Down: Trilogy Box Set (39 page)

“What about your singing cannon?” Simon asked.

“Yeah, we could build you some, providing you’ve got a good forge and good iron, but they wouldn’t offer a particular advantage. They increase range and accuracy but there’s no long-range line of sight to the castle, no high ground. You might be able to lob some rounds in from a distance but it’s going to be a hit and miss proposition.”

Garibaldi speared a piece of fruit. “We need to cut off the head of the snake. We need Borgia. His nobles and his army will accede to my command once he is neutralized. I know it.”

John drank some ale. His head was still hurting from the previous night’s brandy, and absent modern pain relievers the best he could do was administer the hair of the dog. “If you’re confident about that, Giuseppe, then why not try a targeted assassination, like the gambit that was tried on you last night?”

“He’s too well protected. His most trusted advisors and nobles are never truly alone with him. There’s always a ring of steel surrounding his person. He won’t even bed a woman without guards at hand in his boudoir. He won’t eat a morsel without a taster. He’s lasted as long as he has by being more than prudent. He trusts no one. Perhaps Machiavelli was closest to him but he is no more and with him missing he will be even more on guard.”

John suddenly smiled at the audacity of the idea that had sprung full-blown into his aching head. “Why don’t we use a Trojan horse?”

Garibaldi shook his head and scoffed, “I rather doubt he’d be foolish enough to wheel a large wooden horse into his palace. He is too well schooled in the lessons of antiquity.”

“I’m not suggesting a wooden horse. I’m suggesting me.”

The forge, located at the end of a small lane in the northern reaches of Milan, backed up against a field of tall grasses. John waited outside while Antonio had a discussion with the blacksmith. Luca and Simon stayed behind with Garibaldi at his palazzo to work on other logistics. Antonio emerged from the forge and ushered John in when the business with the smith was settled.

“Franco is a friend,” Antonio said, clasping the short, powerful man on his bare shoulders. “He will help us.”

The smith hesitated when John extended his hand but with Antonio’s gentle prodding, he took it in friendship and amazement.

“It’s hard to believe,” he said in Italian.

“Show him what you need,” Antonio urged John.

Garibaldi had given John one of his precious sheets of paper and a charcoal pencil and he had made some sketches to demonstrate his design.

The three men drew closer to the furnace for light. It was far smaller than William’s cannon furnace, but it would do. The ironworkers, a group of a dozen or so shirtless men, sampled the air as John passed them by and at least pretended to mind their own business.

With Antonio translating, John showed Franco his drawings. The smith seemed to grasp the idea immediately but Antonio was puzzled.

“What do you call it?” Franco asked.

“It’s a hand grenade,” John said.

“It looks like a bomb which one throws,” Antonio said, “but where is the fuse?”

“Ah, that’s the point,” John said. “No fuse and no need to light it which means your enemy won’t know what’s coming and won’t have time to stop you. None of you have seen anything like this before?”

They shook their heads.

“Well, now you have,” John said.

“Will it work?” Antonio asked.

John smiled. “Let’s build some and see.”

He needed the smith to cast dozens of hollow, football-shaped receptacles, small enough to fit in a man’s palm. Each would be filled through a hole in the top, with black powder and small iron scraps.

“Here’s how we set them off,” he explained, pointing to a cross section. “You put a semi-circular disc of iron on top of the powder and lay a piece of flint on it. Then you jam a short iron rod through the hole so it presses on the flint and protrudes about an inch. It needs to fit snugly so it won’t fall out, but not so snugly that it won’t move. I’ll teach the men how to throw a spiral. When the rod hits something solid like the ground or a wall it’ll spark the flint, light the powder, and take out several enemy at a time.”

Franco and Antonio had an animated discussion in Italian for several minutes, complete with wild gesticulations. John let them go on until he interrupted impatiently and asked, “Well? What does he think?”

Antonio shrugged and said, “Mainly, he’s angry that he never thought of such an idea himself.”

While Franco worked at his forge, John whiled away the time pacing in Garibaldi’s courtyard, target shooting with the new flintlock pistol he’d been given, drinking whatever came out of the cellar, and shaving off his newly grown facial hair with a sharpened piece of steel. In the evenings he dined with Garibaldi, the two men conversing about all manner of things until the small hours.

In a day and a half, a barrel arrived from the forge. It was taken to Garibaldi’s courtyard where John carefully removed the iron footballs from their straw packing and inspected them.

“Show me how they work,” Garibaldi said.

“Here?”

“Why not? If you break some glass I will have it replaced.”

Word went out that a test of John’s new weapon would take place and a small group of men assembled—Luca, Simon, and Antonio along with a handful of Garibaldi’s best soldiers who were at his palazzo preparing a tactical plan.

John picked a corner of the courtyard as far away from windows as possible and had everyone stand well back. He chose a grenade at random and tested its feel in his hand before letting loose a perfect spiral, firing rod forward. The iron spun through the air and hit the ground right where he was aiming and exploded with surprising effect, blowing out not one but several windows with its shock wave and showering the courtyard with shrapnel, some of it landing uncomfortably close.

“Jesus!” John said, impressed. “These work better than I thought.”

“Fuck me,” Simon added.

“Bravo!” Garibaldi shouted. “Well done, John. A formidable missile. Teach the men how to deploy them.”

“We’d better use a dummy,” John said, “or we’re going to hurt someone.”

He gingerly worked the firing rod out of one and emptied the powder and shot.

“All right, who’s first?” he asked.

Simon volunteered and John gave him a lesson on letting the grenade roll off the fingers to make a tight spiral. On his first effort the grenade traveled all of three feet before plunking on the ground, eliciting hysterics from the others.

“Very funny, very funny,” Simon said, his face red. “Let’s see if you lot do better your first go.”

After several minutes of practice, Simon got the hang of it and John moved on to Antonio, who mastered the technique quickly and Luca who struggled. Before they retired for a celebratory drink, all the soldiers had become reasonably proficient. John stooped to pick a couple of grenades for his personal arsenal and stuffed them in his pockets.

The next morning, the plan was set and Luca was dispatched as an emissary to Borgia’s palace to deliver astonishing news for the king. A modern man, a live man with considerable skills, had somehow made his appearance in Brittania. Captured by Italian spies, he had been spirited away to Milan for Borgia’s interrogation and exploitation.

Garibaldi would lead the delegation to deliver John to the king. Antonio and Simon would pose as guards, along with Garibaldi’s choice contingent of soldiers. Garibaldi’s militia, some five hundred strong would be split among four units to descend on the palace from the four compass points when they saw a red flag flying from the battlements.

Climbing into the lead carriage, John produced a length of rope from his cloak and asked Garibaldi, “Do you want to tie my hands?”

“Why not?” Garibaldi said. “A nice touch. Alas, my fingers may lack the dexterity for the chore.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do it myself.”

At the palace, the train of Garibaldi’s carriages was waved through the twin portculli and came to a stop in a large, cobblestoned courtyard. Garibaldi got out and Simon and Antonio made a show of roughly pulling John down. The captain of Borgia’s royal guard, a large, sneering man, approached Garibaldi and demanded that his militia disarm themselves before entering the palace.

“And why is that?” Garibaldi said.

“Duke Machiavelli was attacked and destroyed. That has made the king jumpy.”

“Yes, I heard the sad news. But why should the act of some night rovers cause the king to distrust me and my men?”

The captain shrugged and simply said, “These are my orders.”

Garibaldi passed the word for his men to disarm and they shed their swords and pistols then suffered the further indignity of a pat-down by the captain. As they suspected, John, bound as he was, was not searched. When the captain was satisfied, John, flanked by Garibaldi’s men followed the royal guard into the palace.

Once inside the first reception room, John stopped to take in the unique sights, because unlike Henry’s palace at Hampton Court and Maximilien’s in Paris, this one was spectacularly appointed. Hanging from every wall were grand canvases, magnificent paintings of soaring beauty and terror, all in the same style and presumably from the same hand.

The next room was likewise dripping in oil paintings, and the next. There were huge, muscular men engaged in dining, hunting, drinking. Voluptuous women, their breasts and buttocks bared, their cheeks flushed with ardor. Stags and hounds and galloping horses. Waterfalls, forests and mountains, some seemingly done from memory rather than observation because many landscapes were sun-drenched. And then, motifs of terror. Dark canvases with ripped flesh and severed heads. Bulging, terrified eyes. Decay-filled rotting rooms with vermin and birds picking away at vital flesh. And a last great canvas over the entrance to Borgia’s throne room, perhaps the most evocative one of all, a sea of children, being led like lemmings by a winged Satan to a high cliff above a raging sea.

Two empty thrones stood against a wall draped with a large tapestry depicting jungle beasts, seemingly designed by the same artist who had done the paintings. Above the tapestry was a high, balconied gallery. Borgia’s guards took up position, forming a line of defense between Garibaldi’s party and the thrones. Everyone in the hall waited for the king to arrive.

In time, Luca and a throng of Borgia’s ministers, turned out in Renaissance robes, came in and stood against one wall. Luca nodded to Garibaldi in a sign that everything was in order and John saw the old man visibly relax.

A stately woman entered next and John could tell by Antonio’s moonstruck expression that this must be the queen, Caterina Sforza. Her hair was finely curled, long and reddish, flowing over a slim neck and narrow shoulders. Her features were small and delicate, almost doll-like. As she walked she stared straight ahead, her dress, emerald green and velvet, scraping the floor. She settled onto one of the thrones, lifted her head and deigned to make eye contact with the assembly. She furrowed her brow in pensive curiosity at the sight of John and he startled her with a wink.

One young man with a black goatee and flowing moustache seemed to notice the gesture and let out a cackle. He was leaning languidly against the wall, wickedly smirking and touching his palms together in a silent clap. The queen glowered at him but far from acting apologetically, he too winked at her then ran his hand through his thick, unruly hair.

Garibaldi leaned over and whispered to John in English, “He is the painter. His talent gives him license to be impertinent.”

Another several minutes passed and suddenly all eyes were upon the gallery where a solitary man slowly made his way to the rail.

“The king is keeping his distance,” Garibaldi whispered. “He is cautious indeed.”

Cesare Borgia was perhaps the youngest man in the hall, but at only thirty-two at the time of his death, he had ruled in Hell for so long that he had assumed the bearing of a much older monarch. He held his head high and kept the fingertips of one hand pressed against the other, as if in a state of wise contemplation. The painter was handsome; Borgia was not. He had a pan-shaped face and eyes too close together which gave him the appearance of a hawk.

The king looked curiously at John and addressed Garibaldi. “Good duke. I received your news this morning with interest. Is this your trophy?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Does he have a name?”

“It is John Camp.”

“Is he an Englishman?”

“No, he is an American.”

“Is that so? How very rare. I have known many live men, when I was alive, of course, but I have never once known an American.”

He laughed at his own comments and the audience dutifully tittered too.

“Can he speak Italian?” the king asked.

“Unfortunately, no. If you have questions for him, I can make a translation.”

“Indeed I do have questions. I was telling Queen Caterina earlier that my breast was positively exploding with questions, did I not, my dear?”

Caterina craned her neck and with a sour expression confirmed that it was so.

“Well then,” Borgia said. “Have him explain his presence.”

John gave his standard answer and while Garibaldi translated, he alternated his gaze from the queen to the king. Antonio had explained the twisted life history of Sforza, a refined Milanese noblewoman, and Cesare Borgia, the illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI. Caterina had been married at the tender age of fourteen to a man who was rumored to be the son of Pope Sixtus IV. The newly married couple had flourished in the world of high society that was Rome during Sixtus’s pontificate and Caterina became notorious as the most elegant and beautiful woman in all of Rome. But her glittering life crumbled when Sixtus died in 1484 and her husband lost his source of power. In the ensuing chaos in Rome, her husband was killed and a rival family took her prisoner with her children. In the years that followed, she plotted and took her revenge. Strategic remarriages followed, her children were thrust into prominent positions, and she crushed her enemies with a fury. Not content to merely murder her rivals cleanly, she sought to have them tortured in the most painful ways imaginable before they were dispatched, and then she made sure their wives and children suffered the same fate. Even infants were tortured under her iron hand.