‘Maybe they’ll free Maria!’ Erik was studying the crowd outside closely.
‘Alas! Since Gianni works for him now, I think Maria’s name will be on Carafa’s list.’
As they watched, the guards suddenly seemed to lose interest in their exertions. A last, large group of men, a few women, fled with little more than a boot aimed at their backsides. Most of these headed straight for the tavern beside the stable.
‘Come on,’ said the Fugger, ‘we haven’t had a chance to speak to a woman inmate yet. Maybe they’ll have news of my child.’
It was an ugly crew that filled the tavern, large men with brandings and tattoos, reed-thin women with sallow skin and steel-hard eyes. The innkeeper seemed to know a few and was advancing cheap wine on credit. There seemed little doubt as to the type of profession most of them followed; little doubt too that the landlord saw future profit in his generosity.
They split up, listened to conversations, spent some of their precious coin on loosening tongues. Erik found favour with one woman. Though three times as old as he, she was nearly as tall, and her prison-shrunken frame must once have been as wide, for her skirt, shift and cloak swamped her in excess cloth.
‘Want to get into the women’s cells, do you, sweet boy? A lusty lad like you needn’t go so far to find his pleasure. Why not just give yourself to Long Margaretha, eh? Come! Come outside now.’
A gnarled hand reached out from within the tattered garments, running swiftly down below his belt. He intercepted it, placed a cup, poured some wine. She drank deep, sought a refill, drank again, smiled. ‘No? You’re one of them, eh? Only like them if they’re captive?’ She let out a loud cackle. ‘Well, some advice then, young pretty. If you do get in, stay on the main floor for your jigging. Nice girls like me up there, good daughters of the Church, all. Slip the guard a florin and he’ll leave you alone with us. Slip us another and you can slip us what you want – we’ll bless you as we take you in!’
She drank hard again, then leaned into him. He forced himself not to withdraw from the foul scent of the cell that clung to her.
‘But here’s some other advice – don’t descend the stairs, for they lead straight to hell. No, they pass by hell. They finish … in Tartarus.’
She shuddered, some memory suddenly sobering her, her voice dropping. ‘You can hear them wail down there, just sometimes, if the night is very still,’ she continued in a whisper. ‘Once I heard them singing, a hymn it was, but in Italian, not Latin! Protestants, you see! No wonder they are condemned to the foulest vault!’ The eyes, that had cleared in the recollection, glazed again and she belched extravagantly. ‘So don’t go there, my lover. Not unless you likes to stick it into skeletons! And I’ve met some who do!’ Her laughter rolled over him. ‘Heretic skeletons at that!’
Erik felt a chill. He was suddenly certain where his Maria was held. He swiftly rejoined the others.
‘New sweetheart, boy? Little big for you, wasn’t she?’
His father could find humour in situations where there was none. ‘A woman from the prison. She told me they put the heretics in some sort of vault on the lower floor. She called it Tartarus!’ He burst out, ‘I fear my Maria is there.’
‘Tartarus?’
‘You know it, Fugger?’ said Haakon.
The question was unnecessary, for the man’s face had turned white. ‘I know it. Sometimes, in my despair, I called my midden chamber by that accursed name. I sought to glorify my paltry suffering but I was barely in hell, while Tartarus is seven leagues below the deepest level of Hades.’ He let out a cry. ‘And they keep my daughter there? Oh Merciful Christ!’
‘Then why do you stay?’ Erik was more terrified by the shadows in the Fugger’s eyes than anything he had heard so far. He was on his feet, his hands reaching below his cloak to his weapons. ‘I will try my scimitars against those Roman dogs at the gate right now.’ He stepped toward the door.
‘And you will die for nothing.’ Haakon grabbed his son by the shoulder, pulled him close. ‘We know now that more prisoners will be going in than have been released. The gates will open and close often, day and night. There’s our chance, perhaps. Fugger, tell the boy!’
But the German’s eyes were still focused inward, gazing on horrors.
As Erik began to argue, the main door of the tavern swung open. In the entrance stood a tall officer, dressed in the uniform of the Vatican guards. This Pope’s policeman brought instant silence to a room filled with some of the Pontiff’s recent, reluctant guests.
‘Scum of the earth!’ the man boomed. ‘Just who I’m looking for.’
He mounted a chair in the centre of the room, swept a plumed hat from long, beautifully coifed red hair and shouted, ‘So, you dogs, I’m recruiting. We have a lot of work to do tonight and not enough men to do it. This gives you a chance to redeem yourselves for your miserable sins … and to earn good coin into the bargain! Buy yourselves a few more nights of drinking and whoring before you sin again and we throw you back inside those walls.’
Some of his audience, wine bold, jeered, some slunk away, most stayed silent and stared.
‘It’s very simple, even to donkeys like yourselves.’ He reached into his cloak, pulled out sheaves of parchment. ‘These are lists of people we want. One list, one officer. Three of you go with each of my men and bring these villains back to the prison. For each one brought back, there’s a ducat. For a family, you’ll get a piece of gold.’
There were cheers at this. He continued, ‘And what’s more, there’s no danger. Those we want you to arrest are not scum like you …’ More cheers. ‘They’re scum like Luther, Calvin and such folk. Religious scum. Jewish scum. And witches, too. So you’ll make gold on earth while you store up treasure in heaven.’
This was greeted by the largest burst of cheering so far, and men began to crowd around his chair. He descended, before he fell, and led a party of them outside. Through the open doorway, he could be seen issuing arms, assigning men to his officers, sending them on their way.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Haakon?’
‘Yes,’ said the Norseman. ‘We sign up for one of his squads, and escort prisoners right through that gate.’
‘And leave my daughter in Tartarus for another night? No. I was thinking of something a little less complicated.’ Red spots glowed on the Fugger’s cheeks. ‘Why don’t we just stove this bastard’s head in and steal his pass?’
Captain Lucius Heltzinger stroked his magnificent red-gold beard, well satisfied. He had got so many volunteers he was able to select the pick of the crop, the murderers rather than the rapists, thugs who had already killed and who would happily kill again if it was required. Sometimes it was. He’d lied when he said there was no danger, for these Jews and heretics put up a surprising resistance on occasion. Hence these sheep for the sacrifice! If he lost a few of this prison scum in taking his quarry, well, that was more of Carafa’s gold that could find its way into his own pocket! He had plenty of gold, it was said, this new Pope. And he wasn’t like his predecessors with their talk of reconciliation and reform. Reconciliation never bought new armour, as Lucius’s father used to say. There was no profit in peace. Carafa, the Inquisitor General himself, had sent them back to war!
Feeling so pleased with himself, he was even indulgent to the one-handed beggar who approached him, just as he’d handed his final list to his last subordinate and had watched the mix of soldiers and criminals march away. Instead of the tip of his boot placed in the dog’s backside, he just barked at him, ‘We have all we need, turd. And we wouldn’t take cripples anyway!’
He was turning back to give orders to the two soldiers he’d retained with him, when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He raised his hand to strike the impudent cur, but he had scuttled back, stump of hand held up, words spilling out.
‘There are people hiding nearby. Heretics! I can take you to them.’
‘There are heretic pigs rooting everywhere. I have enough on my list to deal with.’
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‘But these are heretic sows, master. In the stable, right here, kind lord. Two girls, left by their merchant father these three days.’
‘Girls?’ Both the officer’s head and those of his soldiers now swung fully to the informant. ‘How old?’
‘Not very, master. Fourteen, perhaps.’
‘Well, it is our duty to root out heresy, wherever we find it, is it not?’ The Captain stroked his moustache. ‘Lead us to them and there will be a ducat in it for you.’
‘Kind master!’ said the Fugger, limping toward the stable.
It was dark in there after the brightness of daylight. Lucius and his two men stood blinking into the gloom.
‘Where are they, dog?’ Lucius whispered.
‘There, master.’ The Fugger, who had withdrawn into further shadow, whispered back. ‘The left stall, under that old blanket there. There! See how they shiver!’
Lucius could now indeed make out a shaking under the straw. ‘Drag them out,’ he mouthed, drawing his sword.
His two men moved forward. They could see the blanket quivering for themselves, even hear a high-pitched whimpering coming from within it. Smirking, one of them leaned down and grabbed a frayed end, the other poised with arms spread wide to stoop and snatch.
The blanket rose into the air, dust exploding into the sunbeams, a man exploding up from within the cloud, a man with a piece of wood in each hand. They were stretched out, then crossed before him, catching the light as they went, passing from flame to shadow to flame again. When they stopped moving, there was a loud thump and the two guards seemed to meld together before, joined, they sank unconscious to the floor.
Lucius shrieked, wheeling back toward the door. But someone stood now between him and escape, as tall as he, wider. Haakon bent under a desperate sword slash, drove his shoulder into the officer’s stomach, running him back into the central post of the barn, which cracked, shaking the whole structure. There was a brief scuffle, till a huge fist rose and fell. Then there was just heavy breathing.
‘Fugger, the doors! Erik, help me get this bastard’s clothes off before there’s too much blood on them. And bring the ropes.’
The Fugger slammed the stable gates closed, barring them. ‘Find his authority, Haakon. His papers. They should be in that satchel.’
Haakon threw the bag across, while he and his son began to strip the body.
‘Haakon!’ The Fugger held up his stump of a hand, beside the half hand barely healed from Siena.
‘Sorry, Fugger.’ He left Erik to his task, came across, opened the strap on the case. ‘Is this what we seek?’
The Fugger flicked his three fingers through the oiled parchment. ‘Yes. He’s wasted no time, this Carafa. His crest is already encircled by the Papal. This will get one of us into the prison.’
‘Let it be me.’ Erik had just finished undoing the laces where the doublet attached to the hose. Slipping it off, he held it up. ‘He’s about my size.’
‘He’s more like mine,’ said Haakon. ‘You are not going, boy!’
‘I am.’ Erik stood to face Haakon, eyes ablaze. ‘She’s my love.’
‘And you are my son. And I know you. You’ll start laying about you with your swords, you’ll get nowhere near to freeing her, you’ll—’
‘And you?’ Erik was almost shouting now. ‘What good will you do, old man? I have the strength, and the swords and the cause and—’
‘And I have my axe!’ Haakon bent and swept the weapon up now. ‘It has seen more blood than you, or your scimitars, could ever dream of. And as for strength …’
Their heads were almost conjoined now and the Fugger had to push hard to get between them.
‘Listen to me! Stop shoving and listen!’ The two big men took a pace back, breathing heavily. ‘I think you should both go in. I think it would be better.’
‘But we only have a pass for one.’
‘One soldier, yes. But it also speaks of prisoners. This officer could bring prisoners in.’
Haakon whistled. ‘So I could take Erik in as my prisoner!’
‘Or I could take you in as mine!’ The younger man glared.
Before Haakon could answer, the Fugger raised his three-fingered hand.
‘There’s more to it than that. There’s no point just getting inside. We need to get to the women’s cells. We need a woman prisoner.’
Erik laughed. ‘And where will we find a woman’s clothes to fit one of us? It’s impossible.’
The Fugger scratched his head for a moment. Suddenly, he smiled. ‘Who was your large girlfriend in the tavern, Erik? The one who told you about Tartarus?’
‘Long Margaretha? Well, she, she … why are you looking at me like that, Fugger?’
Instead of replying, he turned to Haakon. ‘You always wanted a daughter, did you not, Haakon?’
‘No!’ Erik’s words came out like prayer. ‘You didn’t see her properly, smell her, oh, she … she …’
‘She’d be more than willing to shed a few clothes,’ Haakon said, winking, ‘for a lusty lad like you.’
It all took longer than they’d expected. The guards had to be stripped, trussed, gagged, then placed in three of the old wine butts that were stacked in the rear of the barn. Erik had to shave. Then Long Margaretha had to be fetched. The Fugger’s entreaties proved no use and she was only pried away from the escalating debauchery of the inn by Erik, who lured her with soft words, smiles, a glimpse of coin. When they finally had her in the stable, she was initially frightened by the three men, then could not stop laughing when they explained what they wanted. More wine, their last florin, and the quality of the guard’s clothing she would get as temporary replacement convinced her. She made a great show of teasing as she removed her clothing. She also talked continuously about the prison, adding to their store of knowledge. By the time Erik was dressed in skirt and bodice, a shawl over his head, they had a good knowledge of the layout beyond the prison walls. Their last fear, that the woman would insist on rejoining her companions in the inn, was allayed when the quantity of wine took its effect and Long Margaretha sank gracefully into the straw, snoring gently. No shaking would rouse her.
They left by the rear door, went down the alley and around to the corner of the street that led to the prison. A prisoner and escort emerging from the barn might have caused some suspicion. Even though the gate guards were fully occupied, as they could see as soon as they peered around the building.
‘It has begun, then. The new and glorious Papacy of Carafa.’ The Fugger spoke softly as he watched a family being dragged by thugs towards the gates. The father was barely conscious, blood caking his face, his stockinged feet scraping the cobbles as two men ran him along by his arms. Two more held a daughter apiece, young faces averted from the grizzled beards that were thrust at them, the whispering of some crudity. A boy was carried in another’s arms, barely seven, kicking wildly until a blow made him go limp.
‘Come then,’ said Haakon grimly, ‘let us join this merry throng. They might not notice us.’
He pulled at the Switzer’s doublet, tight around his throat, undid another of the buttons that constricted his chest.
‘Haakon, you are the officer, remember? Do not slink to the rear, a leader does not try to slip in. Boldness now, my friend. Hide in plain sight.’
Haakon nodded once, then breathed deep, snapping another button.
‘Come on then, you trollop.’ He gave his son a mighty shove, the boy staggering forward, tripping over unfamiliar layers of skirt. The bell began to toll seven as they moved out of the shadows and Haakon called over his shoulder, ‘We will be coming out of that gateway before eight bells, Fugger. Be ready!’
‘I will be.’ The Fugger watched them cross the street, cursing the one-handed state that meant he stayed behind. Near the gate, Haakon stooped and flung his son across his shoulders, skirts flapping around his face. ‘May Jesus Christ protect you both. Bring my child back to me.’
Then he set about his own preparation
s. There was so little time till eight bells. But if they did not emerge then, there was an eternity of sorrow before him.
‘Mind the way there!’ Haakon shoved against the clamouring group at the gateway, one arm under his son who hung limply, the other shoving aside men who snarled and shoved back. ‘Move aside, I say! I have a queen of sinners here!’ He reached the officer at the gate. ‘Tried to escape dressed as a whore, she did.’ He turned, flashing Erik’s face.
The harassed gate commander snatched the papers Haakon proffered, glanced at them, then squinted at the Norseman.
‘I’ve never seen you before. What squadron are you with?’
Haakon stepped close to the man, forcing him to step back a pace.
‘If it’s any of your business, friend, I’ve just arrived from Naples. Ordered from his home by his Holiness himself. Just take your time and read the whole document, why don’t you? I’ll be sure to tell Carafa how helpful you’ve been!’
The officer lowered his eyes, mumbled, ‘No need for that tone,’ the words barely carrying above a burst of shouting, the noise of blows, of wails that doubled with the arrival of more prisoners to the horde outside the gates.
‘Go through.’ The papers were handed back. ‘Women’s cells to your right across the yard. Stop shoving there!’
He turned away, aiming blows, while Haakon marched Erik through the archway. On the other side he set him on his feet where, for a moment, they contemplated the mayhem before them.
The prison yard was filled with a crowd four times as big as that before the gate. The majority of the seething mass was to their left, where the men were being selected, searched, shoved through a dark doorway. Thugs with cudgels struck out, driving the herd forward, dragging any rendered insensible by the blows. Most went meekly to the table where men sat with lists, checking off the names of the new Pope’s enemies. A few, drawn by the cries of their women and children, tried to resist, even when the clubs fell, when their blood ran.
‘This is hell, Father!’ Erik muttered, bent still, trying to diminish his size.