Tim Willocks

  The slit mouth gaped and closed. “He was rowed out to sea and tied in a sack and—” He stopped as he sensed how close he was to further torture. “He was not the first. The sea floor is littered with bastards!”

  “You let Carla believe the boy was abandoned as a foundling. Why?”

  “Would I tell her the truth and have her scream infanticide?”

  Tannhauser restrained himself to prodding the old man in the belly. “You’re too soft in the gut to have done such a deed yourself. Who did you send to perform this dreadful crime?”

  “The first time I was betrayed, when Carla was born, I swallowed my pride. I bore the whispers and the downcast eyes in the street. The second time—” The memory of intolerable rage silenced him with its enormity.

  Tannhauser cared nothing for the old man’s soul. He reached for his throat, then remembered the slithering eggs, and settled for another jab at the scrawny belly.

  “Tell me. Who did you send?”

  “My steward, Ruggiero.”

  The double doors opened and the steward appeared beyond the threshold. He observed Tannhauser, and his master’s terror, without discernible emotion.

  “Did His Excellency call?”

  Tannhauser straightened and turned his back on the wretched old count and walked toward the steward. The steward took two steps backward. Tannhauser closed the door on the hellhole behind him.

  “Ruggiero.”

  Ruggiero ducked his head. Decades of crippling servitude had made the man unreadable and, perhaps, had purged him of his capacity for human feeling.

  Tannhauser said, “You serve a monster.”

  Ruggiero said, “Sir, you are a brave and hardy soldier. Therefore, do you not serve monsters too?”

  Tannhauser slammed him into the wall. “Don’t bandy words with me, slave. I represent Lady Carla—whom in night’s darkest hours you must remember all too well.”

  Ruggiero blinked, otherwise the habitual blandness of his expression did not change. “It was ever my pleasure to serve the young contessa.”

  “By murdering her newborn child?”

  The flicker of shock was brief and confined to Ruggiero’s eyes. He attempted to extricate himself from the wall. “With your permission, sir?”

  Tannhauser considered him. Then he stepped back.

  Ruggiero took a lamp from a nearby stand. “Come with me, sir, if you please.”

  Tannhauser followed Ruggiero down a corridor and up a narrow stair, then along a series of passages and up more stairs, until he was sure it would have taken him an hour to find his way back out. The thought of the sack in the sea filled his throat with gall and his heart with grim echoes of his own vile crimes—his motives in resigning from the Agha Boluks—for the steward’s observation had been right enough. He had served monsters too. A third stair and a door, which Ruggiero unlocked, brought them to a large room with leaded windows. He took these to be Ruggiero’s private quarters. A bed, an armoire, an armchair, and, under the windows, a writing desk. A carving of the Madonna in creamy white stone. The rewards of a lifetime’s service. Ruggiero set the lamp down and used a key to open a drawer in the desk. Tannhauser glanced inside. It was empty but for a piece of paper, folded several times and sealed with red wax. Ruggiero took out the document and turned.

  “Can you read?” he asked.

  Tannhauser snatched the document and studied the seal by the lamplight. Its mark meant nothing to him but it was unbroken. Imprisoned beneath the wax were two lines of writing. He cracked the seal with care and prized off the wax with a thumbnail. The first line of the writing read: “Madonna della Luce.” The second recorded a date: “XXXI Octobris MDLII.”

  All Hallows’ Eve. 1552.

  Tannhauser’s mouth turned dry and he swallowed.

  “Madonna della Luce,” he said. “The name of a church?”

  Ruggiero nodded. “Here, in Mdina.”

  Tannhauser unfolded the paper. It was covered with a screed of Latin in a fine hand. He stopped at the first word, heart racing. He read on. He recognized Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Domine. A name: “Orlando.” Another: “Ruggiero Pucci.” At the bottom was a signature.

  His gaze was drawn back to the first word: Baptizo.

  He looked at Ruggiero’s eyes. Guilt stalked them. So did fear. Tannhauser handed the document back. “My Latin is patchy.”

  Ruggiero didn’t take the document. Instead, he recited from memory: “Baptized this day, October 31, 1552, a boy, Orlando, as witnessed by Signor Ruggiero Pucci, his guardian.” His voice caught with emotion and he coughed to conceal it. “Hear our prayer, Lord God, and guard this Thy chosen servant, Orlando. May strength never fail him now for we have traced upon his brow the Sign of Christ’s Cross.” Ruggiero cleared his throat again. “It is signed by Father Giovanni Benadotti.”

  Tannhauser waited for the rest of the tale.

  “I have served Don Ignacio since I was a child. Everything I am I owe to him. As a young man he was of stainless character, charitable and just, with the gentlest of hearts.”

  “I’m not here to mourn your master’s fall from grace.”

  “May I sit down?”

  Tannhauser indicated the chair and rested a haunch on the desk. Ruggiero took a breath.

  “Don Ignacio was possessed by devils that night—the night the child was born. Perhaps they possess him still. When I left by the rear gate with the babe in my arms—and with the sack that would be his shroud in my coat pocket—I intended to carry out my master’s orders. As I’d carried out every order he’d ever given me.” He hesitated.

  Tannhauser said, “I’ve obeyed my own share of evil commands. Go on.”

  “The boy made not a sound, as if he knew what his birth entailed, and this tore at my heart more piteously than if he’d screamed without cease. I couldn’t bring myself to consign him to Limbo, which even though it lacks for flames is a circle of Hell. I took him to Father Benadotti at the Church of Our Lady of Light, to be welcomed into Christ’s temple. Baptism would ensure eternal life. I stood godfather to the child, as there was no one else to answer for him, and when he was anointed with the holy chrism my tears fell on the boy’s face. That was when Benadotti understood my purpose. He made no accusation, but he looked at me as if . . .”

  Ruggiero wrung his hands. He pressed on.

  “I couldn’t look into the good priest’s eyes. When the rite was over he took me into the sacristy and entered the boy’s name in the parish register, then prepared the document you hold. He let me read it, then sealed it, and locked it away. He told me that once he had assurances that the child was in good hands, I might collect this certificate of his birth. If not, the certificate would stand as proof of a monstrous crime.”

  Tannhauser glanced down again at the signature. “The boy was baptized, the priest showed decency and wisdom. What then?”

  “I fell to my knees and begged forgiveness for the murder in my heart, but Benadotti refused to confess me. He gave me the name of a woman in the Borgo. She would find a wet nurse, if I was so minded. If I was not, then I was never to enter his church again, for, just as surely, and no matter what penance I paid, I would never be allowed to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  Tannhauser almost grabbed him by his lapels. “You spared the boy?”

  “I took him to the Borgo that very night.”

  So close had Tannhauser been to giving up hope that this news almost rendered him voiceless. But he needed more. “What is the name of the family that took him in?”

  “Boccanera.”

  “And they raised him?”

  Ruggiero bobbed his head. “The father worked in the shipyards, until he was crushed while careening a galley.”

  “Do you know the boy still?”

  “I last saw him when he was seven years old, when the agreement to pay for his upkeep came to an end—a stipend I provided from my own pocket.”

  “Orlando Boccanera,” said Tannhauser. “So as best you know he’s still aliv
e and in the Borgo?”

  Ruggiero nodded. Tannhauser took the statue of the Madonna from the desk and thrust it in Ruggiero’s hands. “All this you swear by the Holy Virgin, and upon your life, which shall be forfeit, and upon the damnation which is certain if you lie.”

  “All of it,” said Ruggiero. “I swear by the Blood of Christ.”

  “Orlando Boccanera.” Tannhauser muttered the name again as if it were a charm. “You never told the contessa what you’d done. Why?”

  “By the time I placed the infant with Boccanera and returned from the Borgo, my Lady Carla was gone, on a galley bound for Naples. The marriage contract was already sealed. I never saw her again. My master Don Ignacio prefers things neatly done.”

  “He does, does he?”

  Tannhauser thought of Carla and his heart was pierced. Packed into a stinking boat while yet torn and exhausted by childbirth. Still stunned by grief and ignominy and banished to the unknown terrors of a foreign and far-flung land. And at only fifteen years old. It was not the first time Tannhauser had observed the ruthlessness and cruelty with which the Mediterranean Franks were capable of treating their own kin, especially when it came to shame and family honor. Sexual misdemeanors drove them to madness. To murder. Tannhauser was not overdelicate when it came to acts of wickedness, but this one made his blood boil. A stratagem sprang to mind.

  “Well,” he said. “I like things done neatly myself.”

  Ruggiero shrank back in his chair.

  “As steward of the estate, are you familiar with all of Don Ignacio’s affairs? Or merely the keeping of accounts and the collection of rents and so forth?”

  “All of them, sir. His Grace depends on me entirely.”

  “And you have the craft and learning to draw up a simple legal document, let’s say in the manner of a deathbed testament—a will—in which the Don might make clear his wishes for the disposition of his worldly goods?”

  Ruggiero stared at him.

  “Have you lost your tongue?” said Tannhauser.

  “Yes, I could draw up such an instrument.”

  “And it would carry the force of law? That is, would it withstand challenge by the lawyers of the Church?”

  “That I cannot say. At the very least the will would require witness, by a gentleman of good reputation.”

  “Here he stands.”

  Ruggiero shifted in his chair. “Then I would say that such an instrument would have at least a fair chance of legal recognition, depending on the skill of its advocates.”

  “That bridge can be crossed later.” Tannhauser wagged the certificate in his hand. “Once you’d retrieved this, the priest’s threat was void. Why did you preserve it with such care?”

  “I hoped that my Lady Carla might one day return.”

  “You never thought to write to her?”

  “Often.” Ruggiero withered under Tannhauser’s stare. “I was too afraid. Of reawakening the scandal. And Don Ignacio’s anguish. His rage.”

  Tannhauser recalled the creature rotting by the fireside down below. “I won’t blame you for that,” he said. “In any case, Carla is here. In the Borgo.”

  Ruggiero rose to his feet, as if she’d entered the room in the flesh.

  “She is in your debt,” said Tannhauser. “As am I. Now.”

  He pocketed the certificate and produced his mother-of-pearl box. He flipped it open and shook two of Grubenius’s pills into his palm. They gleamed, oily and flecked with yellow in the light of the lamp. Ruggiero looked at them.

  “These stones are the most potent physic yet known. Opium, quintessence of gold, minerals, and decoctions known only to the sages. They banish pain, and soothe even the most tormented of minds, which they imbue with the gentlest character. Yet in excess they are fatal to the strongest constitution. If a man were sick and frail, and suffering intolerable pangs, these would bring him succor. And who would question the dying wish of such a man—especially if that wish were to bequeath his property entire to his beloved daughter?”

  Ruggiero saw the justice of this ploy, yet old loyalties cling. He didn’t answer.

  “Would you question such a wish?” said Tannhauser.

  Ruggiero said, “No.”

  “Good,” said Tannhauser. “Then fetch pen and paper.” He put the certificate in his pocket. He wanted to see Carla’s face when she read it. “Later,” he said, “you can fetch Don Ignacio a priest. A soul as black as his will need all the final sacraments the Church can offer.”

  Saturday, June 9, 1565

  Gallows Point

  The moon was down and they traveled by starlight in the footsteps of their canny Maltese guide. They rode with muffled harness and led their mounts on foot along sheep trails and treacherous defiles. In the sky above the rimrock, the tail of the Sea Goat pointed their way south. They left the high country and swung east and followed the Gorgon’s Eye toward the coast. They encountered no Turkish patrols. No man spoke. It was a rum business, Tannhauser reflected, to travel in the company of killers whose names one did not know, especially at night. The weight of the gold around his wrist reassured him: Not for riches or honor, but to save my soul. The priest’s certificate in his pocket brought him cheer. In the cool before dawn he led thirty-five knights under Chevalier De Lugny to the crest of Monte San Salvatore and they stopped and took in the prospect there unfolded.

  A shallow mist lay across the lowland. Within it, less than half a mile distant, glowed the dull red embers of the campfires on Gallows Point. A single brighter fire marked the perimeter, and Tannhauser imagined the watchmen warming their hands and talking of home. The knights wore half-armor and did not carry bucklers. Their mounts wore no armor at all. The monks of war dismounted and lengthened their stirrups for the charge. To keep the animals quiet they cowled their heads with silken scarves and walked them down the hill to Bighi Bay. A thousand feet short of the watch fire they stopped knee-deep in the mist, like a company of ghouls from some netherworld recently arrived, and with many an impatient glance at the eastern horizon they unlimbered their arms. The water was too black to be seen and in the circle of their silence the gentle rhythm of its lapping seemed loud. While there was yet time to kill, the knights knelt down by their steeds, reins looped around their elbows, and they crossed themselves and they bent their heads to their sword hilts and their lips moved in soundless prayer above the fog.

  They remained thus genuflected until the first intimation of dawn was signaled by birdsong. The indigo sky hauled a wide swath of violet from beneath the far horizon and as the violet brightened swiftly into lilac and mauve the knights crossed themselves again and rose to their feet. The silk scarves were stripped and the horses blew their nostrils and pawed the sand, and stirrups and harness creaked as the knights remounted and knotted short their reins. They rolled their shoulders and they flexed and pronated their elbows to free the greased joints of their gear. In the uncertain light their faces were as short of pity as any Tannhauser had seen. The ground before them was as flat as a ballroom floor, patched with parched marram grass and with no rock or shrub in sight to impede their promenade. They drew up in a shallow echelon with De Lugny and Escobar de Corro at their center and from somewhere on distant Corradino there drifted the ghostly and keening echo of a song.

  “Allahu Akabar.

  Allahu Akabar.

  Allahu Akabar.”

  De Lugny raised his lance and the knights moved out and picked up speed. Unlike the enemy, who rode light, short-backed Arabians and Barbs, the knights rode huge beasts of mixed northern European and Andalusian blood, bred for the strength to carry two hundred pounds at a charge and trained to be as eager for blood as were their masters. Tannhauser stood on the beach and stroked Buraq’s head and watched them go. He’d played his part and had no appetite for the fray, let alone a wound. Even so, it was a spectacle not to be missed. He mounted and drew his scimitar and watched from the saddle.

  At five hundred feet the wedged and rampant horsemen were running flat ou
t and nothing on Earth or above could have called them back. He saw the rind of the rising sun emerge above the armature of the point and in the oblique light streaming across the flatlands the helms and burnished backplates of the riders shone an iridescent pink. Thus gaudily adorned by the newborn day they thundered down on the encampment and set about the sleep-dazed defenders with a gusto fueled by righteousness and hate.

  Human figures leapt to their feet in panic and were just as swiftly dashed back to the ground. Maces whirled and bludgeoned and lances ran through naked flesh and axes rose and fell amid sudden sprays. Sword blades fluttered red above the roseate armor. A rising clamor of terrified mules and belated alarums and death shouts and wasted commands fractured the crystalline morning, and amid the hue and cry could be heard the names of Jesus Christ and John the Baptist, of Allah and the Prophet, and, as always when men meet their maker in a circumstance of horror, the word “mother” in various tongues from the mouths of sons who would never see her again.

  Tannhauser nudged Buraq and started in at the trot.

  As he reached the perimeter watch fire, in which the entrails of an unseamed corpse lay purple and steaming, a pair of fleet-footed refugees stumbled forth from the carnage. Seeing Tannhauser’s white turban, and his dark green caftan and his golden Mongol horse, they ran toward him in blind hope of salvation. They had the look of Bulgars or Thracians, and were helmless, and their eyes rolled in their faces like portraits of the deranged. They weren’t much more than boys. But even had he been inclined to mercy, he couldn’t let them know him at some later time and place. He slew the first with a single stroke as he grabbed for Buraq’s bridle and hot blood sprayed the animal’s chest and he sidestepped away. The second man he clove unto the brain from behind as he abandoned his comrade and fled like doomed game. Up ahead, De Lugny’s riders had swept the camp as far as the seven bronze siege guns commanding the bay and they wheeled about for a second pass in spumes of hoof-tossed sand. Tannhauser reined in Buraq and flicked the gore from his blade while it was still wet and he watched the knights’ bloody venture wend to its close.