Down: Trilogy Box Set (91 page)

When she appeared, preceded by her ladies and bodyguards, she looked as fetching as he had remembered. She had died in her forties, a striking beauty of her day, and while most beautiful women saw their good looks ground down by the ravages of Hell, Caterina had been unusually pampered. She remained quite lovely, with delicate, fine features and reddish hair that framed her face in curlicues. She was wearing the same green velvet dress Antonio had seen the day Borgia was overthrown. He wondered if she was, perhaps, sending him a message.

He bowed deeply.

“Antonio Di Constanzo,” she said, after settling upon her old throne. “Come.”

She held out her hand and he kissed it, allowing his lips to linger on her skin for an improper second too long.

“My lady, I bring you greetings from King Giuseppe.”

She smiled. “I am still not used to calling Signore Garibaldi, king. How is he?”

“He is well, my lady. He has won a great battle against the combined forces of the Germans and Russians.”

“Has he? With the assistance of that living man who throws bombs?”

“Yes, this man, John Camp, was of great help, as was the alliance King Giuseppe was able to forge with the French. In fact, he has made a coup against King Maximilien and now he is the monarch of a combined Italian and French kingdom.”

“That is indeed remarkable. He has come such a long way in such a short time. I wonder where it will all lead?”

“To a better Europa, my lady. To a better Hell.”

She smiled. “A better Hell. Fine words. Tell me, Antonio, why have you returned to Rome?”

“We have received word of an invasion force of Macedonians and Slavs landing upon our shores. Surely you are aware.”

“I am indeed.”

“King Giuseppe asked me to lead a force of the finest Italian soldiers to defend our kingdom and that is what I have done. I would meet tonight with those commanders who have remained in Italia while we fought in foreign lands. I would march south to intercept the Macedonians before they are able to lay siege to Rome.”

“But why would you march south, Antonio?” she asked.

“Because, my lady, I presume that is where the attackers find themselves. They would take Naples, then march on Rome itself.”

“I really do not think you have to go to such trouble,” Caterina said, removing her yellow scarf and letting it fall to the ground.

Antonio stooped to retrieve the garment but as he did, Caterina’s guards launched their spears at Antonio’s men, impaling them with ruthless efficiency.

Antonio abruptly straightened and went for his sword but a dozen guards rushed him and despite his struggles his arms were pinned to his side.

A young, bronzed and muscular man in a leather battle skirt and the purple regalia of the Macedonian army entered the hall and stood beside Caterina.

“What is this treachery?” Antonio shouted over the moans of his wounded men.

The Macedonian answered in rudimentary Italian. “I save you from a march, signore. I am not in the south. I am before you.”

“Who are you?” Antonio demanded.

The young man flashed a smile, not at him but at Caterina who responded by sliding her tongue seductively between pouting lips. Antonio saw he had a dagger in his hand. He tried to break free but was subdued with a knee to a kidney.

“I am King Alexander,” he said, closing the distance between them with a few long strides and burying the knife to the hilt between Antonio’s ribs. “But you may call me Alexander the Great.”

After hours of watching the comings and goings around Queen Mécia’s palace, Trevor and Brian came to the conclusion there was no easy way to get inside. They thought there might be an opportunity of stowing away in a delivery wagon but at the main gate they saw soldiers pushing swords through bushels of produce strapped to a cart.

Standing in a nearby alleyway, turning away from the wretches who passed them by, Brian said, “I reckon we should just go up to the gate and surrender and hope we don’t get summarily executed.”

“I don’t love the idea,” Trevor said, but just then, soldiers with muskets began marching down the alley from both directions, shouting at them to lay down their weapons.

“Like it better now?” Brian asked, tossing down his sword.

An officer poked a pistol against Trevor’s chest and began screaming at him.

“What’s he saying?” Trevor asked.

“Best I can tell he’s asking whether you’re a Moorish spy,” Brian said.

“For fuck’s sake, tell him I’m not.”

“You think?”

They were roughly bundled into the palace where the manhandling continued. Stripped of their belongings and their book, they found themselves roped together, back-to-back, inside a windowless room decorated with a few good pieces of furniture.

A well-dressed man entered and in an apparent state of alarm he began addressing them in rapid-fire Portuguese. When that produced blank stares, he switched to Spanish.

“English,” Brian said, speaking slowly. “Do you speak English?”

The man looked surprised. “English? Yes, I can speak English. Who are you? Why you here? Are you spies? Why you seem so different?”

“We’re not spies,” Trevor said. “And I’m not Moorish. I don’t even know what that is.”

“We’re here to see the queen,” Brian said. “We’re friends. We brought her a very special book. Did you see it?”

The Portuguese man said he did and it puzzled him greatly.

“Untie us and we’ll give you all the answers,” Brian said. “Prepare to be amazed.”

The man was Felipe Guomez, principal advisor to Queen Mécia, a courtly, nervous man who became increasingly agitated when they told him who they were and what they wanted. To each of his “is impossibles,” they countered with “no, it’s true,” until Guomez threw his hands in the air and admitted that perhaps they were telling the truth after all.

“I have heard that King Pedro, he consorts with a woman who is like you, by which I mean live in the flesh. I did not believe this but now maybe I believe. Perhaps this is the woman you seek.”

“That’s definitely her,” Trevor said, jumping out of his skin.

“Wait here,” Guomez said. “I speak with the queen.”

Queen Mécia must have been gorgeous in her youth, and she had probably still been handsome when she died of the plague in her forties. Centuries in Hell had left her with the listless eyes and flat countenance common to long-term Hellers, but owing to her high status and good nutrition, she retained a voluptuousness that she accentuated with a low-cut gown.

When Trevor and Brian were summoned to see her in an intimate audience chamber she looked them up and down but aimed her attention squarely at Brian.

She spoke no English, relying on Guomez to translate. He had clearly briefed her; she did not demand any further explanation of their situation. Rather she began with two interesting questions: was Hell anything like they had expected and how did they intend to return to the land of the living?

Trevor began to answer when she stopped him in midsentence and said, “No him.”

“I think she fancies you,” Trevor whispered.

“Fuck me,” Brian whispered back, then answered that he wasn’t really a religious man so he hadn’t believed Hell existed at all.

The queen laughed at that and bade him to continue.

“Having said that,” he said, “I suppose I would have expected more of the fire and brimstone that you read about, Satan and his minions, that sort of thing. Nothing like this, if you must know.”

“I too was surprised by what I found here,” she said. “For some it is terrifying. For me it is dull and boring. I crave excitement.”

“Spice of life,” he said.

She nodded vigorously and repeated the second question.

He told her he didn’t understand how all this worked but that there were clever scientists in the modern times who had a machine to send them to Hell and bring them back. “We’ve got to get ourselves and the woman we’re looking for, the one your husband the king’s got, back to England in about two and a half weeks. They’re going to push a button and, poof, we’ll be back home.”

She seemed delighted by the word poof and after she understood its meaning she said it over and over.

“Tell me about this woman you seek?” she asked. “Is she yours?”

“Mine?” Brian said. “Heavens no. I’ve never even met her.” He angled a thumb at Trevor. “She’s a friend of his.”

“Boa, boa,” she said and Guomez affected her pleased tone, “Good, good.”

“You’re toast,” Trevor whispered.

The queen added, “So, about this woman: my confidants in Burgos told me there was a strange new woman who has commanded the attention of the king. He often acquires new concubines. Perhaps this is your woman.”

Brian said, “We think it’s her. That’s why we need to get to Burgos.”

The queen said something to Guomez who held up their book,
The Chemistry of Powder and Explosives,
and she asked, “What is this book? Why is it of value?”

Brian affected the confidence of the BBC presenter he was to sell its importance. “What Señor Guomez has in his hand can change everything for Your Majesty. This book holds the secret recipes developed over many years that will allow you to make powerful weapons to defeat your enemies. Do you have many scientists lying about?”

“Not so many,” Guomez replied for her. “They do not usually come.”

Undeterred, Brian said, “Well, no mind. Anyone who can follow a recipe can use this book to make big bombs and such.”

“Can these bombs defeat the Moors?” she asked.

“Absolutely. Moors, anyone.”

“Is he a scientist?” she asked, waving toward Trevor with the back of her hand.

“No, but he’s a military man,” Brian said.

“Can he make these bombs?”

“I expect he can.”

“Why’d you say that?” Trevor whispered.

“Play along, will you?” Brian whispered back before quickly turning to her and saying, “He says he definitely can. So what I would respectfully request from Your Majesty, is your help in getting us to Burgos to secure the release of his woman friend.”

“I may consider doing as you ask,” she said. “However, I would need to know more. You will dine with me tonight.”

“Both of us?” Brian asked hopefully.

Guomez didn’t have to translate her response but he did, “No, just you.”

The arrival of the steam cars provided an opportunity that Garibaldi seized upon. He had worried that Pedro would misinterpret his arrival on Iberian soil with a fighting force as an act of aggression. The cars allowed him to rapidly send an emissary ahead. He tapped Caravaggio to be his agent to smooth relations. Simon volunteered to drive one of the cars and a twentieth-century Italian named Alfonso received a lesson in its operation and drove the other. The rest of the delegation was comprised of trusted soldiers for protection against bandits, rovers, and hostile Iberians.

With Burgos in sight, Caravaggio tied white flags to muskets in each car. They chugged into the city where they received a decidedly unfriendly welcome from Iberian troops who surrounded and disarmed them and seized the vehicles. Caravaggio maintained a cooperative and friendly demeanor during the ordeal and persuaded Simon to do the same.

A captain was summoned from a nearby barracks. Caravaggio’s Spanish and the captain’s Italian weren’t adequate for communication but they discovered both spoke enough French to get by.

“I don’t understand,” the captain said. “Do you represent the king of Francia or the king of Italia?”

“Both,” Caravaggio replied with a charming grin. “Because they are one in the same, King Giuseppe.”

The captain eagerly listened to all the gory details of Garibaldi’s and Forneau’s coup d’état then slapped the artist on the back, declared that he liked his new Italian friend and that he would see if he could arrange an audience at the palace.

Garibaldi heard the steam cars approaching from the Iberian side of the border before he saw them. By the time Simon pulled into the Italian campsite, everyone had assembled to greet the returning delegation. John, Emily, and all of the Earthers crowded around to listen.

Caravaggio jumped out and embraced Garibaldi, telling him their mission had been successful. King Pedro had been convinced of the merits of a discussion on an alliance and had sent word to his military commanders to give the Italian mission safe passage to proceed to Burgos.

Caravaggio said, “He seemed quite interested in learning the details of your rise to power in Italia and Francia. He was impressed but also a bit concerned, I would say.”

“He has every reason to be concerned,” Garibaldi said. “Pedro is a tyrant. I have no love for tyrants.”

Emily was chomping at the bit. “Did you ask about my sister?”

“I tried to raise the matter,” Caravaggio said. “However, my audience with the king was brief and he deflected my question. So I really don’t know.”

John wanted to know if he’d seen or heard about Trevor and Brian.

“Again, no,” Caravaggio said. “I had occasion to speak with the Duke of Aragon, a man who dresses like a colorful bird, and I inquired if there were any living people at his court. He asked me if I had gone mad.”

John comforted Emily and said, “We’ll get in there and we’ll get the truth. If she’s in Burgos we’ll find her.”

Simon sought out Alice and snuck around to tap her on the shoulder. She jumped.

“I got you a present,” he said.

She seemed pleased. “You did?”

From behind his back he produced a small bouquet of wilted purple and yellow flowers.

“Spanish flowers. Picked them myself.”

“They’re lovely. I was worried about you. Everyone was saying how brave you were to volunteer.”

“Someone had to drive the bloody car. Caravaggio can paint and draw and charm the ladies but he can’t fire up a boiler.”

“The world needs all sorts. Without tradesmen like us, where would the artists be?”

“My thoughts precisely,” he said.

“I saved you some supper.”

“I’m starving,” he said, patting his belly. “The Italian grub’s better than the Spanish. Yet another reason for supporting the aspirations of our Giuseppe.”