each other.

  “She looks a little tense,” Eggers muttered.

  Then the door opened again, and this time she held a very small baby in her arms. “Sorry,” she said. “We just got home from the hospital and it’s all a bit new to him.”

  The baby made a low murmuring sound, and Janus instinctively smiled. Lord. Such a tiny little human. No wonder his mother wasn’t too pleased about the disturbance. She was looking at the baby, not at them, and even Eggers was thawing out a bit, Janus noticed. There was something to this mother-and-child thing.

  “Like I said, we just want to know, have you noticed anything?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “It couldn’t have been here.”

  “There was a van over here a little bit ago,” Eggers said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “It was the plumber. There’s something wrong with the heat, and now we have the baby . . . we have to get it fixed.”

  “Sure, of course. Well. Have a nice evening.” The woman nodded and closed the door.

  “I bet that plumber was after a little undeclared income,” Eggers said.

  “Yeah. But it’s not our business right now.”

  They walked back to the car. The snow felt even wetter and heavier now. Janus wished he’d at least brought along an extra pair of socks.

  Taghi was elated when the police left. It was as if he’d forgotten all about threatening her with a knife a minute ago.

  “It was the plumber . . .” he said, in a strange falsetto mimicking her voice. “Fuck, you were good! They totally bought it.”

  It took a moment for Nina to answer. “Get out, Taghi,” she said. “Don’t think for one second that I did it for you.”

  He came down like a punctured balloon. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a little crazy, I think.”

  “Just leave. And don’t call me again.” She remembered her cell phone and got him to fish it out of the toilet bowl.

  “It doesn’t work anymore,” he said.

  “No. But I’m not leaving it for anyone to find.”

  ***

  All the way across the bridge Chaltu sat with her eyes closed, praying, as if she didn’t dare hope she could make it without divine intervention. Nina let her off at the University Medical Center in Malmø and tried to make it clear to her that she should wait until Nina had left before saying the only three Swedish words she knew. Chaltu nodded.

  “Okay, secret doctor,” she said.

  Nina looked at her watch. 11:03. With a little luck her mother would already be in bed when she got home.

  ***

  The snow turned slowly into rain. The gray slush around the building in Ørestaden was melting into the mud. The blood of Torsten Brahge mixed with the rain seeping into the sheetrock, which eventually grew so pulpy that not even Beni in Valby would be able to find a use for it.

  The Prince (of Peace)

  by Gary Corby

  Gary Corby lives in Sydney, Australia, with his wife and two daughters. He blogs at A Dead Man Fell from the Sky, on all things ancient, Athenian, and mysterious. He is the author of six critically acclaimed mysteries set in 4th century BC Greece and feature Nicolaos, agent for the statesman Pericles and who, together with his clever priestess wife, Diotima, investigates murders in Classical Athens: The Pericles Commission, The Ionia Sanction, Sacred Games, The Marathon Conspiracy, Death Ex Machina, and The Singer from Memphis.

  “We must consider Christmas to be a necessary evil,” said Niccolo Machiavelli. “For you are to consider that there is no surer sign of the degradation of the state than that its people disregard the rites of their religion.”

  Cesare Borgia laughed. “You will hear no argument from me, the son of a Pope,” he said. He sprawled across a large, ornate chair of carved wood and plush velvet. In one hand he held a silver goblet of fine wine, in the other a festive pie of spiced meats. His entire manner was relaxed, even friendly.

  Borgia paused to drain his cup. He placed it empty upon a gold table beside him. A servant instantly refilled it.

  Borgia observed that Machiavelli’s cup remained full.

  “You do not drink, Signor Machiavelli. Does the wine not please you?”

  “It does, my Lord Duke, but my habits have always been abstemious. It’s my digestion, you understand.”

  “Then that explains why you are so thin.”

  Machiavelli was indeed thin, and tall, and dark, and his face was as ascetic as his reputation. Despite which this son of a modest lawyer had by the power of his pleasant conversation and his incisive mind risen to become secretary to the most powerful of Florence. He was their most valued ambassador, in which capacity he was here in the city of Cesena, at the court of Cesare Borgia.

  “Yet your words do not entirely resonate with me,” said Borgia. “The people certainly think Christmas is necessary, but why do you say that it is evil?”

  “The inefficiency, my Lord, and the sloppy thinking that comes with merriment,” Machiavelli said.

  “This is a problem?” Borgia asked.

  “Of course, my Lord,” Machiavelli said. In Machiavelli’s world, there was nothing more abhorrent than imprecise thinking.

  “Then there is the difficulty of presents,” Machiavelli went on. “How much to give, and to whom?”

  “I do not understand,” said Borgia.

  “Consider the case of two members of a family, two brothers for example. What happens if one gives the other a present of great value, while the other gives a token of affection that might be sentimental but is of low value? Does not such an imbalance sow discord within the family union?”

  “In my family, when we receive a gift, we tend to inspect it very carefully for hidden poisons,” Borgia commented.

  “Yes, my Lord, very wise.” Machiavelli gave a slight bow from where he sat. He reflected that he had not perhaps chosen the best possible example with this man, who was widely believed to have murdered his own brother. Machiavelli hurried on, to smooth over the slight faux pas. “Then again, consider the case of a man who gives a present to his neighbor, but receives none in return. One of these two has miscalculated the strength of their relationship. One has valued it too highly, or the other too lightly. In either case, resentment is sure to linger, so that at some future time when neighborly accord is required, there will instead be an underlying discord that could have been entirely avoided, if only Christmas did not require the giving of presents.”

  Borgia rubbed his chin in thought. “There is something in what you say,” he conceded. “I had never considered the matter in those terms.”

  “This issue of gifts is a puzzle to perplex even the greatest students of political thought,” Machiavelli said. “I confess I have never mastered the problem.”

  “Perhaps you should give it some thought,” suggested Borgia.

  “I will, my Lord.”

  ***

  Later, in the dark, chilly early hours of the morning, Machiavelli went for a walk to think about the reasons for gift-giving—which were quite mysterious to him—and to consider his many problems concerning Borgia: of the necessity to maintain good relations with this most powerful man, while at the same time not giving him what he wanted.

  For Machiavelli was on a mission of the greatest importance to Florence. Borgia had demanded of the free city of Florence that they appoint him commander of their militia, and the Florentines had immediately dispatched Machiavelli to deal with Borgia, with orders to
make sure this never happened. The Florentines would not have Borgia at any price.

  Machiavelli made his way through the slightly labyrinthine corridors of the Rocca Malatestiana, the great fortress of Cesena. The fortress was newly built and among the toughest in Italy, the main reason Borgia had set up his headquarters and home in Cesena rather than one of the more fashionable cities. Machiavelli’s steps echoed in the near-empty passages. Guards saluted as he passed by.

  The garden outside the fortress walls was quiet. Machiavelli had never been one for gardens, especially not in mid-winter. He passed through quickly to the city square beyond, the Piazza del Popolo, the piazza of the people.

  A dim pre-dawn now arose to give some form to the shadows of the crisp December morning, and though there was a fine white covering of clean snow, there was none falling to cloud the vision. It promised to be a beautiful day, though Machiavelli observed that the nearby row of gallows and the headsman’s block in the center of the square somewhat detracted from the festive spirit. Dark stains upon the chopping block looked ominously fresh, and several corpses were suspended from the gallows in various states of decay. Early risers passed by without looking up.

  When Borgia had captured Cesena he had found the city to be in a terrible state, its officials incompetent and corrupt (a state can tolerate one or the other, but never both). Borgia had assigned his lieutenant Ramiro De Lorca to clear up the problem. De Lorca had proven even more cruel, vicious and in some ways more devious than his master. Corruption had disappeared almost overnight, as indeed had the corrupt, mostly to unmarked graves beyond the city walls. But De Lorca had not stopped with the criminals; unfortunately for the people of Cesena, De Lorca enjoyed his bloody work.

  Machiavelli noticed a woman and her two children, boys of seven or eight, who stood beneath the body of a hanged man, recently dead. The woman had her arms around the boys, who wept into their hands. Machiavelli had no trouble guessing the relationship, but was inquisitive as to the cause of the disaster. This family was too well dressed to be beggars, not rich enough to be a threat to the state. The man had been an artisan, perhaps. What could he have done to earn his fate?

  Machiavelli approached. He said, respectfully, “Madam, I grieve to see you in this state. May I ask, what brought this about?”

  “He spoke out against all the arrests,” the woman said, in misery. “He said it was unfair. That’s all he did, sir. I swear to you.”

  “Ah.” An honest man then, who could not keep his mouth shut. They were usually the first to go.

  The woman’s information was valuable to Machiavelli. It told him that De Lorca had begun a terror, but that it had not yet reached the stage where wealthy men were executed for their gold and mansions. But that would surely come. Machiavelli gave it six months before this city of Cesena would be ripe for rebellion. It was a fact that Florence could use.

  “And your property?” Machiavelli asked, though he anticipated the answer.

  “Confiscated,” the woman said. “We must find succor, or we will starve. I have a sister in Ravenna, though how we will get there, penniless, I do not know.”

  “I do.” Machiavelli felt he owed her for her information.

  Machiavelli knew the family would need to depart as soon as possible. The sight of the father could only be distressing to the boys, and they certainly did not want to see what was to come, for the executed are normally left to hang as long as possible, as a reminder to others. The only good thing to be said of dead bodies in winter is that the cold tends to delay the inevitable. It would be a day or so before the miasma of degradation became overpowering.

  Beside the Cathedral of Cesena was the Hospital of Saint Thomas. Like most hospitals, it was the stopping place for holy travelers on their way elsewhere.

  Machiavelli led the woman and children to this place. It was in a poor state of repair, but the rushes that covered the floor were at least clean and fresh, which was a good thing, for it was the only place to sleep. In a distant room someone was cooking a stew, from the smell. The man in charge was a Franciscan, who was almost as gaunt as the poor people he tended. Machiavelli spoke to him.

  “Brother, I feel sure that at some point there will be pilgrims passing through here on their way to Ravenna.”

  “It is quite common,” the brother agreed.

  “I should like you to select such a group with whom this orphaned family will be safe.” Machiavelli presented the woman and her sons.

  The brother looked doubtful.

  “This for their expenses, and for your trouble.” Machiavelli handed the brother a small bag of coins. The brother felt the weight, heard the jangle, and smiled.

  “It shall be as you say. You are generous, sir.”

  The money was nothing to Machiavelli. He cared as little for avarice as he did for comfort. What he lived for was the cutting edge of deadly politics.

  ***

  A guard approached Machiavelli as he left the hospital. It wasn’t one of Borgia’s men, but a man dressed in the colors of the city.

  “Sir, I believe you are the esteemed Ambassador of the Florentines, Signor Machiavelli?” the man asked, though it was obvious he already knew the answer.

  “Indeed,” Machiavelli said.

  “Your presence is requested, Signor Machiavelli.”

  “By whom?” Machiavelli assumed his most haughty posture and looked down his nose at the soldier. The fellow’s manner had been polite, but his words a little too presumptive for Machiavelli’s taste.

  “By his Excellency the Governor of Cesena, Ramiro De Lorca.” The soldier sweated slightly.

  “Please tell his Excellency that I will be with him as soon as practicable,” Machiavelli said brusquely. He intended to make De Lorca wait an hour or two, to make a point, particularly since De Lorca was not the object of his mission.

  The soldier swallowed, then said, “His Excellency commands your presence at once, my Lord Ambassador.”

  Now Machiavelli truly was taken aback. De Lorca was Borgia’s creature. If Borgia had an issue with Machiavelli, he would have dealt with the Florentine directly. What then was this De Lorca playing at?

  “In that case, I will allow you to lead me to your master,” Machiavelli said.

  ***

  They led him to the Rocchetta di Piazza—the little fortress in the piazza—a ludicrously ornate stronghold with its own loggia. It stood proud beyond its station. De Lorca had his offices in this little fortress, just as his master Borgia held the true fortress further away.

  De Lorca was like most Spaniards: of dark complexion for a European, stocky, sporting a finely manicured beard, and unfailingly courteous.

  He rose from behind his desk as Machiavelli entered the sumptuous office.

  “I apologize for the abrupt invitation,” De Lorca said before Machiavelli had a chance to complain of his treatment. “Unfortunately, it was necessary.”

  De Lorca led Machiavelli to a chair. Machiavelli noted that de Lorca had passed by two others of more cushioned design to offer Machiavelli a chair more to his liking with a straighter back. Someone had told him that Machiavelli disliked soft chairs. De Lorca may have been abrupt in his invitation, but he had taken the time to research his guest. Machiavelli was favorably impressed.

  “May I begin by wishing you the joys of the season?” De Lorca said. He gestured to a servant, who brought wine and the inevitable festive pie. Machiavelli hated festive pies.

  “Thank you,” Machiavelli said. “Your request was apparently quite urgent.”

  “It is, and of great delicacy,” De Lorca said, sitting down opposite Machiavelli. He sounded sincere. “I would like to discuss with you the assassination of our mutual friend, Cesare Borgia.”

  Machiavelli blinked in shock. It was the only outward expression he allowed himself. Conspiracy was an everyday part of Italian politics, but one didn
’t normally discuss the details quite so openly until after the corpses were on the floor.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “For a very good reason, my dear Ambassador. The fact is that the position of Florence in this matter is of some interest. I am well aware that you are here to block Borgia’s ambitions, not promote them. If there was any chance of Florence accepting Borgia, it would already have happened.”

  “Is Borgia aware of this?” Machiavelli asked.

  “He is not stupid. He knows, but bides his time. Sooner or later he will lose patience. Before that happens, it is in your interests that he be removed.”

  De Lorca’s words coincided with what Machiavelli himself thought.

  “Borgia’s removal is likely to upset His Holiness, Pope Alexander,” De Lorca said.

  Machiavelli reflected that was an understatement of epic proportions.

  “His Holiness will respond,” De Lorca said. “If I am to hold Cesena, I will require assistance.”

  “Ah, then I understand why we are speaking. You want support from Florence.” Machiavelli raised an eyebrow.

  “From Florence,” De Lorca affirmed. “You wish to understand why I am doing this, of course.”

  “The question did cross my mind,” Machiavelli said.

  “Then let me say at once that I think you are a man much like me, Signor Machiavelli,” said De Lorca.

  “I cannot imagine what you mean,” Machiavelli said, for he could not recall ever having hanged a man, nor caused a man to be beheaded, nor terrorized a city. Machiavelli found the thought of any similarity to De Lorca distasteful.

  “I mean that you come from a family that has fallen on hard times,” De Lorca explained. “Your father is a lawyer, is he not?”

  “He practices law,” Machiavelli acknowledged. He did not add that his father had never been admitted to the guild of lawyers. A crushing family debt, inherited from his grandfather, had put paid to that hope.

  “And yet it is said that your family is descended of the past distant rulers of Tuscany,” De Lorca said. “Your family was once great.”