The Prince

  She kissed him fiercely, before taking his hand and walking hurriedly in the direction of their hotel.

  The Prince did not follow. He’d enjoyed enough insipid conversation and public petting for the evening.

  Satisfied that the Emersons had returned to their penthouse, he melted into the shadows. He hoped his foray into the city had gone unnoticed and put from his mind all thought of happiness.

  Chapter 11

  Ibarra of the Basques was tall, dark, and intelligent. He’d lived in Florence for over a century and was proud of his recent ascent to the Consilium.

  It was an honor to be so elevated within the principality. But Ibarra knew, as did his fellow citizens, that Consilium members who failed in their responsibilities were either banished or executed. Banishments were extremely rare.

  Well aware of the history of Florence’s underworld, (a subject he’d studied since his arrival), Ibarra was conscious of his responsibility as head of security. He wanted to prove himself to the Consilium and to the Prince.

  (He also had a fondness for his head and would sorely hate to lose it.)

  And that is why Ibarra stood in an empty apartment overlooking the Ponte Santa Trinita hour after hour, his gaze fixed on the Arno River.

  He’d persuaded the Prince to allow him to track the remaining attempted assassin personally and had spent days and nights doing just that, only to discover that the Venetian had evaded capture by hiding in the Arno.

  It was a clever ruse.

  Water masked the stranger’s scent. The river, although shallow, provided adequate protection from the sun during the day. There was the small matter of oxygen, but their kind barely needed to breathe. Ibarra surmised the Venetian was able to surface beneath the shade of the bridge during the day and draw air before sinking to the bottom once again.

  But no more.

  The new head of security had found him and was waiting patiently for him to come out. Just as the last rays of the setting sun faded from the city, he did just that.

  Ibarra watched as a man dressed in dark clothes and carrying a sword emerged from the water. The figure quickly scanned the area, tipping his nose into the air and closing his eyes as if to scent out any predators. Seemingly satisfied he was alone, he climbed the underside of the bridge and heaved himself onto the road.

  Quickly, Ibarra opened the window to the apartment and leapt to the ground, withdrawing his sword as he landed.

  The Venetian’s head came up. His gaze darted in Ibarra’s direction.

  When he caught sight of the Basque he cursed, breaking into a run. He crossed the bridge and headed toward Santo Spirito, on the south side of the Arno.

  Ibarra followed at a high rate of speed, climbing a building near the bridge. From the vantage point of the roof he caught sight of his prey escaping into a side street.

  The Basque crossed to the roof of the next building, continuing to monitor the Venetian’s progress.

  The failed assassin wheeled around a corner, coming perilously close to the holy ground of a church. Ibarra watched with silent amusement as the man paused, momentarily confused, before making a hard left and entering Piazza Santo Spirito.

  Ibarra jumped to the pavement, pursuing him across the Piazza and into an alley.

  The Venetian skidded to a stop the moment he realized the alley was blind.

  Ibarra stood behind him at the mouth of the alley, wielding his sword.

  The Venetian glimpsed Ibarra over his shoulder, then ran for the wall opposite and began to climb.

  The Basque flew toward him and grabbed his clothes, tossing him to the ground.

  The would-be assassin landed hard, a loud oath escaping his lips. But he did not drop his sword.

  Ibarra stood over him, speaking in Basque-accented Italian. “Surrender and I shall be merciful.”

  The Venetian looked around, measuring the distance to the street.

  Ibarra took that opportunity to focus on his scent. “You haven’t fed in some time. You must be hungry. I will ensure you’re given food.”

  The Venetian stumbled to his feet, waving his sword in front of Ibarra’s midsection. His eyes flickered from place to place, weighing his options.

  “Our Prince is dead. You’re the only assassin who survived. The entire principality is hunting you and the others will kill you when they find you.”

  The Venetian’s expression changed, but only momentarily. He hadn’t heard the assassination had been successful or that his entire team had been killed. And he didn’t appear to trust Ibarra’s word.

  The Basque smiled.

  “It’s clear you’re courageous, but don’t let your courage become folly. You’re friendless, alone, and far from home. I will see that you are fed and given shelter. Put down your sword.”

  The Venetian lifted his weapon still higher.

  Ibarra whistled softly, shaking his head.

  “Why would Marcus send someone your age to assassinate an old one? Doesn’t he have other, better soldiers? Or does Venice intend to wage war against us with an army of younglings?”

  The young Venetian’s eyes fixed on his.

  Ibarra’s smile widened.

  “Ah, so Marcus didn’t tell you our Prince was an old one.” He swung his sword with a flourish. “Still, you should have studied your history. Our Prince ruled Florence for centuries. Although I can’t swear to his exact age when he was killed, it’s clear he was one of the oldest in Italy.”

  Something remarkably like surprise flashed across the Venetian’s face.

  Ibarra’s smile faded. He moved a step closer.

  “They say Marcus is a tyrant. Is he worth dying for?”

  The Venetian gripped his sword with two hands, swinging it at Ibarra’s head.

  Ibarra ducked, swiping his weapon at the Venetian’s feet and knocking him over.

  The Venetian toppled to the ground, still clinging to his sword.

  Ibarra stomped on his hand and the Venetian cried out in pain, releasing the weapon.

  The Basque placed the tip of his sword underneath the Venetian’s chin, lifting it.

  “I see that Venetians are loyal, but not intelligent.

  “I’m older than you by at least a century, perhaps two. I’m stronger, faster, and more difficult to kill. You won’t best me in a swordfight, even if you weren’t weak from lack of food.”

  Ibarra’s dark eyes twinkled like two black stars.

  “It will be difficult to engage in a swordfight with me since you’ve just lost your weapon.” He scratched the Venetian’s neck, drawing blood.

  “Help me flee the city and you’ll receive a king’s ransom.” The Venetian’s voice was low but defiant.

  Ibarra’s brow crinkled. “What kind of ransom?”

  “Gold. There are those who would pay a great deal for my safe return.”

  Ibarra surveyed the captive’s clothes and appearance. “I doubt that.”

  “You can come with me. Prince Marcus could use someone like you.”

  “I’m sure he could. He probably hasn’t executed anyone in at least a few hours and is in need of a victim.” Ibarra kicked the Venetian in the side. “Get up.”

  “I have powerful friends.” The Venetian stubbornly refused to move.

  “I’d like to hear more about that. But first, we’re going to go for a walk. Now stand up.”

  The Venetian stood on unsteady feet and Ibarra pushed him toward the mouth of the alley, pressing the tip of his sword into his back.

  “You may not realize this, Venetian, but Fortune has smiled on you. Since I am the one who found you, you will live to see another day. The question is whether or not you’ll see the day after that.”

  Chapter 12

  “What news from Rome?” The Prince welcomed his lieutenant to the library of his private residence in the Palazzo Riccardi, gesturing to a nearby chair.

  Lorenzo bowed and took his seat.

  “The Roman was unavailable. I met with his lieutenant.”


  The Prince seemed unsurprised by the revelation. “And?”

  From beneath his robes, Lorenzo withdrew a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax that bore the imprint of the King of Italy. “This missive was given to me to confirm my conversation with the lieutenant. He informed me Rome won’t interfere if war ensues between Venice and Florence, unless the conflict attracts undue attention.”

  The Prince broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, reading the Latin words quickly. “Attention from whom? Humans or the Curia?”

  Lorenzo shifted in his seat. “The lieutenant was not specific.”

  “Probably because one leads to the other.”

  The Prince paused as he saw something of interest in the missive that was not related to the present discussion.

  Lorenzo noted his reaction, staring at him with inquisitive eyes.

  The Prince folded the letter and placed it in the pocket of his suit jacket. “Did you inform Rome we weren’t certain Venice was behind the assassination attempt?”

  Lorenzo looked as if he wanted to ask about the missive. But he didn’t.

  “Yes, Prince.”

  “While you were in Rome, we received confirmation Marcus was behind the attack. What’s Rome’s position on the circumstances concerning our conflict?”

  “According to the lieutenant, the Roman prefers to avoid public pronouncements on such matters, but privately, it was acknowledged our complaint has merit.”

  The Prince took a moment to adjust his cuff links, reflecting on Lorenzo’s words. They were not what he’d hoped.

  “Was there any indication of the Roman’s . . . retirement?”

  “No, Prince. But there are rumors the Roman was replaced secretly when he reached his thousand years.”

  “What rumors?” The Prince’s tone was sharp.

  Lorenzo lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

  “Nothing specific. But from here to Rome, citizens remarked how strange it is that no one has seen the Roman for at least a century. I was given to understand the lieutenant deals with all matters of state. He felt free to give his opinion during our conversation without leaving me to consult his superior.”

  The Prince resisted the urge to comment and looked off into space, keeping his musings private.

  At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.

  Lorenzo bowed and opened the door discreetly, blocking the entrance with his body.

  “I beg pardon, Sir Lorenzo.” Gregor’s Russian-accented Italian filled the room. “Ibarra has a gift for the Prince.”

  “What gift?” Lorenzo sounded surprised.

  “A Venetian one.”

  Lorenzo was silent for a moment. “Tell Ibarra to bring his gift to the Consilium chamber. I’ll inform his Lordship.”

  Gregor acceded to the command and Lorenzo closed the door.

  The Prince lifted his eyebrows. “Well, what’s the gift?”

  Lorenzo appeared distracted. “I’m not certain, Prince.”

  “Assemble the council members. We may have need of them.”

  Lorenzo bowed and withdrew.

  In the quiet of his library, the Prince took the missive from his pocket and reread the note penned at the bottom in a familiar hand. A wide smile spread across his face.

  ***

  “I move we torture him.” Aoibhe’s voice, loud and deceptively melodious, rang out in the council chamber.

  The Consilium had assembled without the prisoner, who was being kept in a cell nearby under the careful watch of no less than four guards.

  “The Venetian’s life is forfeit to the Prince. Perhaps he’d rather kill him personally,” Lorenzo interjected, eyeing their ruler as he sat on his throne.

  “He’s a youngling and can be turned.” Ibarra’s voice was low but confident.

  “We need to determine what contact he’s had with Venice.” The Prince focused his stern expression on his new head of security.

  Ibarra nodded his agreement. “Without question, my lord, but I doubt he’s had any. He was separated from the others and has been hiding in the Arno. From the look of him, he hasn’t even fed since the night you were attacked.”

  “Niccolò?” The Prince turned to his intelligence officer.

  He stood. “We’ve had no news of information entering Venice from here. Marcus continues to believe you’re dead, my lord.”

  “Has there been any movement in the region?”

  “None. Our spies report that Venice has assembled an army, but they’ve encountered difficulties with our near neighbors. The allies have informed Venice that they will attack if their borders are breached.”

  The Prince grinned. “Excellent.”

  Niccolò continued. “As we predicted, Venice is making plans to travel by water. However, our spies have been able to determine where they may make landfall.”

  “Possibly Rimini or Cervia,” the Prince mused.

  “Both are reasonable possibilities, yes.”

  The Prince tented his fingers. “Marcus has surprised me. I expected him to attack within hours of learning of my death.”

  Niccolò nodded. “It’s possible Marcus was waiting for a report from inside the city.”

  The Prince smiled again. “That is our good fortune.

  “Our army is larger and certainly stronger. We are at the height of readiness. While we could secure permission from our neighbors to march through their territories in order to attack Venice, it would be prudent for us to wait. Venice will come to us.

  “Niccolò, write letters to the Princess of Ravenna and the Prince of San Marino, asking them to side with us during any potential conflict but leave our adversary unnamed for now.

  “Ensure our spies on the coast are at the ready and offer them handsome rewards for information about any movement from the north.”

  Niccolò bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Ibarra.” The Prince beckoned his new head of security.

  The Basque stood before the throne and bowed.

  “The Venetian soldier is your prisoner. Extract whatever information you can from him and then kill him.”

  Ibarra hesitated. He looked as if he wished to protest but wisely, he didn’t.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I place you in charge of the interrogation, as a reward. But I order Maximilian and Aoibhe to observe the questioning. Stefan the physician will also be placed at your service, should you have need of him.”

  “I am honored, my lord. Thank you.” Ibarra genuflected and returned to his seat.

  “And Ibarra.”

  The Basque paused before sitting, turning toward the throne once again. “Yes, my lord?”

  “One of your predecessors thought it would be a good idea to involve a priest in an interrogation.” The Prince’s expression hardened. “Don’t make the same mistake.”

  Chapter 13

  The Prince was pleased with Ibarra and the capture of the remaining Venetian. Confident in the steps he’d taken to defend the principality, and in the information that continued to trickle in from spies placed in Venice and on the coast, the Prince decided it was time for him to emerge from hiding, at least for a few hours.

  He wanted his citizens and the Venetians to continue to believe in his demise, but he was running out of time with respect to the Emersons. They were scheduled to check out of the Gallery Hotel Art the following morning. If he was to have his revenge on them it must be that evening.

  Thus, the Prince decided he would venture out of the Palazzo Riccardi and into the streets of Florence, but only for a few hours and with the single purpose of torturing and killing Professor Emerson.

  But he needed to visit an old friend first.

  He used a secret network of passages that led from the Palazzo to his villa, which sat atop a hill overlooking the city. As the sun began its descent, he piloted his Triumph motorcycle from the garage and down the winding road that led to the Arno.

  No doubt it would seem strange to the citizens of Florence’
s underworld to see their prince taking such pleasure in riding a human machine. But he loved the sleekness of the body and the sound of the engine. He also loved the speed.

  So it was that he drove like a demon across the Arno and over to Santa Maria Novella.

  He was clad all in black, including a black helmet with an opaque shield, a pair of heavy, black motorcycle boots, and a black leather jacket that had been made in the 1950s. A piece of cloth, newly doused with a vintage from his cellar, was pinned inside his shirt.

  Parking his roadster next to the church, he walked to the side entrance, still wearing his helmet. He was wary of being seen by one of his citizens and for more than one reason.

  The second he stepped on holy ground, he developed a strong headache and his limbs began to feel weak. It was a harsh reminder he was no longer a servant of the Church.

  His blood boiled with ancient anger.

  Upon entering the church he removed his helmet, fighting the nausea that threatened from his stomach. He strode to the center, stopping below Giotto’s famous crucifix.

  It was a thing of artistic beauty, to be sure. He took his time examining the Franciscan-inspired artwork, noting its colors. But he would not look at the face of the figure hanging on the cross.

  He spat on the floor, blaspheming in Latin.

  He turned on the heel of his boot and exited the church, moving across the grassy courtyard to the old chapter house. In the sixteenth century, it had been transformed into what became known as the Spanish Chapel. Andrea di Bonaiuto had painted the incredible frescoes that decorated the walls.

  Now the Prince faced the person he’d come to see—a figure seated below the personifications of the seven virtues, wearing an expression of peace.

  He made eye contact with the image, which appeared to stare back at him, and bowed very low, his body unaccustomed to the movement.

  “Hail, Brother.” The Prince greeted him in Latin.

  The figure remained silent.

  “It’s been some time since I’ve visited. More than a century, if memory serves.” The Prince’s gaze flickered to the other less welcome images that flanked the favored one, before fixing on the personification of justice.