1635 The Papal Stakes (47 page)

Harry reached into his chest pocket and drew out his own sunglasses. They were the ones that had given birth to, and had become the trademark of, the myth of Harry Lefferts: commando, ne’er do well, adventurer. And above all, a man who could not be beaten. He looked at his own, distorted reflection in the glasses, ghostly in the fading light. Unbeatable. Uber cool. Yeah, right.

Harry snapped the glasses in two and threw them into the Tiber.

PART FOUR

June–July 1635

And plunged in terror down the sky

CHAPTER THIRTY

Cardinal Gaspar de Borja y Velasco actually clapped his hands once in sharp, exultant glee. “Señor Dolor, this is excellent news. And we owe our victory, it seems, to your excellent stratagems. Which you must explain to me: how were you able to defeat the Wrecking Crew when no one else in Europe seemed capable of doing so?”

Dolor shrugged. “By giving them what they expected to see. In every particular.”

Borja frowned. “More detail, please, señor: I am not a military man.”

Truer words were never spoken—particularly by you, red hat.
“Your Eminence, you may use simple traps to catch simple beasts; a bit of food left dangling over a pit will capture most unwary predators. But Lefferts and his Crew were not unwary predators; like foxes, they were inherently wary of traps and ploys—having used so many themselves.

“So, in setting this trap, I was mindful that we had to create the illusion of a reasonable defense, but with a few subtle flaws that they could exploit.”

“Such as?”

“Such as their belief that we had only a third of the troops that we actually had stationed in the
insula
Mattei. To create that illusion, we had to mimic—in every detail—what an undermanned garrison would do. In this case, that involved denying casual access to the interior of the
insula
, thereby concealing our supposedly scant numbers. But careful observers would detect other hints of insufficient forces: our victualing from sutlers was sufficient for only one-third of our men. To make that possible, we had to stock the
insula
weeks beforehand with enough food and drink to supply the other two-thirds of our men for three months. So the Wrecking Crew drastically underestimated our true strength.”

“Also, the second story of the courtyard of the Palazzo Giacomo Mattei was the only site in the entire
insula
where it would be reasonable to house prisoners, and yet have them visible to the outside. Had Lefferts not been able to see his targets ahead of time, he would either have had to cancel or mount a general assault.”

“Which we would have crushed,” Borja asserted with chin raised.

“Yes, but with much greater cost to us, Your Eminence. It was essential to make Lefferts confident that he would be able to succeed with finesse, rather than brute strength. I do not think a brute strength approach would have worked in any event, but we could be sure of this: if the Wrecking Crew had resolved themselves to the idea that they could only succeed through direct, massive destruction, they would have been far more dangerous to us. Look what they did to the Tower of London. So I gave them a scenario in which it seemed reasonable—quite reasonable, in fact—to believe that they could achieve their objective by finesse. This is particularly attractive to the up-timers, who show marked concern with the amount of peripheral damage—and therefore, civilian casualties—they might inflict.”

“They are contemptibly stupid,” put in Borja.

They are excessively moral—a distinction you will certainly not perceive, Borja.
“Whatever the reason, preventing unnecessary casualties is a routine component of their
modus operandi
, Your Eminence. And we counted upon it here. Sure enough, perhaps a week before Lefferts’ attack, we began to notice careful movement within and around the belvedere. We set up long-barreled wheel-lock rifles in the shuttered rooms of the courtyard’s loggia, each weapon mounted in weighted braces and held fast by vises. This ensured that their aim points remained constant unless we changed them.”

“You used them almost as if they were artillery pieces.”

“Your Eminence understands perfectly. From prior tests, we knew exactly the elevation and charge required to hit the belvedere, and had some reasonable wind indicators that the enemy would not notice. Unfortunately, one of our snipers was also killed.”

“Truly?”

Dolor shrugged. “Every gun flashes when fired—and if you are looking straight down the barrel when it flashes, it is only logical that its operator’s head is leaned over that barrel. So, if one aims a bit above the muzzle flash—” Dolor saw a shudder move through the cardinal. “As I said, the up-time tools are not to be underestimated. Nor are their operators; they are superbly trained and very disciplined.”

“It sounds as though you admire them, Señor Dolor. I hope I do not need to remind you that—”

What could be more tiresome than the pious indignation of a hypocritical cleric?
“I am not a man much given to admiration of anyone or anything, Your Eminence. But I recognize capability when I see it. And I acknowledge it freely. That same clarity of perception, of understanding all the strengths and weaknesses of my enemy, was what delivered them into your hands last night, Cardinal Borja.”

Borja fell silent, eyes bright but not friendly. Dolor wondered: had he let some of his carefully controlled impatience edge into his tone? Or had the insufferable red hat simply bristled at being interrupted, even if only to reassure him?

“It seems your dispassionate methods are effective,” was Borja’s only response. “And yet it was still not enough to kill Lefferts. Are you sure it was he in the belvedere?”

Dolor shrugged. “It is hard to be sure of anything one does not personally witness, Your Eminence. But all conjecture points towards it. From the neighboring Jews we have already subjected to questioning, they had agreed to rent the roof of this tower to a man answering Lefferts’ description, although they were originally approached by
lefferti
—”

“Verminous traitors,” supplied Borja.

Dolor did not understand how Romans working against the occupiers of their own city could reasonably be branded as “traitors,” but he pressed on. “However, even without those confessions, the belvedere was a logical location for Lefferts. From there he was able to send the signals that started the attack, initiated supporting fire from other persons with up-time rifles, and indicated it was time to withdraw.”

Borja waited a moment before his next comment, which sounded more like an accusation. “So, Lefferts escaped, although he is probably wounded. Indeed, I find it hard to understand why any of them escaped at all, Señor Dolor. Why did your wonderful plans not succeed in this particular?”

Dolor shrugged. “Because the attackers were smart enough not to depend upon any local resources when they infiltrated back into Rome. According to our informers, the Wrecking Crew did not inform Duke Taddeo Barberini’s court at Palestrina of their return, much less request assistance from that quarter. Nor did they depend upon
lefferti
to get them into Rome, for even if the
lefferti
are loyal, they would have had to make arrangements with other Romans, some of whom would surely have been on our payroll. Instead, Lefferts entered Rome in such a way that he did not need to inform anyone else ahead of time, and his group immediately went into hiding with the
lefferti
. This meant we had no information as to their whereabouts beforehand, nor any way to determine how they planned to exit the city after the attack. I surmised it would be by boat, but that did not help us very much. Without more precise information, we would have had to have set far more pickets along the Tiber—which would have shown the Wrecking Crew that we were expecting them.

“They also had a force armed with up-time weapons covering their withdrawal over the Ponte Fabricio, as well as diversionary explosions in Trastevere. Taken together, this significantly delayed and confused our pursuing forces. As I said, Your Eminence, even in defeat, the up-timers and their handpicked allies are not to be underestimated: they are far more accustomed to this style of warfare.”

“Warfare? This is not warfare; it is simply sophisticated raiding. They are highly evolved bandits, no more.”

“So it might appear to us, who associate war with serried ranks and massed musketry. But, as chaotic as their ‘small unit tactics’ might seem, they are informed by an even more complicated military science than that which underlies our tercios. There is extraordinary order and planning behind the seemingly frenetic activity of their operations.”

Borja emitted an unconvinced
harrumpf
. “Skilled or no, I hear you have some trophies to show me.”

Dolor nodded and crooked a finger at the tall doors, which were slightly ajar. The doors opened fully in response to Dolor’s gesture, and Dakis led two of his largest men into the room. The pair of them were burdened with heavy canvas sacks.

Borja’s eyes were bright again. “Show me,” he commanded.

At a nod from Dolor, they lifted the heads out of the bags one at a time. Ferrigno, scribbling down the record of this meeting, made a faint retching noise.

Dolor pointed. “This is the one named Gerd; we do not have a last name for him. He was apparently the member of the Wrecking Crew who emplaced the explosive charge to breach the roof, as well as set a diversionary fire. This next one is the female operative named Juliet Sutherland.”

“She is most disfigured.”

“She was ridden under by our cavalry.”

“She deserved no less. And the very young one?”

“He is a
lefferto
. One of the many we killed. But his death is particularly significant.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, if the
lefferti
we captured are correct, this
lefferto
’s name is Fabrizio Marcoli.”

Borja waited. “So?”

Quite a mind for details, red hat
. “Marcoli is Giovanna Stone’s maiden name; this is her brother.”

Borja’s eyes positively sparkled; his smile was wide, ravenous. “This is the most delicious sign of divine justice, yet. Go on; show me the last one.”

Dolor complied. “This last head is evidently that of an Irish mercenary, working for the up-timers.” Dolor watched Borja closely for his reaction.

There wasn’t much to see. “Irish? Working for the up-timers? Although I suppose anything is possible with such uncivilized sell-swords, it seems odd.”

It is indeed odd, you buffoon,
thought Dolor, glad for Borja’s lack of perspicacity.
And because you show no greater interest in his head, I will be able to leave the greater mystery attached to this fellow unremarked—for now.
Which was not the course that Dakis had wanted to take in the matter of the Irish corpses: not at all.

When they first walked among the bodies marking the site of the see-saw battle for control of the Palazzo Giacomo’s courtyard, Dakis spied the different armor, swords, and unusual pistols found upon three of the enemy dead. Their cuirasses and sabers bore signs of Spanish manufacture, but not in the local style; it was more akin to the fashion employed by the armorers who equipped the tercios in the Low Countries. And although the revolvers were not up-time devices, they were clearly up-time inspired. Were these three fellows—who looked anything but Spanish—mercenaries, or was the relationship something else, Dolor wondered. However, it was when they finally extricated the third fellow, the one who had been trapped beneath the horse, that Pedro Dolor’s perceptions altered—and he saw, with strange certainty, how this corpse would change his life.

This corpse was the key he had been waiting for, the tool of vengeance that fate always provides to those who are only patient enough. This man’s armor was chased with designs, his clothes of unusually good quality, and his sword set with several jewels. He wore a fine tartan sash with a coat of arms, prominently featuring a red hand, raised as if to command the beholder to halt. Dolor frowned; where had he seen this symbol? He tried every memory trick he knew to tease the connection up out of the gray void of uncertainty, but the answer would not come to him as he stood over the bullet-riddled corpse.

“What have we here?” Dakis wondered as he came to stand alongside his commander.

“A great prize, Dakis. Check his right hand.”

“For what?”

“A signet ring.”

Dakis did, looked up surprised. “There is one. Shall I—?”

“No. Leave it just as is. We will need to preserve this body—or at least the head and hands—as best we may.”

Dakis stood. “Why? Does Borja have some particular interest in this—?”

“Borja is not to learn anything about this body, other than that we found it with the other two who were similarly equipped. But he is to be told nothing of how this body’s equipment and accoutrements differed from the others’.”

Dakis blinked. “Is that wise, Pedro?”

“It is essential, Dakis. Now, make quiet inquiries among the wounded
lefferti
; promise them clemency if they speak true and quickly as to the origin of these men. I need to know if they are Scottish or Irish.”

“Does it really matter, Pedro?”

“It most certainly does, Dakis; it most certainly does.”

Dolor forced himself to forget those first twilit moments when he realized that the bullet-ridden corpse might provide him with the political leverage he had long sought, might put his greatest ambition within his grasp. Standing before Borja now, he had to continue before the cardinal noticed any distraction in his demeanor. “There were two more of these Irishmen, Your Eminence. Do you wish to inspect either of the other bodies? Also, there are many
lefferti
and no small number of common townsfolk who were—”

“No, I have seen enough.” The cardinal reclined like a cat after a belly-filling meal. “So, your success buys you full discretionary powers, Señor Dolor: what next?”