Down: Trilogy Box Set (79 page)

“The wound is clean, quite clean,” the doctor told Garibaldi in their mutual tongue of English. “The time of danger has passed.”

He clumsily tried to re-wrap the bandage but Caravaggio elbowed him aside and re-did the job perfectly, completing it with an elegant bow.

“Good night, doctor,” the artist said with a derisive wave. “Don’t get lost on your way home.”

Forneau waited for the doctor to stumble off before saying anything. Antonio and Simon who were playing cards at a small table across the room, threw their hands down and joined the men at Garibaldi’s bedside.

“I believe you are healing despite this doctor’s efforts,” Forneau said.

Garibaldi smiled and swung his legs off the bed. “In my day, the nurses would say that God is watching over you. With neither God nor the physician to credit, I would say that I’m simply fortunate. How is Robespierre? I haven’t seen him in a good while.”

“He grows restless over your presence,” Forneau said.

“He’s not the only one who’s restless,” Simon grumbled. “What are we still doing here? If you ask me we should have followed the Ruskies and the Huns and finished them off.”

“I agree with him,” Antonio said, pleasing Simon no end. “We removed the hook and set the fish free. We should have eaten it.”

Garibaldi reached for the cane Caravaggio had carved for him and used it to hobble to a chair. “To extend Antonio’s analogy further,” he said, “I would say that if we had attempted to eat the fish, the bones would have lodged in our throats. We were fortunate to prevail but if we had extended our lines to make chase to Germania then we might have lost all we gained. This game of ours will be won by consolidation. Who would have imagined, only a month ago that we would have succeeded in toppling that monster, Cesare Borgia, and taking up peaceful residence in King Maximilien’s palace?”

“Yes, I agree,” Forneau nodded. “Francia is the next pearl in your necklace.”

“
Our
necklace, Guy,” Garibaldi said. “Well, we mocked the doctor well enough for drinking wine but now I would like some too.”

Simon poured and they pulled chairs into a circle.

“Now that you are out of danger,” Forneau said, “I believe we may proceed with the next step in our plan.”

“Do you think Orleans has the backbone?” Garibaldi asked.

“On his own, no. But with the assurance of my support, I believe so. Recall that he is the one who made the proposal to me. He wishes to wear the crown so badly I imagine he dreams of it and is disappointed in the morning when he finds his head unadorned.”

“Can we control the events which will follow?” Antonio asked.

“Nothing is certain, but I believe so,” Forneau answered. “It would be far too dangerous for me to poll the nobles at court but I believe that they are no better disposed to Orleans than they are to the king. They chafe under cruel and capricious rule.”

“Orleans would be a tyrant too if he had the chance,” Caravaggio snapped.

“You are not wrong, my friend,” Forneau said. “Any of the nobles would, in time, become as bad a tyrant as Robespierre.”

“How do you know I won’t too?” Garibaldi said under his breath.

“Sorry, what?” Simon asked.

He repeated himself loudly.

“Because we know you,” Antonio responded, seemingly annoyed that their leader would doubt his own virtues.

“Don’t be so sure,” Garibaldi said. “You must be ever vigilant, even with me. If I become a tyrant I expect you good men to act, swiftly and surely.”

Simon got up to refill his glass and said lightly, “Well, I’m optimistic. You’ve been king for a month now, Giuseppe, and you haven’t fucked up yet.”

Forneau had a cryptic note sent to the Duke of Orleans and waited for a response. It came quickly with a single word written on a card delivered on a silver tray: Come. Forneau wondered why the ink was smudged.

When he arrived at the duke’s rooms, one of his retainers escorted Forneau inside. Orleans was soaking in a tub which explained the smudge. He squinted and called for his thick spectacles then stood, exposing his unimpressive manhood, before servants produced a towel and a robe. Orleans flopped onto a divan and dismissed all of his attendants.

“What is it you want?” Orleans asked, his long, wet hair dripping on the floorboards. “Your message was opaque.”

“It is not so much what I want, my good duke. It is what you desire.”

Orleans seemed to understand. “I see,” he said, his mood brightening. “Have you been reflecting on my proposal?”

“I have.”

“And what have you concluded?”

“I believe the time to strike is upon us.”

“Really? With the Italians here? Would it not be better to wait until they have departed?”

“Their presence could work to our advantage.”

“How so? Is it not a complication? They have a successful alliance with Robespierre. I would be a new actor upon the stage.”

Forneau nodded earnestly. “You forget that Garibaldi is also, as you so aptly put it, a new actor upon the stage. He is open to new circumstances. And I know from speaking with his intimates that he thinks poorly of our king. In fact, I am told in private he calls him a foolish peacock of a man.”

“He is a foolish peacock, is he not?” Orleans laughed.

“There is more,” Forneau said.

“Yes?”

“Garibaldi has also told his people that he has immense respect for you as a military commander and thinks you would make a far more substantial and reliable ally for his country.”

Orleans was now too excited to contain himself. He got up from his chair and strutted around the room, his robe flapping open.

“When?” he asked. “When should we do the deed?”

“The king will announce a grand banquet to be held tomorrow night for his nobles and the Italians. At that banquet he will congratulate King Giuseppe on his recovery and wish him well on his return to Italia.”

“In other words, bugger off, Giuseppe. Back to Rome and thank you very much.”

“That is the idea. I believe you would be making a bold statement to our nobles and our Italian allies to strike a blow at this very banquet. Think of it, by tomorrow night, you would be sleeping in the king’s bed, no, your new bed.”

“And what would you require of me for your fealty?” Orleans asked.

“Nothing more than my service as loyal councilor to your person.”

“Nothing else? Not even a heavy purse of gold and a bevy of fetching slaves?”

Forneau let his mouth crack into a smile. “Well, perhaps a small purse and one or two pleasant wenches.”

The royal banquet was a tense affair with a palpable sense of portent in the air. The Italians knew what was coming, Forneau knew, and so did Orleans. Perhaps Orleans had even told a few confidants. The one man who was assuredly oblivious was Robespierre who was in a positively giddy mood, basking in the defeat of indomitable enemies and buoyed by the imminent departure of the Italians. He ate and drank with abandon and laughed riotously at his own jokes and those of sycophantic nobles at his table.

Seated to his right was Garibaldi and to his left Orleans. Garibaldi had no appetite. He always ate sparingly before a battle and tonight was no exception. There would be a battle—whether it would be a terrible and bloody one was an open question. The French nobility, these men surrounding them throughout the great hall, all of them arrogant, preening, drinking, whoring—they would have to be placated or destroyed. If they were to be placated, his words would be the instrument. He drank his wine in tiny sips to keep his head clear.

Servants flooded the hall with groaning platters of some sort of charred meats. Robespierre suddenly rose, choosing this moment to address the gathering. He looked prissy with his tight, powder blue garments and oiled, highly coiffed white hair. His voice was high-pitched, more like a woman’s.

As the king was about to begin his remarks, Garibaldi saw Orleans trying to make eye contact, as if seeking a dose of courage for what he was about to do. The old Italian avoided his eyes and instead sought out Antonio and Simon at a nearby table. He nodded at them. They rudely and loudly declared that they had to take a piss, and off they went, leaving the hall together.

If Robespierre was offended by the slight, he failed to let it register on his jovial, sweating face. “My friends, my allies, over the past fortnight we have not failed to celebrate our great victory over not one, not two, but three formidable enemies, the English dogs, the German wolves, and the Russian bears. But on this night, the celebration reaches a crescendo and my kitchens have prepared a special festive course, platters of roasted dogs, wolves, and bears!”

The French nobles erupted in applause while the Italians had a more muted response.

“You must tell me which you enjoy the most,” the king continued. “Of course, a great victory oft requires a great ally and we now have such an ally in the Kingdom of Italia, our friends to the south. We are joyful that their courageous new monarch, King Giuseppe, has fully recovered from his battle wound but saddened that he must now return to his own lands. We will miss him greatly. To remember his time in Francia, we will be loading his wagons with barrels of our finest wines and perhaps we may expect in return barrels of the king’s finest olive oil.”

“Of course,” Garibaldi replied loudly. “You may count on it.”

As applause rang out Garibaldi saw Orleans slide his chair back.

Robespierre had a sip of wine and continued, “As much as you love your king, I am sure you will want me to keep my speech short so you may …”

Orleans stood and caught the king’s startled gaze.

“Yes, you will keep it short!” Orleans shouted, plunging a dagger into the king’s throat with a sharp, upward move.

All in the hall rose and gasped as the king’s plate filled with blood.

Robespierre’s eyes were wild. He tried to speak but was unable. Instinctively he clasped his hands to his throat to stop the bleeding but it was a futile gesture. But as his legs were about to give out his countenance changed and he sought out Orleans’ face. His rage seemed to soften and become a sadness of sorts and his lips formed two syllables:
pour quoi?

“Why?” Orleans bellowed to the bleeding king who had slumped back to his chair. “Why? Because you are weak and I am strong. Because I have waited for this moment for years, decades, centuries. Because I am the better man to be king and my reign will be …”

“A very short one,” Simon shouted as he and Antonio appeared from behind the royal table.

Antonio had a sword he had stashed in a serving room and he swung it hard and high, grunting with effort as the blade sliced through skin, muscle, ligaments, and finally the duke’s vertebrae and spinal cord. With a geyser of blood Orleans’s head fell from his shoulders and thudded onto the floor.

Robespierre’s eyes followed the head as it rolled away and then he pitched forward onto his dinner plate.

The French nobility called out in rage and began ranting at the Italians. Many drew their weapons and the Italian contingent reached for theirs too but was ordered to stand down by Garibaldi. Even Antonio threw down his bloody sword and stood beside Simon, arms folded, chin out. It was then that Forneau, who had been quietly seated halfway down the royal table, rose up and lifted his arms.

“My fellow countrymen! Please be calm! Please be serene! You must listen to me. You all know me and I know you. Sit and let me speak to you. I beg of you.”

The astonished crowd numbly obeyed but none put away their blades and pistols.

“I am sure that King Maximilien and the Duke of Orleans can still hear me and that is good. We have all long suffered under the cruel and capricious yoke of Robespierre and Orleans would have been no better, perhaps worse. It is high time we had a ruler who was a better man, a man who could help us rise higher, a man who could bring a modicum of goodness to this evil existence to which we have been condemned.”

The Duke of Burgundy, seated near to Forneau called out, “And you? You, Forneau? A bureaucrat? You believe you are that man?”

Forneau quickly extinguished the catcalls by raising his arms again and saying, “To this I say, no! No, I am not this man.”

Someone cried, “Then who?”

Forneau walked behind Garibaldi and said, “This. This is the man.”

More than one yelled that he was an Italian. Had Forneau forgotten this was Francia?

Garibaldi rose, concealing his aches and pains with a placid expression. “My friends, you are French. I am Italian. The differences we possess in language, culture, and heritage might have been worthy of discussion, even war during our earthly days but they seem so terribly small in our current situation. We are no longer divided by petty differences over religious practices, over marriages and succession, over family dominance. All these things have been washed away by the consequences of our wickedness. We can continue to act with wickedness and selfishness, as most of us have acted for decades and centuries, or we can explore a different path.”

“What path?” Burgundy demanded.

Garibaldi’s voice gave out, perhaps from exertion, perhaps from emotion. People in the hall had to lean forward and strain to hear his words. “For all my days in Hell,” he said, “I have lamented not the deed that condemned me here, for there is nothing to be done about the past. I have lamented the life we live here and I have always asked, is there a better way? Is there a way to make this place more humane, not only for the likes of us who are privileged to live in palaces and fine houses and to have enough food to eat and wine to drink, but to all the wretches of Hell? Is there a way to make our existence less brutish? Is there a way to bring a ray of hope into our gray skies? Is there a way for men and women to live in less fear?”

A woman, one of the many courtesans in the palace, began to weep openly, and soon others joined her, and their sobs became the orchestra for the rest of his speech.

“And how do you intend to accomplish this lofty goal of yours, my dear Giuseppe?” Burgundy said, his tongue dripping acid. “My apologies. King Giuseppe. I almost forgot you have been king for an entire month.”