Down: Trilogy Box Set (36 page)

“Not at all. Unlike Karl Marx, who was a contemporary of mine, though we never met, and to the best of my knowledge he did not end up here, I am not talking about a political philosophy, but a pragmatic way forward given the cards we have been dealt. I fought many a battle when I lived. For some I used the gun and the sword. For others I used words and the power of persuasion. There were successes and there were failures. But I believe my greatest victory, and the one that I have been told has secured me the most meaningful legacy, was the unification of my homeland. So that is my goal, John, our goal, the unification of Hell.”

Luca, Antonio, and Simon nodded solemnly while John, for his part, eyed the brandy. He had little patience for talk right now. He was farther away from Emily than he had been at any time in the past week and he felt like getting extremely drunk. But if he got too sloppy in front of his host he supposed he might regret it in the morning. So he opted for bland politeness.

“Unification? Sounds interesting.”

Antonio seemed to sense that John might be patronizing his master. “Interesting? Is that all you have to say? It is not interesting, signore. It is revolutionary.”

“Okay, revolutionary,” John said, no longer keen on sparring with the young man. “How do you plan to go about it?”

Garibaldi sipped at his brandy then licked his dry lips. “I have been quietly working toward this goal for much of my time here. Upon entering this realm my first concerns were no different from any new arrival, namely personal survival in such a cruel, dangerous land. In my case, I had died on the island of Caprera and fortunately, in my first, disoriented state I was aided by some peasants from my era who were already there. They hid me from an ancient old warlord who controlled the isle and later, spirited me away to Roma where I encountered more supporters and even a few of my old red-shirt comrades. I quickly learned that the only way to keep out of a rotting room, and perhaps even to prosper was to make oneself invaluable to the ruling powers. Imagine to my surprise when I learned that the King of Italia was the medieval prince, Cesare Borgia. To my mind, Borgia had been a historically minor character, certainly a lesser man than his father, Pope Alexander. I had expected someone more capable as king. But cunning and ruthless men may do well here, even if they were not among the greatest of statesmen during their lifetimes. Borgia, himself, once here, had to claw his way to the top, over the back of a more illustrious man than he, the venerable Emperor Nero, who Borgia defeated then kept impaled on a pike for several hundred years, I am told, until his appendages and head simply rotted off. Borgia in life was not a Roman. He was more of a northern man, and I learned he had established his palace in Milano to be nearer to his principal enemies in Europa. So I sent my allies as emissaries to tell him about my exploits in life and my wishes to be in his service as a military man. And in time, a meeting was arranged.”

“How’d that go?” John asked.

“He was cautious and highly suspicious. A king never wishes to lose his crown and he had kept his for centuries. It was clear I had to prove my worth. At first he gave me small tasks—overthrow this minor prince, steal that big-bosomed woman away from the court of a duke. Then the tasks grew in import and daring and after many decades I had insinuated myself into his inner circle and was granted a duchy along with this fine house. And with this base, I have quietly and discretely reached out to others in Italia and in other kingdoms who might share my vision for a better life. These good men here tonight are now among my loyal comrades. Believe me, there are many others.”

“Where do you go from here?” John asked.

“The plan is this: the next stage involves the overthrow of Borgia. Once I have his throne I will have his army. Once I have his army, I may endeavor to defeat the other kings of Europa. Once I have Europa, I would defeat the realms to the east, and then, the whole of this terrible world.”

“So one day you’re the king of Hell,” John said. “Then what?”

“I will unite all the men and women against our common enemy, Hell itself. I will abolish war. I will abolish slavery and ban the exchange of women as property. I will abolish hunger by having men cooperate on farming and livestock. I will have laws to treat men fairly and punish the wicked, for alas, though all of us here are wicked, some are much worse than others. There will be judges to administer these laws, men who, though they too deserve to be in Hell, have some virtues. Sadly, there are no children to teach, but we may nevertheless have schools to educate people and teach them skills. This will still be Hell, make no mistake, John, but it will be a more humane place with less suffering and pain.”

“But you’d be the king. Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” John said. “Don’t you think all this power would go to your head?”

“I would hope not, but if this happens, and I were to become abjectly evil, then I would expect that I would be toppled and replaced by a man who had my original intentions. Perhaps it would be one of these men here today.”

“If you’re able to pull it off at all, this plan of yours isn’t going to happen overnight.”

“John, the one commodity we have in abundance is time. Though I do burn with impatience, I have all the time in Hell at my disposal.”

“Okay, Giuseppe, good luck to you. I hope you succeed, but
I
don’t have all the time in the world. I’ve got to find Emily and get her back to Dartford in less than three weeks. If I don’t we’re going to be trapped here.”

“Then help us. Swiftly. Then we will help you free her from the clutches of King Frederick.”

John raised his arms in exasperation. “Just tell me what you think I can do for you. But let’s get on with it.” He pulled out his pocket watch and jabbed it with his finger. “We’re wasting this.”

“I have been told how you aided Henry to defeat the Iberians. Your knowledge of advanced weaponry is impressive. We will need new and more powerful weapons to vanquish Borgia. I can call on a few hundred men-at-arms to march on his fortress not far from here, but he has thousands at his disposal.”

“I made cannon for Henry. Do you have access to a forge?”

“Not a cannon forge, no. But smaller forges, yes. There are smithies who would follow me.”

John asked if he could get a look at the fortifications of Borgia’s palace in the morning. It could be arranged, he was told, but as he began to ask more questions, Garibaldi’s manservant abruptly entered and announced in Italian that they had a visitor.

“At this hour?” Garibaldi asked. “Who?”

“It is Duke Machiavelli.”

The other men looked alarmed.

John heard the name and said, “Tell me you’re not talking about
the
Machiavelli.”

“Niccolò Machiavelli, yes,” Garibaldi said. “He was Borgia’s man in life and he is Borgia’s man still. You studied his works in your military academy?”

“
The Prince
was required reading. The end always justifies the means, blah, blah.”

“He has reproduced the work here and I have a copy in my library. Please, Luca and Simon, take John upstairs. Antonio, stay close. I will see what the scoundrel wants.”

When Machiavelli entered, Garibaldi was trying his best to look composed. He stroked his dogs to calm them and looked up from the fire to say, “To what do I owe this pleasure, Niccolò?”

Machiavelli was tall and held himself ramrod straight. He was nearly sixty with a receding crop of short, gray hair, a long nose and a small mouth, seemingly more useful for nibbling than chomping.

“Borgia learned tonight that King Henry has defeated the Iberian armada,” Machiavelli announced breathlessly.

“What of it?” Garibaldi asked.

“Emboldened by his victory he has sailed to the Norse country and taken Gothenburg. It seems he is to strike Francia next.”

“Let him. Let both English and French noses be bloodied.”

“I might give the self-same counsel if not for this: it is my belief that when Barbarossa learns of Henry’s intentions, if his spies have not already informed him, that he will fear Henry will be successful and march on Germania next with a combined army. Therefore the Germans will likely decide to counter Henry on French soil, waiting only long enough for both the French and English to suffer their casualties, then attacking both weakened armies. It is not only I who has made this assessment. King Maximilien has informed us through his ambassador that he wishes an alliance with Italia to counter the hordes of invaders who are preparing to descend upon him. Borgia knows that if the Germans are victorious, then Italia may be the next piece on the board they will take. Therefore, Cesare desires to enter into this alliance with Francia and would have you prepare a war plan.”

“What, tonight?” Garibaldi chuckled. “This could not wait until the morning?”

“Cesare is an impatient man, Giuseppe. You know this. For some men impatience is a weakness, for him, it has always been a strength, for he uses his sense of urgency to strike decisively before his foes are prepared.”

“Well, I will begin to formulate a campaign in my bed chamber tonight. Is that soon enough?”

“While you are snug in your bed you would do well to think about what our Iberian, Russian, and Macedonian adversaries might do in such a conflict.”

“Yes, of course. It is all a grand game of chess, is it not?”

Machiavelli noticed two half-filled cups of brandy on Garibaldi’s table. John had left his behind.

“Did I disturb you? You have a guest?”

“Not at all. Earlier I was conversing with Lombardo, one of my men, but he took ill.”

“Lombardo? The scholar with red hair? I hope it is nothing serious. In any event, the king will want to see you as soon as he awakes. He will have a war council.”

Garibaldi began to stand but Machiavelli bade him to remain in his chair. Then, in an apparent after-thought, he produced a small wooden box from inside his cloak and held it up. The older man smiled.

“I almost forgot,” Machiavelli said. “Signora Carbone has prepared your favorite sweet meats. Give me some brandy and I will sit with you while you sample them. They do go stale quickly.”

“We will both partake.”

“Alas, she used the kind of berry which does not agree with my digestion.”

Garibaldi arched his eyebrows, reached to fill a fresh cup with the amber liquor, and handed it to Machiavelli who in turn sat beside him, opened the box and presented it. Garibaldi plucked one of the small pastries with the swollen fingers of one hand and reached for his brandy with the other but he brushed against it, sending it to the ground. He swore at his own clumsiness and tried to retrieve it but his guest told him to be still and hurriedly crouched to fetch the cup.

As he did this, Garibaldi fed his pastry to one of his dogs which gobbled it whole and licked the honey from her lips. Machiavelli rose, filled the cup again then noticed the pastry was gone.

“It was delicious,” Garibaldi said.

“Have another.”

“Perhaps I will. In a moment.”

The two men chatted for a minute, gossiping about the sexual proclivities of the Duke of Sardinia, when Garibaldi’s dog began howling and collapsed on its side, its mouth foaming with pink froth.

“Treachery!” Garibaldi screamed at the top of his lungs. “Assassin!”

Antonio and Garibaldi’s manservant both rushed in from the adjoining room, their swords drawn. Though Machiavelli protested his innocence, the servant held him in a bear hug from behind while Antonio took a cue from his angry master and ran his dagger across the duke’s long neck, splashing the floor with jets of crimson.

The servant then released him, letting his body crumple.

Luca, Simon, and John, hearing the shouts from upstairs came running down the stairs to witness a dead dog and a twitching man.

“He tried to poison me,” Garibaldi said, breathing hard and holding onto his chair for support. “He must know something of my plans. And if he knows, Borgia knows. Who came with him?”

The servant said that a carriage man and two guards were at the gate.

“Give them the same treatment as their duke,” Garibaldi ordered. “Take anything of value from their persons then put their bodies inside the carriage and send the horses away with it. It must look like the work of rovers. And make sure their eyes are put out and their ears ruined so none can blink an answer or mouth a response to a question. If the king asks, I will claim he never arrived here.”

John stood over Machiavelli’s body and looked into his blinking, seemingly comprehending eyes. He asked if he understood English and when told he did not, he asked someone to translate.

“Tell him that I’m alive. And tell him I read
The Prince
.”

Antonio spoke to the exsanguinating man in Italian, eliciting a series of rapid eye flutters.

“Anything more?” Antonio asked John.

“Yeah. Tell him that I think he’s an amoral piece of shit and as far as I’m concerned, the best thing about the book was that it was short. And tell him I’m going to help you guys kick Cesare Borgia’s ass.”

Woodbourne awoke to the sight of a girl standing over him.

He was on the floor, wedged up against the door to prevent an escape while he slept. Before he’d crashed for the night he had Benona empty out some tins of food and tie them with thread to the pulled curtains so he’d hear them rattle if she tried to signal someone on the street.

“Leave him be, Polly. Go back to bed,” Benona said sternly when she came out of the bathroom.

Polly had identical hair to her mother, yellow and silky, but she was prettier, and while her mother’s eyes were muddy brown, hers were sky blue.

“Who are you?” she asked Woodbourne.

He propped himself up, his back against the door. “My name’s Brandon. You’re Polly, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“Your mum told me, didn’t she?”

“You smell bad.”

“Polly!” Benona said.

“It’s okay. I do smell bad. Need to put on more of that cologne, I reckon. You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Benona took her daughter by her shoulders and lightly pushed her toward her room. “I said go back to bed.”