This Rough Magic hoa-2, page 38
part #2 of Heirs of Alexandria Series
Bianca Casarini's name acted like a magical talisman. The man beamed. "Come in, signora." He ushered her forward respectfully, closed the door behind her. "And how may I help you, signora? Potions to draw a lover? To inflame passions? Perhaps to deal with some unfortunate consequences?" He rubbed his long hands.
"I want something to assist fertility. Not quack potions."
He looked at her thoughtfully, but didn't say anything.
"Please!" she said. "I'm desperate. I can pay well."
"There are certain rituals. You understand, they are frowned on by the Church?"
She laughed bitterly. "The Church hasn't exactly helped me so far. And they're a lot richer for not helping."
He nodded slowly. "Very well. Wait here. There are certain preparations I must make."
By the time he returned he looked far more like her idea of a practitioner of the black arts, right down to the robe. His eyebrows flared satanically and his beard and mustachios were now waxed to sharp points.
"Come," he said. "The sacrificial chamber is prepared. You must now be prepared. I must blindfold you."
Part of Sophia filled with fear at the idea of "sacrifice." But there was a guilty fascination too.
* * *
Stepping out into the cold street, Sophia wasn't too sure what time it was. Her head was still mazed from the liquid in that chalice—or perhaps from the smoke in that room. She would have to wash her hair to get rid of the smell of it. Next time . . . and she felt the compulsion to admit there would be a next time—she must make sure she was dressed in something easier to remove. She would have to undress herself until the symbols he'd painted on her washed off. She could feel them. They seemed to have a heat of their own.
She stumbled. It was very dark, and a fine rain had begun to fall. She put out a hand to keep in contact with the wall. She heard the sound of footsteps. A number of people. She shrank back against the buildings, until they passed. At least six men. One, even in the darkness, loomed huge. They were carrying something between them, and they didn't notice her.
After they were well gone, Sophia continued hastily on her way home. Whatever those men were up to it was bound to be no good. But there was no way she could report it, without implicating herself. Thank heavens for Bianca's wild ways. She had told Sophia which guards were susceptible to bribes.
* * *
Sitting back in a comfortable chair, the black robes thankfully tossed off, and a glass of ouzo in hand, Aldo Morando grinned sharkishly. He'd hooked a big one tonight. A very big one. Did the wife of the captain-general think, honestly think, he wouldn't recognize her? Even if his accomplice Bianca Casarini hadn't told him she'd be coming, he'd have recognized Sophia Tomaselli.
Morando had been many things in a long and varied career. Pimp. Spy. Procurer. Seller of "saints" relics. Seller of shares in Colleganzas that were remarkably lacking in substance. And latterly . . . magician.
He would never have believed the number of wealthy idiots just dying to pay over good money for some wicked thrills. Particularly women with too much money and too much time on their hands. With husbands who had long sought mistresses, or were much away. Of course things could get a bit hot with the Church, and with injured husbands, from time to time, which was why he had been obliged to leave the Italian mainland. Corfu, he had been sure, would be far enough away. He'd been dismayed, at first, seeing Bianca Casarini here, but she was proving to be a remarkably good accomplice for him.
He put down his glass and gazed cheerfully at the stack of ducats on the table. Besides that, Sophia Tomaselli would be a mine of information. Very valuable information in the right hands, and he knew where to find those hands. To think he'd been angry about the siege. Well, he was now sure that he wouldn't go hungry, and the opportunity for pleasure as well as profit—she wanted to get pregnant, after all, and she wasn't bad-looking—was considerable.
* * *
A tall graveyard poplar grew flush against the cliff that was topped by the old Byzantine fortress. The cliff beside it was too high and too steep to make the tree any threat to the integrity of the fortress. The tree itself was, in the fashion of the plant, densely packed with small branches. Attempting to climb it would have been folly, anyway: The thin branches would cascade the climber down again.
About twenty-five cubits up, the branches masked a narrow gash of an opening into the cliffs. If you ascended the ladder, and then walked back along it, the cave widened considerably into a labyrinth of passages. Once, many years ago, these would have acted as one of the defenses of this place. Now you just had to follow the most worn path in the stone. It had taken the passage of many feet over many long years to wear away the stone, to round and smooth the steps. The sacred chamber was lit by a small oil lamp. Right now all was silent except for the steady slow trickle and splash of the fountain that fed the holy pool between the two altars, the great Goddess's altar and the smaller, darker one.
The white half-almond lay on the black stone. Waiting, for someone to come and take it up, and all that it represented. Behind the larger altar, half-hidden in the shadows, was the image of the Goddess Herself. It towered over the altar and it was old, old—older, some said, than the island itself. It did not look anything like the graceful statues of the great Grecian sculptors from the island's glory days. It was not even anything like those earlier images, stiff and rigid, with fixed, staring eyes and jutting breasts like twin mountain peaks. No, this was more like a pile of boulders, round-headed and faceless, with the merest suggestion of hair and of arms and legs, and enormous, sagging breasts and belly, the hallmark of fertility and plenty. And there was, if you looked at Her long enough, the suggestion of a faint haze of gold about her, and the feeling that She was looking back at you, out of her eyeless face.
The two women came in, one sweeping the old, dried leaves before her, the other strewing the new leaves. When the chamber was prepared, the two acolytes went to lower the ladder. Few would come tonight, for it was raining so hard that it would be difficult to come and go undetected. Here, in the middle of the Venetians, there were few devotees anyway. But this was the second oldest temple on the island, a place where the life-flame had been kindled many thousands of years ago. The temple had always had at least a holy mother and three or four devotees.
The priestess had not expected a group larger than three or four. But as she stepped out of the shadows she saw that tonight, despite the rain, there was an unfamiliar face, a comfortably middle-aged woman.
The priestess saw with a twinge of disappointment that the newcomer was beyond child-bearing age, unfortunately. Months had passed, and there was still no one willing to take up the almond. The rains had come, the crops—if the invaders left anything of them—would be no worse than usual, but this could not last forever.
Not for the first time, the priestess wondered how much of this was because of the Christians and their priests. For centuries, She and they had lived, if not in harmony, at least not in conflict. But just after the death of the last bride, the priestess had sensed that there was something inimical to the Goddess that was searching for the source of Her power.
Shortly after that, the attacks began. And shortly after that the four stranger-priests had arrived, and the two hawks that were the eyes for the hostile power. Was it coincidence? It hardly seemed possible, and that was especially so once the priestess had learned that these four priests, and their leader in particular, were closely linked with the Grand Metropolitan of Rome.
True, they had close ties to the Hypatian Order, which, unlike the Servants of the Trinity, were not known for the persecution of those who were pagan. In fact, it had been the Hypatian Siblings that had dwelled here quietly for so very long. But this particular priest had a reputation for militancy that was not typical of the Order. And directly after arriving here, he had attempted to work magic.
She had put a stop to that, needless to say. No one worked magic upon this island without Her approval. But how long could that hold? Great and evil powers were being bent against Her, to usurp Her Power, and without a bride, the Cold God could not defend Her.
The priestess drew her thoughts back to the ceremony, and the new woman who had come. After purification and the rituals she must speak with her. But now the withered bay leaves swept up from the floor must be fed to the life-flame.
The women repeated the old, old words. "Out of death there is new life."
* * *
It was, as the priestess suspected, someone from outside the walls. She had known this would come; to an extent, she was only surprised that it had taken this long. The captain-general was not, by nature, a cruel man, but he was a foolish one to think that he could demand the labor and allegiance of the populace and not assume the responsibility for them.
And attempting to close the gates against those who deserved shelter here was nothing but an exercise in futility, as the presence of this woman showed.
"My brother is with the boatyard. The sea took my Yani three years ago. My daughters are married. My sons are at sea," the woman said, simply. "My brother is here. The captain-general refused to allow the men to bring their families. But the men brought us in anyway, by the boatyard gate. There are several of the timber-sheds that are not in use, and now that the Hungarians are outside the walls there is nothing happening in the Little Arsenal anyway. It is crowded, but it is safer than outside." She sighed. "Why does the Goddess allow these Xenos to trample our soil?"
"Men's business, my daughter. We do not make war, and they do not make children. Invaders come and go, but the Goddess remains."
She did not speak aloud the question that was in her own mind.
. . . for how long?
* * *
Caesare Aldanto walked past the man who had been crucified upside-down outside King Emeric's tent as if he wasn't there.
Emeric was sprawled in his gilded and gemstone-encrusted throne. Aldanto bowed mechanically. "You wished to see me?"
Emeric stared at the blond man. He stood up, and put his hands on Aldanto's throat. "You interfered with the admiral of my carracks and sent them north in pursuit of four vessels. You interfered and used my name to direct the Dalmatians in an attack on the same vessels. We lost a number of the galliots. According to my admiral you have only captured one of the Venetian vessels. Why should I allow you to live?"
Emeric allowed the pain to flow from his hands into his intended victim. But Caesare Aldanto didn't scream and writhe. He didn't even blink. He answered in the same calm voice that he'd used earlier.
"Because I had credible information that they were coming to the relief of Corfu. The ships had Knights of the Holy Trinity on board, including, according to our captives, Prince Manfred of Brittany. I considered that you would wish them sunk rather than at large on Corfu. There were also a number of powerful and dangerous magicians on board. We were not aware of that. That is why three of the ships escaped."
Emeric was somewhat shaken by the lack of response from the blond Milanese man; it took him aback, and left him thinking madly down directions he had rather not have gone. There could be little doubt now—Aldanto was indeed a puppet-man. He stepped back. Always before, he'd known his power stood between him and any threat of a knife-wielding assassin. With this man . . . he was potentially in his enemy's grasp. He had no doubt at all that Grand Duke Jagiellon was indeed his enemy, even if their purposes ran in the same direction for now.
Or could this be a trap?
Then logic reasserted itself. Jagiellon's man would hardly have risked his position and Emeric's displeasure if Jagiellon did not desperately wish the Knights to be sunk at sea.
"I was not told about the prisoners," said Emeric, moderating his tone by a degree or two. "Why have they not been brought to me?"
Aldanto shrugged. "Ask your admiral. But in truth only a handful of seamen were captured. The captain elected to remain with his vessel and blow her magazine up when she was boarded. The captives were taken from one of her small boats. The charges failed to sink her, but there were considerable losses among our boarders."
PART VI May, 1539 a.d.
Chapter 42
"It strikes me very much as a conspiracy," said Eberhard. "I agree with your assessment, Francesca, but of course it is still likely to place us in very bad favor with the governor—the podesta, as they call him—and the captain-general, if and when the messages get through."
Manfred shrugged. "What they don't know, their hearts won't grieve over. Besides, Francesca has already cleared it with the governor."
Francesca looked innocent. Too innocent, Benito thought. "He's an old dear, but quite ineffectual. The conduct of war or siege is officially the military's business. However, I did ask him if the prince might be allowed to send messages to the Emperor. He said it was hardly something he could refuse permission for, but that it was of course impossible at the moment. I smiled and thanked him."
"Well, I suppose if the messenger happened to go via Venice, you could hardly blame him for telling the authorities about the situation here," said Eberhard with a perfectly straight face. "How are your preparations going, by the way?"
Manfred grimaced a little. "Well, the early morning detail guarding the outer wall was easy enough to organize. Our men are tired but still wish to do their part in the defense of the Citadel. The boat . . . well, that's the reason I suggested to Francesca we might have to go to the captain-general. I've tried to find one to buy, without making a great to-do about it. But this isn't Venice, you know. Most of the boats in the Citadel belong to the shipyard. Of course there were lots of fishing boats out in the town. But they're rather far out of reach."
Francesca tilted her head to the side. "And I said, you and Benito should perhaps go and talk to Maria and her husband."
Benito shook his head. "Maria would give us a shipyard vessel in the blink of an eye. But Umberto—well, he's a good fellow, but he's a rules and regulations sort of man."
"He might still know someone with a boat to sell." She looked consideringly at Erik and Benito. "I think we need to think about your appearances, also. You can't go like that."
Benito caught on immediately. "I look as if I could possibly be a local. But Erik wouldn't pass in the dark. We'll need hair dye and old clothes."
"Something to stain Erik's skin too," said Francesca, looking pointedly at both hair and skin.
"I'm not planning to go passing as a local," said Erik, a little stiffly. "I'll stick to the hills and forest patches. These Hungarians won't even see me. I might blacken my face for the night-work. . . ."
Francesca smiled. "She'll still love you even if you're dark-haired, Erik. And never mind the Hungarians. It's the locals who will run from a blond-haired man, and you will need them if you are to find her, I suspect. We've got a map of how to get to Count Dentico's villa, but they might easily have moved out. You'll have to get directions from the locals. It won't help that you can't speak Greek and will frighten every local silly."
Erik shook his head. "How do you cope with her always being right, Manfred? I have a little classical Greek, but the language has changed."
"Get used to it," said Manfred with a grin. "It's usually easier to say they are right even if they're patently wrong." He ducked hastily.
Francesca just raised an eyebrow.
"That is a real danger signal," said Manfred. "It means it's being saved up. I'm just trying to further his education, Francesca."
"I'll just save that up, too," she said, with a thin smile. "Now, let's go down and talk to Umberto and Maria. There will be people selling things here in the Citadel, and Maria will know where."
Von Gherens looked speculatively at Benito. "The other thing you'll need to get him is a knife. He can't carry a Ferrara main gauche that would cost a fisherman five years' earnings, and a rapier's right out."
Benito gritted his teeth. Changing out of Case Vecchie clothes was something he was actually looking forward to, although he knew his feet would find being shoeless a painful experience. Going without his rapier and his beautifully balanced dagger would be a lot harder. He didn't feel dressed without at least the main gauche. But Von Gherens was right; he knew that from his time as a bridge-brat. One look at his main gauche, and even an idiot would know he wasn't what he was supposed to be.
Erik grinned. "And I suppose you'd like me to leave my new hatchet behind too? It's not a patch on my Vinland one, but the swordsmith at Mainz didn't seem to understand me clearly enough."
The scar-faced old Prussian Ritter sniffed "I think he probably thought you wanted it for chopping firewood, not having seen you use that barbaric thing. The Hungarians probably won't recognize it either. Until it's too late."
Erik nodded. "I can relieve them of anything else I need. And I think I've got a knife for you, Benito, in with my gear. It's better than any cheap local blade, anyway. I'll dig it out for you. It's a Shetland islander's knife. It's very plain. Could pass for a fisherman's tool, but it's good steel and well balanced."
