Down: Trilogy Box Set (96 page)

Outside the city they kicked their horses to a gallop and John led the way through the abandoned Moorish line. The grass was trampled and tracks were indecipherable until they had ridden a mile or so. At that point the Moors had turned south and the grass was less disturbed, revealing the clear impressions of wagon wheels and horse’s hooves.

Ahead, sandwiched between the green grass and the light gray sky was a brown speck.

“I think that’s them,” John shouted. “Try to keep up.”

He kicked his horse and it responded. Trevor squeezed the reins so hard his hands shook and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. The two men raced ahead.

The royal carriage was not roomy. Emily was crammed beside Arabel on a bench, their knees pressing up against King Pedro and the Duke of Aragon. Aragon had a fancy pistol in his hand. Both women stared icily at their captors.

“Don’t worry,” Emily told Arabel. “They’ll come.”

“I’m not worried,” Arabel said. “I’m angry. I’m very, very angry.”

In twenty minutes John and Trevor were half a mile behind.

“I’m going to shoot from the saddle, you’re going to have to pass and re-load. Can you do that?”

“Ride with no hands?” Trevor shouted back. “What’s the worse that could happen?”

They kept getting closer.

John saw there were eight outriders, four horsemen on each side of the carriage. When he thought he was in range he tucked the reins under his crotch, unshouldered the rifle and took aim.

Emily heard the shot and from the carriage window saw a man fall.

Aragon shouted to the carriageman to go faster.

“John’s a very good shot,” Emily said.

“I hope Trevor’s not on a horse,” Arabel said. “He told me he hates riding.”

Emily glowered at the king and said, “You look scared, you bastard.”

“What is she saying?” Pedro asked Aragon.

“I do not know, Your Majesty” the duke replied. “I am sure it is of no consequence.”

Riding side-by-side, John tossed his spent rifle to Trevor and once Trevor had secured it, he passed the loaded one back. While John took aim Trevor began the close-to-impossible task of staying in the saddle while muzzle-loading powder and bullet. He almost fell but through sheer will he poured the powder from a horn as John dropped another rider.

“Did it!” Trevor shouted.

“Good man!” John replied as they exchanged rifles again.

When a third man fell, the other riders apparently decided they did not like their backs turned to this sharpshooter. Despite a lack of royal orders, five remaining soldiers pulled up, turned their horses, and with swords drawn they charged.

There wasn’t time to reload. John flipped the rifle around and gripped the warm barrel like a baseball bat and Trevor did the same but in doing this he finally lost his balance and slid out of the saddle, hitting the ground hard.

When he picked himself up, in pain but with no broken bones, John was way ahead, swinging his butt stock into an Iberian’s face.

Trevor ignored the sharp pain in his hip and took off running, closing the gap until he was close to the action. John was flailing his rifle keeping the slashing swords at bay but Trevor saw one of the soldiers pull a pistol from his belt and cock the trigger.

He wasn’t going to get there in time so he threw his rifle as hard as he could. It spun through the air and missed the gunman.

But it struck his horse.

The animal bucked hard and the soldier came off. Trevor was on him, punching away, crushing his face more and more with each blow.

When the man went limp Trevor found his pistol underneath him and pivoted just as a swordsman was about to strike him. The lead ball tore into his throat.

Emily leaned out the carriage window and saw John and Trevor receding in the distance.

Aragon shouted at her to sit back down and pointed his pistol for emphasis then angrily cocked it. She shouted back that she didn’t speak Spanish and when he continued on she sat down hard then with all her might thrust her right foot into Aragon’s nose.

The gun fell and she began grappling for it. The king began to fumble for a dagger but Arabel copied her sister and started to pummel him with her feet.

Aragon, bleeding from his nose, suddenly stopped fighting and told the king they had to surrender. Emily was pointing the pistol at them.

“Tell the driver to stop,” Emily commanded.

The king and duke looked at each other not comprehending.

She tried French. “Arrêt, arrêt!”

Aragon called out to the driver to halt and the carriage slowed and stopped.

Emily opened the door and motioned with the pistol. Aragon climbed down first, followed by Pedro.

“I hope John and Trevor are all right,” Arabel said and she began to exit the carriage, blocking Emily’s line of sight.

“Wait!” Emily said. “He’s still got a knife,” but it was too late.

Pedro pulled her down and when Emily regained her line of sight, Arabel had a dagger at her throat.

“Easy, easy,” Emily said to Arabel, to the king, to herself. She carefully stepped down, keeping the pistol trained on the king.

“God, don’t shoot,” Arabel said.

“I won’t but let’s not tell them that.”

Aragon began shouting and pointing.

They heard John’s voice behind her. “It’s okay. We’re here.”

“Arabel, don’t move a muscle,” Trevor said.

“Can I breathe?”

“Yeah, you can do that.”

Pedro shouted at them to stay back. To strike home his meaning he pricked the skin of her throat with the tip of the knife.

“Okay, okay, we’re not coming closer,” Trevor said.

“Emily, I want you to take three steps back and hand me the pistol,” John said.

“You don’t have a gun?” she asked. She sounded very afraid.

“Not a loaded one. Is yours loaded?”

“It’s the duke’s. He’s been acting like it’s loaded.”

Trevor spoke up. “I want the shot. Give it to me, Emily.”

“You want it?” John asked.

“Yeah, I want it.”

“All right, Emily, give it to Trev.”

Trevor quickly took the pistol from her. Aragon and Pedro began shouting. The king pulled Arabel’s hair back to fully expose her neck to the dagger.

Trevor gripped the pistol with both hands and assumed a firing stance. He was eight feet away and Arabel blocked all but a few square inches of Pedro’s head. “Arabel,” he said. “I don’t even want you to breathe now, all right?”

She took a deep breath and held it.

Trevor pulled the trigger.

Arabel dropped to the grass and Emily screamed.

Pedro’s right eye was gone.

He fell beside her and began convulsing.

Emily went to her. “Are you okay?” she shouted.

Arabel opened her eyes and replied with a glassy stare. “I’m fine. What happened?”

“The good guy took out the bad guy,” John said, rubbing Trevor’s shoulders.

Aragon seized the opportunity to flee and was twenty feet away when John picked up the dagger, tested its weight, and threw it hard. It rotated several times and stuck deep in the duke’s back.

The carriageman was still in his seat, rigid as a board. John pulled him down, frisked him, and let him run away.

“Climb in, ladies, and gentleman,” John said. “This ride’s on me.”

When they arrived back into the palace they found their friends in the main bailey overjoyed to see them. They were crowded around Simon who had been busily charging the boiler of one of the steam cars to go after them. He let out the steam and the long sigh the boiler made seemed to speak for all of them. Alice came over to him and Simon draped his thick arm around her shoulder.

“So very good to see you safe,” Garibaldi said.

“Is the fight over?” John asked.

“The Moors are no longer a threat,” he replied. “And Pedro?”

“Trevor shot him. He’s history. Aragon’s not doing too well either.”

Guomez called out the news to Queen Mécia who was coming into the courtyard.

Her exuberant smile said it all.

“The queen is pleased,” Guomez said. “Greatly pleased.”

“Our pact was with Iberia,” Garibaldi told Guomez, “not with Pedro. I wish to know whether the queen intends to honor this pact?”

“I will honor our alliance with one condition,” she replied.

Garibaldi looked at Caravaggio and Simon and frowned. “Ask her what is her condition.”

“It is this,” she said. “I do not wish to rule Iberia. I have neither the head nor the stomach for it. You, King Giuseppe, you seem to be a good man and an able monarch. You will be the new king of Iberia. I wish only to return to Bilbao and enjoy the status of queen mother.”

As Guomez translated, Garibaldi’s face lit up. “Tell her I accept her most generous condition. We will need to depart at first light tomorrow with a large contingent of your—I mean our army. We must make haste to Germania to rescue this woman’s poor children.”

Arabel wept at the news.

“I have one more condition,” the queen said, pointing straight at Brian. “Before you leave, I will dine tonight with Senhor Brian.”

Stalin had been expecting his visitors.

A day earlier he had been informed that a steam car of French manufacture had arrived at Marksburg under a flag of truce. Nevertheless, German and Russian soldiers patrolling the winding access road to the hillside castle on the Rhine had disarmed the driver and passenger before allowing them any farther.

It was rat-faced Colonel Yagoda who had interviewed the one who claimed to be the spokesman.

“What is your name?” Yagoda had asked in English, their common language.

“I am Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.”

“I’m sorry, did you say Caravaggio?”

“In the flesh.”

“Caravaggio, the painter?”

“I am a painter, yes.”

Yagoda was unaccustomed to amazement but that is what had flashed on his face. “What are you doing here?” he had asked.

“In Germania or in Hell?”

“In Hell!”

“I murdered a man. Well, accidentally murdered him. I only wanted to cut off his balls but I was a poor surgeon.”

“I know the work of Caravaggio. I revere his paintings. You say you wish to see the tsar. However, I cannot represent your identity to Tsar Joseph without proof.”

“Then give me a piece of paper or parchment.”

Yagoda had a small stack of precious paper in his traveling desk. He had handed over a sheet with a leaded pencil.

Caravaggio had hunched over the paper. In under a minute he was done.

Yagoda had trembled. It was a haunting image of a young, winged angel, her breast pierced by an arrow.

“You
are
Caravaggio,” he had muttered.

“At your service.”

Nikita knocked on Stalin’s door. The tsar was seated at his writing desk, reviewing Field Marshal Kutuzov’s refined invasion plans of Britannia.

“The two visitors and Colonel Yagoda are here to see you,” the young freckle-faced man said.

“One is the painter?” he said, waving the drawing of the angel.

“That is so. The other is an Englishman.”

“Ha, I was just thinking about the English. Do I need an Italian translator?”

“The painter speaks English.”

Stalin made a show of puffing his cheeks then blowing out hard. “So it is time to go to work.”

Caravaggio entered with Simon. Yagoda trailed at a distance. Stalin rose to greet them. “Gentlemen, welcome to Marksburg. I am Stalin.”

Caravaggio bowed politely and was about to introduce himself when Stalin interrupted, telling him he knew who he was and how much he admired his work. “Too much religion in your paintings but I liked them anyway. I was raised to be priest and was five years in Greek Orthodox seminary but later in life, I reject religion. There was no religion in my Russia and there is no religion here so I feel at home. A joke. Your painting that is my favorite is David holding head of Goliath. No religion. Simply power.”

“I liked this painting also,” Caravaggio said. “Maybe I’ll do it again.”

“And who is this English person?” Stalin asked. “And why is he fighting on side of Italian people?”

“I am Simon Wright, your excellency. I was a humble boilermaker in life. I fell in with Giuseppe Garibaldi because I admired him.”

“I could use good boilermaker,” Stalin said. “I like these steam cars very much. Germans have them. We have these in Russia too, you know, but they go kaput a lot. Why you admire Garibaldi?”

“He speaks about a better way forward, a more humane Hell. I suppose I like that.”

Stalin sat down and bade them to do so too. Yagoda remained standing in the shadows. “A better Hell with him in charge, I suppose,” Stalin said.

“I don’t think it’s about that,” Simon said.

“Believe me, boilermaker, it is always about that. Tell me, gentlemen. You are my enemies. You destroyed many of my army with your excellent cannon. What is purpose of you coming here?”

Caravaggio answered. “King Giuseppe sent us to arrange a meeting with you. He is on his way but we could travel faster with these machines.”

“On his way from where?” Stalin asked. Yagoda had told him but he wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

“Iberia.”

“Which you have told Yagoda he has also conquered,” Stalin said.

“Not by war,” Simon said. “By alliance.”

“This is amusing. You call it alliance. Pedro was destroyed. I call it coup d’état.”

Caravaggio splayed his hands and shrugged. “Whatever it may be called, it is done.”

“So Garibaldi in such a short time rises from obscure nobleman to king of Italia, king of Francia, and king of Iberia. I think is remarkable.”

“And you, your excellency, are now tsar of Russia and king of Germania,” Caravaggio said.

“Yes, but I was ruler in life. This man was, well, I will be polite and not say more.”

“I was not there in his time,” Caravaggio said defensively, “but I understand he was also a great man in life.”

Stalin laughed. “Let us not compare size of our sexual organs. Tell me what is deal you propose.”

Simon had been mulling the best way to put it but he forgot his little speech and blurted, “We want to make a deal for the children.”