Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy (26 page)

The trumpets blasted again, and we shoved once more in one furious surge. Several of the Milanese were thrown off their feet, opening up the ranks. The men at arms flung themselves through the gaps, splitting the enemy up and battering the defenders. I felt my body get knocked violently about in spite of my armor, and the frenzy surrounding me made it impossible to stay focused on a single target for long. There was barely any space between us and simple movement was difficult. When I wasn't getting pummeled by enemy shields I was getting elbowed by my companions.

Gattamelata's true strength showed in the melee and I wondered how he was able to process it all. Throughout the battle he was at the front and I could hear him shouting as he cut through the enemy. I struggled to find my mark in all the chaos, but Gattamelata's blade took down at least two men that I could clearly see and probably several more.

Through the widening split of the ranks I could presently see the opening of the stable. Bartolomeo and his workers were still inside carrying chests of coin to the wagon as fast as they were able. The chestnut-haired man sat at the driver's seat, waiting anxiously as the men loaded.

A loud, beastly cry seized my attention and I turned. Before me stood Rodrigo Vasquez, and in that instant he seemed like a towering giant of a man. As he stared at me I felt the hatred burning in his eyes. In an instant he was hurtling towards me, even throwing one of his own men out of his way as charged. His sword shimmered as it arced across the air and slammed down on my shield, denting it and causing my arm to throb. I rolled backwards as another blow struck the earth where I had been standing.

At once the men at both my sides shifted and engaged him. He rushed them with the full force of his weight, slamming one down with his shoulder and throwing the other backwards with his free hand.

The sudden gap in our ranks caused Gattamelata to shift his focus our way. He blinked with recognition at the sight of Vasquez' face, then his cool façade crumbled as his lips twisted into a mask of rage. In the blink of an eye, Gattamelata's sword was raised and he was upon the traitor, thrashing and ducking in a mechanical frenzy of death.

Vasquez was slower but his reach was further, and he used this to his advantage. At one point his sword had swung so close to Gattamelata's head that I was sure the latter's throat had been slashed. But I was proven wrong when, the next instant, he countered with a spinning flurry of thrusts that no mortal should have been able to avoid.

Around us the fight continued but it all seemed trivial compared to the fight between the two titans on the field. No words were exchanged, no taunts or threats. I watched as closely as possible in all the chaos, all the while holding the ranks as best I could while we continued to press into the defenders who were, by now, growing sluggish and depleted.

I winced as metal struck metal. The swords had collided with such force that both were left notched, and another blow like that would have shattered one or the other or both. Vasquez recoiled and swung hard. Gattamelata ducked, then sprung from the ground, hurling himself bodily at his adversary. The wind knocked out of him, Vasquez staggered backwards but caught himself just in time to keep himself upright.

The Spaniard used his reach to keep Gattamelata at bay but the professional soldier proved too nimble. He spun past an outstretched arm and delivered a ferocious punch to Rodrigo's face that cut to the bone and caused blood to pour from a split above his eye. Enraged, he lunged and caught Gattamelata by the throat with both hands and began to squeeze tightly.

"You may have been a better leader, comandante, but I was always the better fighter," Rodrigo hissed, his face hovering daringly close to the others.

"You were always an opportunist," choked Gattamelata, "and a fool."

Vasquez saw, a moment too late, as Gattamelata's hand reached around and seized his neck from behind while his other struck forth in a quick, forward snap. My line of sight was obscured, but I heard choking and a gurgled scream and the Spaniard's gripped slackened, releasing his captive. When Gattamelata fell out of the way, gasping for air, I saw the handle of the small blade pointing downwards from beneath Vasquez's jaw and I quickly turned from the macabre sight. As he fell backwards, his body made a sickening thud as it struck the ground.

Immediately the morale of the Milanese troops collapsed and the fight descended into chaos. During the lull I was able to spot Pietro, who had just managed to disarm one of the enemy combatants.

"We need to find Bartolomeo," I said. "Will you come with me?"

"Of course, capo." He grinned. "Let's put an end to this."

We made for the stable and Gattamelata called out to us. "Get your man, Mercurio. We will handle the rest of these Milanese!" His face was still red and his voice was hoarse but he was in high spirits. I bowed respectfully and we broke off from the battle. We rushed toward the stable which in contrast seemed eerily quiet but as we came nearer we heard voices inside.

"Get the last of those chests loaded, we need to go now!"

"Si, ser!"

I stopped at the wide wooden door at the front and peeked through the gaps between the planks. The goldsmith was there, in the orange light of many torches, dumping the last of his counterfeit coins into a sturdy wooden chest with an iron latch. He was working alone in silence, and the others were presumably still getting everything fastened down for the morning's flight.

When I pulled open the door the look in Bartolomeo's eyes was instantly one of surprise but not panic. We stared at one another for what felt like an eternity, his body and face frozen like stone. The interior of the stable was hot, with soot coating the ceiling and clinging to the scalding air. His breathing was wheezy, as though he had been cooped up in here for a while.

"Bartolomeo."

"Mercurio."

"You may as well give up, your operation here is over. Gattamelata and his men have won the battle and you have nowhere to go."

"Yes, I know. I am prepared for that." His eyes were dull, like he was there but wasn't. In the next moment he was back again, and he struck me as a living riddle of flesh and blood. This was the real man that we had met at the Ponte Vecchio weeks ago, without any pretense or deception. "You know I really thought this was the perfect place to finish my work, out here in the middle of my family's legacy. The duke even lent me some of his troops. How convenient is that?"

"Spare us this nonsense, Neri. You are a traitor to Florence, a thief, a fraud, and a murderer. And in truth, I've never met a man as corrupt as you." I stepped towards him but he held up a hand.

"You'd better not do that. This place is one spark away from becoming a towering inferno." Looking around at our surroundings I realized that he was correct, and the timber was old and dry, the ground littered with hay and other oily debris all around us. He reached beside him to the kiln that burned bright and removed an iron poker that was sticking out from beneath the coals. Its tip glowed brightly and he waved it before him.

"Stop this game at once!" I yelled, taking another step.

"Now, I told you not to do what you are doing," he said calmly. The door behind us slammed shut and I could hear the sound of chains on the other side securing it. Pietro kicked the door but it held fast. He looked at me with panic written on his face.

"What is the meaning of this, Bartolomeo?"

He laughed, cold and sinister. "You were right, investigatore. I have nowhere to go. You've won, and I'm a dead man no matter what. But I still have a choice in how I go. And I choose to take you with me!"

Bartolomeo gently touched the tip of the red-hot poker to a mound of dry debris beside him, which ignited in an instant.

"You're insane," I said. "You killed your own brother. And to what end? To exact revenge on Florence? The Medici?"

"My brother was worthless and he threatened everything I had worked for!" He breathing was labored, his frame quaking. "His vices were always a pestilence which I put up with, but his betrayal was the final straw."

"You're wrong. Your own vanity was your undoing."

Pietro rushed to my side from the other end of the stable. "That side is locked too, capo. We're trapped in here."

I growled. "Bartolomeo, call your men and tell them to open these doors at once! I've had enough of this game."

"But my men are already gone," he said, his face plastered with a triumphant smile. "I ordered them to leave with the coins as soon as they fastened the doors. There is a back road through the mountains that your soldiers won't even notice until daylight, when it will be much too late."

"And what of your coins there?" I asked, pointing to the chest at his feet. "Your men seem to have forgotten a batch."

"Those are for me, a souvenir," he said. "My only regret is that I can't take them with me. But you might say I was born from fire, and my art was all forged in fire. So, what more appropriate end to this maddening saga than the very embers that gave me life?" The flames were already creeping across the far wall and licking at the supporting beams. Soon it would be visible from outside and I hoped that Gattamelata would notice that something was amiss before it was too late.

"Souvenir of what, Bartolomeo? Of conspiring against your city?" I was looking for a possible escape, speaking to fill the air and keep him distracted. He stood still, the poker in his hand, subdued in spite of the fire that was beginning to rage at his back.

"Conspiring against? Oh no, Mercurio! Florence lost its way over a hundred years ago! It chased out what nobility it had, and let greedy usurers come and steal what was left. It sold itself to thieves and bandits." He stepped forward, the poker held upright in the direction of my face. "I have done the city a great service by ruining those that seek to claim it solely for themselves. You would have no idea about any of that because you serve the very jackals to which I am referring!"

He lunged at me with the poker and I darted to the side. I drew my sword, and Pietro, who was across from me, did the same.

"Put it down, Bartolomeo," I warned him. He lunged at me again, foolishly, and I slapped his hand with the broad side of my sword. Swearing, he dropped the poker and grabbed his hand in pain. "I told you." When he went for the weapon again I stepped on the handle. "Leave it, Bartolomeo." He glared at me like a whipped child.

The stable was quite hot and the flames were roaring. I watched the smoke waft upwards, following it as it crept above to the rafters and then swirling out a small square ventilation hatch in the ceiling. I turned and noticed, to my right, a wooden ladder leading up to the loft.

"Pietro, we need to head up there." I pointed the way with the end of my blade. "Go on."

"Ser, you're coming too. Right?"

"I'm right behind you."

I had only glanced away for an instant but it was enough for Neri to strike. A dull pain exploded in my shoulder as the wooden plank connected hard. Reflexively I dropped my sword and grabbed the source of the pain, then realized my mistake at once. He came at me again, this time aiming for my head. I was more prepared and was able to duck out of the way in time.

Pietro dropped from the ladder and sprung to action.

"Drop it now!" he shouted but Bartolomeo was beyond reason. He charged, swinging wildly, and Pietro had not yet recovered his balance. The plank knocked the sword aside, and he drew back to bring it down on Pietro's head. Steeling myself and ignoring the pain, I grabbed my fallen weapon and plunged it through Bartolomeo's back between his shoulder blades.

The goldsmith sunk to his knees. I pulled my weapon free and he pitched forward onto his face and stayed still.

All around us the fire was devouring everything and it was approaching fast. The ladder was already in flames on one side but the rungs were still intact for the moment. Pietro was momentarily lost as he processed the fallen figure before us but I shook him out of it. “We need to go now.”

He swallowed hard. “D’accordo.” I let him lead the way up the ladder, following closely behind. My shoulder throbbed and I feared the arm was broken, and were it not for the armor it surely would have been. There was no choice though, the flames were moving upwards and would soon be upon the loft. I tucked in my arm and forced myself to climb.

“Capo.” Pietro reached from above and grabbed my hand. Then he hoisted me the rest of the way until I was on my feet.

“Thank you.” The hatch was just above us then, the thick smoke and embers twisting up and through in a hellish whirlwind. “We need to get up there somehow. Pietro, let me give you a lift.”

I loosened the straps on my armor. Pietro did the same, and we helped each other out of the cumbersome equipment. The freedom from the extra weight was liberating but we needed to drop everything we could in order to reach the hatch. I bid a melancholy farewell to my sword and all my pouches and supplies until I was left with nothing but the clothes on my back.

The fire had spread everywhere now and the skin on my face felt like it was roasting. With breathing nearly impossible, I crouched down and anchored myself as best I could. Pietro carefully placed his boot on my knee and pushed upwards. Thankfully he was as light as he looked, and in one agile movement he was able to pull himself up and through.

The wooden beams below me were creaking and I feared that they would soon buckle. Pietro's face peered back down through the hatch, and he stretched his arms towards me.

"Grab on!"

I rose and prepared myself. The arm ached but in the short while since we had reached the loft I could feel the sensation returning. Still, I doubted it would support me if I tried to hang with my full weight on it.

"You've got to pull me up, Pietro!"

"I've got you!"

I sighed and looked back down one last time. There was no time. I jumped as high as my exhausted legs would propel me. Pietro grabbed my good arm and held tight. He strained as he pulled me upwards. When the upper portion of my body was clear I caught myself with the other arm and swung my knee over. The cool morning air rushed into my lungs and I rolled to my side, collapsing beside the hatch. Heat and embers poured out beside me, exploding timber snapped below us. I had never felt more grateful to be alive than at that very moment.

There was a rumble and the structure of the stable began to sag. I propped myself up, fighting the urge to close my eyes. Dizziness made the world pitch and lean like a ship adrift in a storm.

"Is there a way down?" We were quite high off of the ground and I did not want to make it this far just to slip and fall to my death. Fortunately there was a lower sub-level towards the outer edge of the roof that mitigated the drop. We sidled over to the edge, looked at each other with resignation, then took the plunge.

The ground was hard and struck with surprising speed and force, knocking the wind completely out of me. I was frozen in a fetal position for an indeterminate amount of time, every sinew and tendon of my body in exquisite pain. My lungs no longer functioned and I felt myself suffocating in orange-tinted bleakness.

Something was pulling me and I opened my eyes. Gattamelata's men were dragging me away from the towering pyre. In a short instant it collapsed in a skyward torrent of glowing sparks that zipped and darted in all directions.

"Mercurio!" Gattamelata stood over me. "You're alive! We'd thought for certain you and Pietro had been burned alive in there."

"No such luck," I said, laughing and choking. My own voice sounded distant to me, like the echo of a

. "Bartolomeo's men have escaped with the shipment. There's a road behind the stable." I tried to point but only succeeded in flopping helplessly.

"Don't move for now." He turned to his lieutenant. "Get the horses ready, we're going to track down that wagon." Then, back to me, "You two relax while we get everything in order. Catch your breath, and have as much of this as you need." He tossed us a flask of wine.

Pietro and I sat in silence while the soldiers collected their supplies and handled the prisoners. I was surprised to see that there were very few casualties in the battle, only a few of the Milanese had fallen and a handful from either side were getting patched up for serious injuries. For all the fury that we had just witnessed, the men were well trained and fought with surprising precision. Even the prisoners were being treated well, which made sense since these mercenaries had much more in common with one another than their own employers.

My breathing had almost returned to normal when Gattamelata returned.

"I hate to have to rouse you but it's time to go. Where did you say that shipment was headed?"

"To Florence. There is a road that cuts through the rear of the property."

"We will find it." Gattamelata ordered his men to scout out the area. It was not much later that one of the men had reappeared, eagerly reporting that they had found a narrow path that cut through the wood.

"That didn't take long," I croaked.

"My men work fast," said Gattamelata. "Come, Mercurio and Pietro. Your horses are ready."

We were brought to the ponies, who seemed indifferent to see us, and one of the pages helped us up. The general and a handful of his men were all geared up and waiting for us. My gaze swept from them to Pietro, his face still covered in soot and his hair singed, then down to my own grimy hands that held the reins. My insides hurt and I wanted to die but this last thing needed to be done.

"Let's away, men," I said, and off we went.

There were about six of us on that skinny, overgrown little trail that seemed like it had been forgotten for longer than all my years. I wondered how a cart could have fit through it, though the broken branches and fresh-trampled foliage offered proof that they had come this way.

We navigated the dark tunnel carefully, its twists coming up unexpectedly and seemingly without any logic or methodology. What had initially cut through here had done so like a force of nature, arbitrary but entirely deliberate. The horses kept us going deeper in, showing no signs of hesitation though surely feeling some glimmer of doubt that this was an exercise in madness.

Our small squadron followed the path's arcs and twists until the sky began to visibly lighten, and the rays of morning were now shining through the little gaps in the branches overhead. Before long, the trail connected to a much wider road, and the fresh marks of hooves and wheels became even more distinct in the well-beaten earth.

"This way!" roared Gattamelata. The horses picked up their pace dramatically and we soared down the lonely road. The wagon could not have made it much further, I thought, laden with all of that silver and men. We reached the top of another small embankment and as we began our descent we saw, sure enough, the cloud of dust that gave away the fleeing shipment.

The chase was underway, hooves pounding into the ground as we quickly closed in. The men in the wagon had no doubt seen us by now for the wagon was now moving faster than ever. They stood no chance of escape but they would try anyway.

We split up, three men on each flank as we caught up with them. Their horses were already pushed to the limit and were growing clumsy. I leaned in for a closer look to see who was driving the wagon and was surprised that there was only the chestnut-haired man. All the rest must have escaped already. In the back, secured under a heavy woolen tarp, was a fortune in illicit coins that rattled at every tiny bump.