WSIM24B Ch. 07

"I meant to ask: we heard the bells ringing. I know there's a new Pope. Who is it?"

All three simply looked at me. Diego's mouth fell open.

- "You don't know?" asked Miguel. "How can you not?"

- "Because I don't." I said, with more confidence than I felt. It was true, but...

- "The Cardinals met in conclave, and the negotiations were fierce." he said. "There was bribery, of course, and the bargaining was difficult, but in the end, they made the right choice. Thanks be to God, our newest Vicar in Christ is a Spaniard - the Bishop of Valencia."

- "Ah?"

Big Miguel looked at me, his eyes narrowed. "You've not heard of Rodrigo Borgia? He has taken the name Alexander VI."

***

Borgia. Yes, I'd heard the name. Bribery, nepotism, murder, incest. Even if only half of the stories were true... holy shit.

Ironically, my ignorance seemed to help Miguel de Corella believe that my story had to be credible - only a foreigner from as far away as Courland could not have known who the new Pope was.

- "Tell me again about the ambush." he said.

The details were obviously very important to him. "Why?" I asked.

He looked at me. The man was big, but also intense.

- "Because a good friend of ours died on that same road." he said. "In very similar circumstances."

- "Oh, no."

I don't know. Maybe my show of concern was just genuine enough.

"Who was it?" I asked.

- "The Pope's... nephew." said Diego. "Our friend, Cesare."

- "Wait: Cesare Borgia?" I was stunned.

- "He was killed on the same road you travelled on, along with six companions. A seventh is still missing."

Oh, shit. Shit.

The seventh companion would be found, eventually. I remembered exactly where I'd left him. But... Teck and his crew had assassinated Cesare Borgia? He wasn't the Pope's nephew; Cesare was his son. That was changing history to a ridiculous degree. The ramifications of such an act were potentially immense.

Corella was looking at me much more closely, once again.

- "I can't believe it." I said. "What a horrible thing for the Holy Father - to be elected, and to lose his nephew, all in the same week." I looked at big Miguel. "Were you close?"

- "They went to University together. In Pisa." said Diego Ramires.

Corella frowned, but he didn't deny it.

- "I'm sorry for your loss." I said.

I produced another coin, to get a second bottle, because the Ramires brothers had drunk most of the first. I needed more information, and these three were a good place to start. I asked questions about Rome, its people, and its politics. Diego and Pedro were happy to answer.

The second bottle soon went the way of the first. Pedro lifted it up and shook it, and then raised an eyebrow at Miguel.

- "One more?"

- "No. That's enough." said the big fellow. "We have to find Master Pilgrim a place to stay."

- "He can sleep in our lodgings." said Diego. "For tonight, anyway."

- "Yes. But I'll send word to de Lorqua. You know he'll want us to test our new friend. Pilgrim will need a clear head for that, don't you think?"

- "If you say so."

Big Miguel and Diego led the way, while Pedro and I followed. The younger Ramires chatted non-stop, pointing out local places of interest - even those I couldn't see because they were two streets over. It was growing darker, though; it wasn't dusk yet, but the sun had gone down far enough that the remaining light didn't penetrate most of the narrowest alleys.

Pedro was still talking as we reached a little crossroads. That was where we were jumped. Miguel and Diego leapt back, and there was a sharp rasp of steel as they drew their blades. They were immediately engaged by three men with swords.

I spun around, and got my dagger out just in time to parry a sword thrust. Pedro was still tugging at his weapon when his opponent lunged. The younger Ramires was touched in the shoulder, even as he tried to throw himself backwards, out of the way. He may have saved himself from being spitted, but the back of his head slammed into the wall behind him. His eyes rolled, and he fell.

I saw a third armed man behind the first two. There was no way that I could defend myself against three swordsmen with only a dagger. So I attacked. I leapt at Pedro's assailant, wrapping my left arm around his neck and pulling him towards me even as I spun him around, putting his body between me and the other two.

Then I jammed my dagger into his abdomen, just below the sternum. I felt his foul breath on my face as he screamed.

His friends tried to thrust their swords at me, but without hitting him. I basically threw his body at the second man, who didn't have enough space to back away. He had to try to dodge to one side. He went to his right, which would keep his right arm and his sword free. It was also the direction away from the bloody dagger in my right hand.

I believe that I've made reference to my AFOTA scores as well as my ISEC training in combat, both armed and unarmed. I had a dagger in one hand, but that didn't mean that my left hand couldn't be a weapon, too. I clobbered my opponent with a vicious blow to the temple. He went down like a puppet with its strings cut.

The third man now faced a dilemma: he had a sword, against my dagger - but he'd just watched me fell two of his partners.

It might have been different if his other friends, attacking on the other side, had been having some notable success, but from the clash of blades, it sounded as if Miguel and Diego were holding their own.

I raised my left hand, and made a universal gesture of invitation.

- "Come on." I said, in Spanish.

He turned and ran.

Behind me, Corella had managed to wound one of his attackers in the leg. The other two went on the defensive, protecting their ally as he withdrew, limping. Neither Miguel nor Diego pursued them. Instead, both men glanced over their shoulders.

- "Pedro!" shouted Diego. "Mierda!" (Shit!) He immediately went to his knees, and turned his brother over.

Big Miguel was taking in the rest of the scene, and especially my two fallen adversaries. Then he focused on the bloody weapon in my hand.

- "Mother of God."

Pedro wasn't dead - only stunned. While his brother tried to get him to his feet, Miguel instructed me to gather the dead men's weapons.

- "That one isn't dead." I said.

- "He is now." said Miguel, putting the tip of his sword against the unconscious man's throat, and then leaning on it. He wiped his blade on the dead man's clothing, and sheathed it. Then he drew a knife, and cut the fellow's slender purse from his belt. He did the same with the first dead man.

I had collected two swords. I stuck one through the frog attached to my belt, and kept the other in my hand, even as I helped Diego to support his groggy brother. Pedro was bleeding from the shoulder wound, but he wasn't going to die from loss of blood. The lack of focus in his eyes was more worrisome; he was probably concussed.

I put him over my shoulders, in a fireman's carry. Diego took my sword, so that I could have both hands free.

- "Let's go." said big Miguel. He led the way, sword drawn. Diego and I followed.

- "You saved my brother's life." said Diego. "I won't forget that."

- "He saved all of our lives." growled Miguel. "Now shut up. You can talk later."

I had acted purely out of self-preservation. If the three men who attacked from the rear had got past me, then Miguel and Diego would probably have died. But so would I. If my new friends chose to see it as selfless bravery, or some sort of altruistic 'We Spanish boys have to stick together' act... well, I wasn't going to try too hard to dissuade them.

Miguel relaxed a little when we met up with three more Spaniards, two of whom immediately joined us, while the third ran ahead. They escorted us to a low-walled enclosure. There were quite a few men there - men with swords.

- "Who is this, Michelotto?" several of them demanded, glaring at me.

- "He's with us." said big Miguel. "Leave him be."

- "He saved us." said Diego. "He saved Pedro's life."

There was a physician of sorts, who took charge of the younger Ramires brother. More of the men crowded around, curious to see the stranger.

- "Where are we?" I asked.

- "The Chapel of San Lazzaro." said Miguel. It's our base, and our living quarters are right behind it. Are you hungry?"

- "Ravenous."

- "Me, too. Come."

There was a sizeable kitchen beside the chapel, and there was still some soup to be had. Diego was telling and re-telling the tale of our encounter. Three men followed us into the dining hall, or meeting room, or whatever this was. But instead of joining us, they sat some distance away, and pretended that they weren't watching us. It took me a few moments to realize that they weren't doing it out of politeness, or respect for me. They were deferring to Corella.

- "Who are you?" I asked. "And who are they?"

- "They call me Michelotto, because Cesare did." he said. 'Michelotto' meant 'Little Miguel' - it was a joke, just like the nickname of Robin Hood's friend John Little, better known as Little John. "As for who we are... well, a Spanish Pope needs good Spanish blades around him. Men he can trust."

I thought that the Pope had Swiss Guards. It took several days before I was able to ascertain that the Papal Guard didn't exist yet. Fortunately, I didn't say any of this to Michelotto; he already thought me odd - I didn't need to add fuel to his suspicions.

- "And the men who ambushed us?"

- "Orsinis, most likely." he said.

- "Orsinis?"

- "There are several important families in and around Rome, with extensive lands. In theory, they derive their authority from the Papacy, but in practice there's no way that he can control them. The Colonnas, the Orsinis and the Caetanis hold dozens of castles and a few impregnable fortresses - each. They threaten the Pope when it suits them, blockade the city to prevent food from coming in, and bring armed men into Rome to brawl in the streets. They also don't hesitate to sell their services to the Pope's enemies."

Lovely, I thought.

"But I will tell you more tomorrow." he said. "Let's find you a place to sleep."

***

My first impressions of San Lazzaro stayed with me for a long time. I didn't sleep all that well: it was partially that I was too keyed up - but I also smacked my head hard on the lintel on the way into the room where the Ramires brothers were quartered. Doorways, in 1492, were not built for men over six feet tall.

Then there were the smells. Most of these men washed in little basins, but they didn't bathe. Some snored, some passed gas. I'd grown up in a heavily sanitized environment; my nostrils weren't accustomed to the smells of 1492, which made their presence known in no uncertain fashion.

Pedro Ramires awoke early, so that he could throw up. He was most likely heavily concussed. He grinned weakly at me, and patted me on the shoulder.

Michelotto had found me some clothing. Mine was pretty much past saving. In addition to the rips and tears from running through the woods and sleeping out of doors, one of our assailants' sword had torn the side of my shirt, and left me with a shallow cut. On top of that, Pedro had bled all over my back.

Big Miguel offered me a worn but clean shirt, and a choice of doublets. One was green, so I chose the other, which was black. It was a little tight, but it would do. I thanked him, but he just shook his head.

Then he took me down to breakfast. There were a dozen men inside the hall. This time he introduced me to them. Only one of the twelve knew that Courland was in the Baltic; my cover story would apparently work fine among these fellows.

Michelotto gave me another brief lesson as we ate.

- "Alonso Borgia became Pope Calixtus III, just about forty years ago. He was a compromise candidate; there was a deadlock between two Italians. Alonso was intelligent, and worked hard, but what counted was the fact that he was 77 years old, and in poor health. He wasn't expected to live long, so it didn't matter so much that he was Spanish."

- "They expected to have another election very soon?"

- "Of course - but he surprised everyone by living for five years. He was a reasonably good Pope, but like his predecessors, he shamelessly promoted his relatives. His nephew Pedro Luis was made Prefect of Rome and Captain-General of the Church. In that capacity, he launched a successful campaign against the Orsini..."

- "Ah."

- "Yes. That's the foundation of the Borgia-Orsini feud. But the Pope also made his other nephew, Rodrigo, a Cardinal at the age of 26. Two years later he was Vice-Chancellor of the Church, and given the See of Valencia - richest in Spain - worth 18,000 ducats a year."

Well, I wasn't sure of the purchasing power of a ducat, but 18,000 of them sounded like a lot.

"Calixtus died two months later." continued Michelotto. "There was a backlash against the Spaniards in Rome. Pedro Luis fled, and died of fever, but Rodrigo stayed by the Pope's bedside. And then he ended up casting the deciding vote in the next Papal conclave, which elected Pius II."

- "Clever."

- "Courageous, too. But he definitely profited. Now I jump ahead. Twenty years ago, Francesco della Rovere became Pope Sixtus IV. He was a patron of the arts, but also promoted all of his relatives. He was ambitious. He participated in the Pazzi conspiracy - to assassinate Lorenzo de Medici. It failed."

He seemed to be waiting for me to comment. "So ... the Medici have a feud with the della Roveres?"

- "No. Not quite. The Medici and the Orsinis often intermarry. Often. The Orsinis hate the Borgias, who are Spanish, so they are pro-French. One of Rodrigo's biggest rivals in the last conclave was Sixtus' nephew, Giuliano della Rovere. So the della Roveres are pro-French as well, and that gives them common cause."

I could only shake my head slowly. There was no way that I was going to pick up Renaissance Italian politics in a day. Or maybe a lifetime.

"Too much?" said Michelotto.

- "Too much. Too soon." I said.

- "Fair enough. Then perhaps you could tell me something. How did you do it? A man with a dagger, against three swordsmen?"

- "I had Pedro -"

- "Pedro never even drew his sword."

- "I know. But he occupied one of the attackers. Plus he took up space."

Michelotto made a face. But I explained that I was serious. He wanted an explanation of how I had survived against three men, and killed two of them.

"Only one. You killed the second."

- "Don't split hairs. He was out of the fight."

- "Alright." I described the encounter from my perspective. He knew that something unusual had happened; I tried to make it sound more... reasonable. He didn't seem to believe me, until I told him that I'd had a lot of practice fighting with knives, and with my hands.

- "In Courland?"

- "That's right."

He nodded then, as if satisfied. "How do you feel? Are you ready for a little fencing practice?"

- "You mean a fencing test." I said.

Michelotto smirked. "Yes, I suppose that I do."

I had my choice of the two captured swords. Neither one was particularly well-balanced. He could see that I wasn't happy with them.

"Bring them along." he said. He led me back to the living quarters, and then down a flight of stairs, into the cellar. There were several large barrels - wine barrels, from the smell. Behind them, though, was a cache of weapons. There were a few spears, some pavisses (large shields for archers to shelter behind), a variety of crossbows and crossbow bolts. There were also at least twenty swords.

"Captured." he said. "Or else their former owners no longer had a use for them. Take the one you like best."

- "Really?"

- "You're trading two for one. I don't think that anyone will object."

On the fourth try, I picked up a very serviceable weapon. It didn't look like much, but it fit my hand well, and I liked its balance.

Gripping my new sword, I followed Michelotto back up, and then out into the courtyard. He drew his own sword and faced me. There were seven or eight men watching as he began to spar with me.

We were roughly equal in height and reach. He had wrists of steel, and was very strong. I was powerful, too, and very quick for my size. I had also trained with swords at AFOTA and with ISEC. But these weapons were different from the fencing blades I'd learned with.

I could have beat him with virtually any other weapon, or bare-handed. But where I was a trained professional picking up a new skill, Michelotto handled his sword as if it was a part of his body. In time, I might be a match for him, or even surpass him - but not today.

Still, he seemed satisfied.

- "You'll do." he said.

A few of the others, including Diego, wanted to cross swords with me. I sparred with four more men, none of whom were a match for Michelotto, but that's not to say that I would underestimate a single one of them. Skill can only take you so far; then there are nerves, aggressiveness, and luck. A foot can slip, or land on uneven ground. In mortal combat, a twisted ankle can be tantamount to a death sentence.

At midday, a man arrived to tell us that de Lorqua would be arriving soon.

- "Who is he, Miguel?" I asked.

- "Cesare's butler. But a clever fellow. Educated, and efficient. He has organized rosters for the men, to make sure that the Pope can always call on a dozen or more good fighters with a snap of his fingers. We also guard the Apostolic Palace."

- "Are there no Italian guards?"

- "Of course. But they can be bought, which is why we also guard."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that Spaniards can't be bought?"

- "Of course they can. But they're much more expensive."

Ramiro de Lorqua was an hour late. Diego didn't like it.

- "Why send a fellow to say he's coming, when he isn't?"

My first impression of the man, when he finally arrived, was that he did not belong with the swordsmen at San Lazzaro. De Lorqua was already forty years old. His days in the front rank - if he had ever had any - were probably over. He had a round face, and a melancholy expression. He wore a beard, but shaved his mustache and the front of his chin.

- "Is this the man?" he asked.

- "Torun de Peregrino. At your service." I said.

- "We heard that you saved Pedro Ramires. We are in your debt. And I'm told that you come from Courland? Of a Spanish father? This is a tale I must hear."

- "I am at your disposal."

De Lorqua stepped back, and subjected me to a visual examination.

- "He's certainly big. He needs better clothing, though."

I said nothing, because I suspected that Michelotto had loaned me some of his own.

- "Then we need to find his father. Or some money." said the big man.

De Lorqua sucked his teeth. "Let's see what we can do."

Michelotto and I, plus four other men, accompanied de Lorqua back to the Apostolic Palace - the Pope's residence. On the way there, we came across a much different class of people than I had encountered the night before.

There were young men with trunk hose and jackets, and over that an ankle-length gown with long wide sleeves and a hood. I saw pink capes, satin jackets, white stockings, velvet caps, and enough gold rings and chains to fund an expedition.

One fellow wore gloves, which he kept brushing across his lips, or holding up to his nose. Michelotto saw me staring.

- "Scented gloves." he said.

Given the stink of Rome, that wasn't such a bad idea. It still looked effeminate, though.

I saw women, too, with dark hair dyed blonde, or wearing wigs of white or yellow silk. Some had bleached their skin, if their complexions were too olive. I saw one proud woman, her hair obviously dyed, followed by two younger women with darker skin and features that I could only describe as Asian. I looked to Michelotto in surprise.