Burdens of the Dead Read online

  Francisco looked at the count. The sergeants were paying no attention at all to his ranting.

  “M’Lord. I think we should strip him. Fillipo Maria used Di Lamis’s appearance against you. And the two of you look quite similar.”

  “I think I’ll have to grow a beard,” said Carlo Sforza, with utter disgust. “I do not wish to be taken for a poisoner and child-kidnaper. Strip him, boys.”

  “But I’ll die of cold!” squalled Di Lamis.

  Sforza grinned the grin that had given him the nickname of the Wolf of the North. “I think that would be the best you could hope for.”

  A little later, they rode north, with a set of elegant slashed breeches and a doublet, showing crimson silks—with a great deal of gold embroidery, and a cloak lined with Vinland timber-wolf fur.

  “What are you going to do with him, My Lord?” asked Francisco.

  “A poisoner and a schemer? I have a use for him. Or I’ll take his head off if we fail,” said Sforza.

  Behind them, the mobilisation of Sforza’s mercenary forces proceeded at a rapid pace. The winter was generally a slow time. A time to recover from the campaigns of the rest of the year. But if the Wolf wanted them to march or ride, they would. This was no orderly move, this was typical Sforza, strike hard and with overwhelming force. No-one questioned it or wasted time. He commanded a great deal of personal loyalty, still.

  So by mid-morning, they were moving northward toward Mantova, with almost nine thousand men in his force. The duke had considerably reduced his funding and men since the lost battle at the Piave. But even excluding the soldiery left to hold secure Bevilaqua and Moldanro, Sforza’s nine thousand had the edge on Milan’s other condottiere, Di Valmi, and his larger army. But those troops were dispersed in Matova, Pavia, Cremona, and Milan. Bressica had a small garrison of Sforza’s men too, and messengers rode ahead to their captain.

  Carlo would have preferred to ride directly to Milan, but such a mass of soldiery does not move fast. The cavalry—a mere three thousand, would be there. The rest would come as fast as weather allowed. And his guns…Well, if he needed them Carlo knew he would have failed.

  They rode from Bressica to Milan on the third day. Mantova had made no real resistance, the captains of the garrison assuming that Sforza acted on the orders of the duke, and that these were re-inforcements against impending attack. At Bressica, his men held the gate, and the city suffered for trying to resist. But looting would wait.

  Milan would not.

  Sforza donned the cockscomb clothes of Augustino di Lamis, and rode ahead with a mere three hundred men, all with the Biscione charge on their livery. Some of the clothes had bloodstains too, if anyone had looked closely.

  But no one did.

  Milan

  They rode into the city unopposed. Plainly the gate-guards were instructed to admit Count Di Lamis. Captains Melino and Di Galdi split off, with a hundred and fifty men. Their task was quite simple: take and hold the gates until the cavalry arrived and keep any of Di Valmi’s men out.

  Carlo Sforza and his handpicked men rode on. Sforza had no intention of trying to deal with Duke Fillipo Maria Visconti’s Swiss mercenaries, until his own men arrived. Instead they siezed control of key places in the city. The armory, the central barracks, the Duomo. They could not keep the usurpation of power secret for long, but his cavalry entering en masse made that unnecessary.

  Sforza believed in applied force—and that meant cannon. But those he did not have to bring along; they were in the city armory already.

  The Palazzo Reale gates were not built for cannon fire. Nor did the five hundred mercenaries guarding it wish to die for their wages—and that was the only choice they were offered.

  * * *

  To give him credit, Duke Fillipo Maria Visconti had not tried to flee. He was sitting on the ducal throne, very much alone, when Sforza and his men burst in.

  “For a moment I almost thought you were Count Di Lamis,” said the duke.

  “He’s sitting in a dungeon in Bevilacqua. He told me entirely too much to allow you to live, Duke Visconti.” Sforza walked forward a few yards, but did not approach the duke too closely.

  Fillipo Maria sneered. “The noble houses of Europe—and I am related to all of them—will never accept a usurper ruling Milan, Sforza. Come and kill me if you dare.”

  “You will never know what they do or don’t accept,” said Carlo Sforza, taking a wheel-lock pistol from his belt. Standing exactly where he was, he shot Duke Fillipo Maria Visconti dead.

  The great chandelier in the roof came shrieking and rattling down on its chains to crash and shatter onto the marble. It was a marvel that the emperor Carl Fredrik himself had admired: a heavy structure of wood, iron, gold leaf and Venetian glass, with great chains and pulleys to raise and lower it so that the fat candles could be replaced. If Sforza had answered that challenge with a sword, it would have crashed down on him.

  “I am entirely too familiar with your treachery, Fillipo Maria,” said Carlo Sforza, tuning away.

  * * *

  Milan was in for a very hard day. Sforza had protected certain valuable assets, but his was a mercenary army and they had just taken a very rich prize indeed. Once the looting and rapine were over, it would be a matter of holding what they had taken. But it would take days for more than the petty opportunists to start to tear at the edges of the corpse of the principality. It would take weeks for the news to spread, and months for an organised campaign to oust him. By then, Carlo Sforza would be ready. He would send emissaries out and see if he could divide his enemies. He knew that they would be attacking him on his territory, and he had attacked enough others to realize what an advantage that could be, and how to use it. But first he would let Milan suffer, and then he would rescue it and restore order. The citizens would be grateful. Sforza had taken enough cities and towns to know this was not just the reward of conquerors, it was a rite of passage.

  Venice

  Matters did proceed as Petro had predicted, with calls for the militia to defend Venice, something Admiral Lemnossa seemed cheerful about. “It keeps them busy, makes them feel constructive. And they can be used to put out fires. There is little enough real work at this time of year anyway.”

  And then came the first of the rumors from the north. Confused and scared rumors. Rumors not of invasion, but of insurrection in Milanese territory.

  Two days later a Venetian spy came down in person to brief the Council of Ten. Or maybe he decided that Milan was a good to flee from for a while. Marco was allowed to sit in, behind a screen. The Doge did not attend, simply because Lord Calmi didn’t tell him about the meeting. Marco knew he would have insisted otherwise. But Petro was recovering, liverish and somewhat sorry for himself, principally because he enjoyed rich good food, not the simple slops he was being allowed.

  “M’Lords. Fillipo Maria Visconti is dead. I saw his head on a pole myself. Milan is in a state of anarchy right now. They’re looting and raping…the very men paid to guard her.”

  * * *

  “I wonder,” said Petro Dorma, later, “how long it will be before the various claimants to the Duchy of Milan come beating their way to our door, looking for our support.”

  “It might be worthwhile,” said Lord Calmi. “A compliant and suitably weakened ruler controlling access to the Holy Roman Empire and Aquitaine…”

  “Marco says I am not supposed to get over-excited,” said Petro, dryly. “Otherwise I might point out just who those mercenaries belong to.”

  “Sforza? But they’re out of control….” Calmi’s words tricklied away into silence.

  “Because he will let them be that. He’ll call them to heel by the end of the week, mark my words. I would guess that the armies under Di Valmi, possibly with Pisa or Florence in support, will attack soon.”

  “It would be a good time to try and flank him,” said Calmi.

  “With what? General Lorenzo?”

  “You have a point, Doge Dorma,” said the spy-master
.

  Later, when Marco came to check on his patient again, the subject came up. “But…you think Carlo Sforza will try to make himself duke? He’s…he’s a commoner isn’t he? I mean he is very rich…”

  “I suspect this argument will be used again and again. He’ll probably marry suitably. And let’s be honest here, Marco, how deep could you cut the noble houses of Europe and not find a rich commoner? We may use this as a fiction to make war on Sforza, but it won’t be the real reason. That will be because of the opportunity a weakened Milan presents.”

  Lord Calmi coughed. “If I may intrude? Doge Dorma, we have just received a gift—or so it was labeled—from Carlo Sforza.”

  “What? Overtures?” aske Petro Dorma, suspiciously.

  “Of a sort, yes. He sent us Count Augustino Di Lamis, in chains, with a message.”

  “Ah. One of the Late Fillipo Maria Visconti’s cronies, one, if I recall implicated in my having to eat burned bread and not goose-liver. And what was the message?”

  “‘I suggest you ask him about kidnaping and poisoned fish. Force majeure is how I deal with enemies.’ And it is simply signed, Sforza.”

  Petro was silent for a while. The he sighed. “The decision will of course have to be made by the entire Council of Ten, but I would suggest we thank him for the gift and say we look forward to the news of his nuptials.”

  “What?”

  “To whom, you mean, Calmi. I would guess to one of the impoverished Visconti relations in Pisa,” said Petro.

  “Are we then to expect peace from Carlo Sforza?” asked Marco, hopefully.

  “Hardly. But I would forgo expecting any clever assassination ideas in dealing with Carlo Sforza.” Petro pondered a moment. “And…who knows? Perhaps the Wolf has finally found enough to occupy him without going to war anymore. Even a wolf gets old, and the warm den and a complacent mate look better than another round of teeth and claws.”

  PART VI

  February, 1541 A.D.

  Chapter 44

  Pera

  Antimo recognized the woman at once, even before she announced herself.

  “I am Hekate,” she said imperiously, showing not the slightest sign of deference to Enrico Dell’este. Nor any sign that she intended to obey him and leave. How had she gotten into the room in the first place?

  The red-eared dogs, large plume-tails waving, advanced on Antimo, obviously pantingly pleased to see him. “Er, Hekate,” said the agent. “Perhaps not…”

  “You know this woman?” Enrico Dell’este’s tone was so cold that it would have been at home in the north of Norseland.

  Antimo tried not to wince visibly. “Yes, M’Lord. Hekate…”

  Dell’este was livid. “Take her out, Antimo. And find out just who let her in. I have words to say to Benito.”

  The woman turned her dark gaze on the Lord of Ferrara, and frowned slightly. “You are impertinent, mortal. You will be quiet.”

  Enrico opened his mouth, a vein on his forehead throbbing, eyes narrowed. But no sound came. His mouth moved but no sound emerged.

  Benito looked at his grandfather and then at the woman, and put several pieces of the puzzle in place. He’d had nothing to do on that voyage across from Venice but read for several days, and had only had one book of ancient Greek myths as his supply of reading matter. And given that he seemed to have fallen into the middle of them, well, he deemed it to be a very good notion to commit them to memory.

  He bowed respectfully. “Hekate. Goddess of the Night. Queen of Magic. We beg your pardon that we did not treat you with due deference and respect. My grandfather is in some distress.” Benito, as politely as possible, gestured at the duke who was mouthing frantically and looking as if he might just give himself apoplexy. He’d plainly worked himself into a state of anxiety and anger.

  “He is an old man and spoke without understanding who he addressed. Please release him. I am afraid for his health and well-being.”

  Hekate looked at him with some suspicion. “I am She of the Night, but magic is merely one of my attributes. Who is this man, Antimo Bartelozzi?” she asked, pointing at Benito Valdosta.

  “Um.”

  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place in Benito’s head. “This is Hekate who you asked us to protect, Antimo?” She needs protection like I need Admiral Burana’s brains, thought Benito.

  Antimo nodded, then turned to the annoyed goddess. “This is M’Lord Benito Valdosta, Lady Hekate. And my Master, the duke of Ferrara. I must also ask that you…let him speak. Please.”

  She ignored that part. “Benito Valdosta. The man that the woman from Aidoneus’s halls sought.”

  “Maria,” said Benito, nodding. “Yes, Lady of the Night. She’s my wife. She came to tell me our daughter had been kidnapped. I went and got her back.”

  Hekate’s brows furrowed. “And what have you done with my child?”she demanded.

  “Alessia?” Benito blinked. “She’s back with Kat and my brother Marco. Probably the most closely watched girl in all Italy right now. I think I owe you much for letting Maria speak to me.”

  The goddess rapped the butt of her bone harpoon on the floor. “Not your daughter! My child. My child that Poseidon tricked me away from and stole away. Pegasus. What have you done with him?”

  It was Benito’s turn to gawp like a landed fish, his mouth moving. No words came out, but not because she’d put a spell on him. “Uh. I got him to carry me to Veneto. And then, as we’d agreed, I let him go.”

  “You returned him to captivity with Poseidon!” She began to raise her old bone harpoon.

  Benito frantically waved his hands in negation. “No! I let him go, I told you. He said he wanted to be free. I let him go. Go on his own way, free as a bird. That was our bargain and I honored it. I took the golden bridle off him and I told him to go where he wanted. Eat grass, fly, whatever. I wished I hadn’t, later, because it would have made it a lot easier to get back, but I did set him free right then.”

  “I believe him, Lady Hekate,” said Antimo, quietly but firmly—and stepping in front of Benito.

  There was fire in her eyes. “Bargain? You must have made a bargain with Poseidon to betray my son, or he would never have let him go.”

  Benito laughed. It took a great deal of courage to do so because he had no delusions that he was better, faster or smarter than this woman. “Poseidon? You mean the old fool with a beard and three-pronged spear? He could hardly stand up, let alone stop anyone. I tricked him. He was weak, maybe from lack of worshippers, and he was easy to fool.”

  That caused her to pause. Benito dug back in his mind, a long way back, to the duellist-and-murderer-for-hire, Ceasare, and the lessons he had taught them. Keep them talking. While they talk they don’t do. “I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he was your son. Pegasus, I mean. I didn’t know why Poseidon had him imprisoned there. I thought he was…Gorgon’s child. He’s a great flier.”

  She scowled. Was the room darker? “The lies that Poseidon put about!”

  “Look. I swear I let him go,”said Benito, earnestly. “I will happily go with you to Okseia island, and you can have a look for yourself. He’s gone. The last I saw, Poseidon was sitting on a step trying to raise a storm all by himself. I tricked him into trying to call one up, told him I didn’t believe he could. He couldn’t resist the challenge.”

  Hekate’s brows relaxed a little, and the room lightened. She looked faintly troubled. “I cannot. I can never go there.”

  That didn’t seem like such a huge barrier to Benito. “Well…can’t you send someone you trust? I will stay here as your hostage.”

  “If you will trust me, I will go,” said Antimo. “I am very good at such matters, Hekate. I did offer before.”

  There was a perceptible change in her hostile expression. “Yes. You did. But he is a God, and you are a mortal magic-worker.”

  “I’m not a mage,” said Antimo. “Just a good agent and spy. But I will try, if you will tell me where you need me to go.”<
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  If Hekate had not been a Goddess, Benito would have said that there was despair in her eyes. “I have no idea where Poseidon hides his stables.”

  “There is a Roman ruin on the south side of the island…there’s some sort of passage through it. But it looks like any other ruin, Hekate,” said Benito. Then something occurred to him. “Maria led me there. So, can you ask her? You could ask her about Pegasus too. You know she’ll tell you the truth.”

  Slowly, Hekate nodded. “I watch the portals to Aidoneus’s lands. I will ask.”

  She did not go anywhere, but Benito had the distinct impression that she was not exactly there with them. And then two more people were. Grey and ghostly people, shadows—shadows of a sort that Benito was very familiar with. Benito took one look at Enrico and stepped over and sat him down. Squeezed his shoulder. He got an agonized look from the silenced old man. He very carefully did not say anything. He tried not to look at his wife, standing hand-in-hand with Aidoneus.

  “Goddess of the Crossroads, Opener of Gateways, Lady of the Night, Mistress of the Hunt,” said Aidoneus, formally, bowing slightly. You could tell this was a meeting of equals or near-equals—at least in Aidoneus’s mind.

  “Lord of the Cold Halls, Custodian of the Dead, Winter-king,” she replied with equal formality. A slight tilt of her regal head toward Maria questioned her identity.

  “My consort and bride, the Lady Maria, priestess to the great Mother.”

  “A mortal, a living one, in the cold halls?”

  “For four months of the year,” said Maria, chin up. “And I must thank you, Hekate, for your help in freeing my daughter from those who had kept her prisoner.”

  Hekate was glowering again. “For which you have repaid me with the captivity of my son,” she accused.

  Maria shook her head. “Oh, no. Pegasus is free. The last I saw of him, he flew off southwest. Benito and I promised him freedom if he took Benito to where our baby was held. Once they landed in Veneto, Benito took the bridle off and tossed it into the bushes.”