Siege (25 page)

Longo awoke to the sweet, acrid scent of burning grapevines. He rubbed his face and looked about him. He was in his villa, and the woman lying next to him was not Sofia but Julia, his wife of nearly two years. He had been dreaming, another nightmare. Longo rose and went to the window that looked out over his vineyards. The sun had risen, and his men were already busy, pruning the leafless vines. The cuttings were being burned in small piles. Behind him, Julia stirred in bed.

‘Come back to bed,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m cold.’

‘There is work to be done,’ he replied.

‘Let Tristo and William deal with it. That is what servants are for,’ Julia whined. ‘Don’t leave.’ She sat up in bed, her swollen, pregnant belly extending before her. ‘Come. Feel this,’ she said, placing her hand on her stomach. ‘He’s kicking.’

Longo sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand gently on his wife’s stomach. His eyes widened as he felt a slight movement. He took Julia’s hand. ‘I must go,’ he told her. ‘Your brother Paolo has invited me to a reading this evening, and I have much to do first. After the pruning, I have a new horse to break.’ In truth, Longo was happy for an excuse to be away from his young wife. She was spoiled, moody and demanding, and had become more so since the start of her pregnancy.

‘A reading?’ Julia asked, brightening. ‘I want to come.’

‘You know you cannot travel,’ Longo said. Julia pouted. ‘And anyway, you could not come. The piece is by a young Neapolitan named Guardarti, and apparently it is not appropriate for ladies.’ Longo was not particularly interested either. However, Paolo had remained aloof, even hostile, since Longo’s marriage to Julia, and Longo was eager to repair their relationship.

‘But I want to come,’ Julia insisted, frowning in a manner that portended a tantrum. ‘I am so
bored
here in the country.’

‘You will give birth soon enough. You can visit your family in town then.’ Julia’s frown deepened. She turned her back to him and pulled the covers over herself without speaking. Longo breathed a guilty sigh of relief. He knew that some servant would bear the brunt of her frustration later that day. ‘I will return late tonight,’ he told her and left.

Longo was in a foul mood when he reached the Grimaldi
palazzo
that evening. Just before he had left his estate, a fire had begun in his vineyards, spreading from one of the piles of cuttings to the rows of vines. Longo had left William and Tristo to handle it while he rode into Genoa accompanied by six of his men. He would have liked to stay and deal with the fire himself, but he did not wish to spurn Paolo’s invitation.

He was soon glad that he had come. Paolo greeted him warmly, embracing him and calling him brother, and throughout the evening he treated Longo with unusual courtesy. Longo also found the proceedings more interesting than he had anticipated. A Spanish noble, one Carlos de Sevilla, was present. He was an elegant man, short and spare with close-cropped black hair and darkly tanned skin, and after the reading he discussed the recent Portuguese discoveries in Africa and the possibility of reaching the Indies by sailing west. As the guests began to depart, Paolo took Longo aside to speak with him.

‘I wish to be frank,’ he told Longo. ‘I regret if I have been less than welcoming since you joined my family. There are those in my father’s household who blame you for my brother’s death. I fear that I listened too closely to their complaints, and I wish to apologize. There should be no grudge between us.’

‘I am glad to hear you speak so,’ Longo said. ‘And there is no need to apologize. Your goodwill is all I ask.’

‘Excellent,’ Paolo said, smiling broadly. ‘Now come. It is nearly midnight, high time that you return to my sister.’

Longo entered the Grimaldi stables to find his men hopelessly drunk. Judging by the number of empty wine bottles lying about, it looked as if Paolo’s men had treated them to free wine, and they had drunk more than their fill. Two were slumped unconscious over a table, a forgotten game of cards between them. Three more lay on the floor, snoring loudly. Only one was awake, lying in a pool of his own vomit. He tried to rise, swayed unsteadily and then collapsed. Longo vowed to have words with his men, when they were sober enough to understand him. Paolo offered to let Longo’s men sleep off their debauchery at the Grimaldi
palazzo
, and Longo accepted. He would ride to his
palazzo
, he decided, instead of his country estate.

Longo kept one hand on his sword as he rode through the narrow, dark streets of Genoa. It was not uncommon to come across thieves or bands of cutthroats late at night. He passed through a shadowy square dominated by a large oak, its leaves silvery in the moonlight, and entered a particularly narrow alleyway that wound its way towards his
palazzo
. Halfway down the alley his path was blocked by a hunched beggar, noisily rattling his tin cup. ‘Help a man to eat?’ the beggar asked.

Longo had slowed his horse and reached for his purse when he noticed a glint of steel from under the beggar’s cloak. He was carrying a sword. Longo drew his sword and backed his horse away from the beggar, but it was too late to retreat. Six men, swords in hand and wearing black masks, had stepped into the alley behind him. Ahead, the beggar had been joined by four more masked men.

‘Help! Assassins!’ Longo shouted, although he knew better than to hope that anyone would intervene. He would have to save himself. He spurred forward, running over one attacker with his horse and striking down another with his sword. But the alley was too narrow to avoid the other men. Longo’s horse reared suddenly as one of them slashed it across the chest. Longo fell backwards, tumbling out of the saddle. He rose immediately and found himself attacked by three men. He cut one of them down, ducked a swiping blow from the second and rammed his shoulder into the
third, knocking him aside. He sprinted past them, but as he did so, one of the men slashed him across the thigh. Longo gritted his teeth and ran on, limping slightly. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of his attackers gaining on him.

Longo left the alley and crossed another square. He hurried up a short flight of steps, and a dagger flashed by his head just before he took a sharp right into a shadowy side passage. He turned and waited. The first of the masked men came charging around the corner and ran straight on to Longo’s sword. The others pulled up short as Longo retreated into the alleyway. The walls were close enough here that his attackers would only be able to come at him two at a time, and none of the remaining seven men seemed eager to test his blade.

‘He is only one man!’ one of the masked men shouted at the others in accented Italian. ‘Kill him or you will answer to me.’ Three of the men inched reluctantly into the alleyway. The rest departed, no doubt circling around the block to attack Longo from behind.

The three men approached, not attacking but staying close enough that if Longo turned to run, they could strike. Longo gave ground, exaggerating his limp. When one of the men came too close, he sprang forward. The man hardly had time to raise his sword before he was skewered through the chest. The other two backed away, swords at the ready. Then, Longo heard the sound of footsteps approaching him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the other men had entered the alley. He was trapped.

He lunged forward, driving his attackers back a step, and then turned and ran. He spotted a door halfway down the alley and headed for it, but one of the masked men coming from the other direction reached it first. Longo parried the man’s thrust and punched him hard in the face. He then grabbed the dazed man, spun and hurled him face first into the door, which banged open. The man landed unconscious on the floor, and Longo followed him into a dark room crowded with vats of tallow. He slammed
the door shut behind him. The bolt that locked the door had been broken, so Longo held it with his shoulder.

A second later, someone rammed the door from the other side. Longo staggered back but managed to hold it closed. Again someone rammed the door, and this time Longo stepped away and allowed it to swing open. A surprised attacker stumbled into the room. Longo cut him down and then slammed the door closed again. He could hear the remaining four men outside, discussing what to do next. Longo waited a second, then pulled the door open and rushed out.

He dropped two of the men immediately, stabbing one in the gut and then spinning and slashing the other across the face. A third man lunged for his chest, and Longo just managed to twist out of the way. He hacked down at his attacker’s arm, and the man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, holding his bloody arm and crying out in pain before fainting.

Longo turned to face the last man, who had backed well away. ‘We shall meet again, signor,’ the man said.

‘Who are you?’ Longo demanded. ‘Who sent you?’

The man turned and ran. Longo slumped against the wall of the alleyway, his thigh burning with pain now that the fury of battle had left him. Beside him, the man clutched his bleeding arm and began to moan. Longo rolled him on to his back and knelt down, one knee on the man’s chest. He pulled the man’s mask aside and slapped him. The man’s eyes fluttered open. Longo drew his dagger and held it close to the man’s face.

‘Who sent you?’ he growled. The man did not respond. His eyes closed as he began to lose consciousness. ‘Tell me!’ Longo insisted, pressing the knife against the man’s nose.

‘Paolo,’ the man croaked, and then he lost consciousness.

Longo stumbled into the courtyard of the Grimaldi
palazzo
with the unconscious man slung over his shoulder. ‘Paolo!’ he roared as he dumped the man unceremoniously on the ground. ‘Where are you? Paolo!’

Paolo, his face pale and eyes wide, came down the steps of the
palazzo
. ‘What has happened?’ he asked. ‘Who is that?’

‘You tell me,’ Longo snarled. He grabbed Paolo by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. ‘He and ten other men attacked me shortly after I left you tonight.’

‘H-how did you escape?’ Paolo managed.

Longo ignored the question. ‘You are my kinsman, else you would be dead now,’ he hissed. ‘I know you sent them.’

‘You sent that English brat to kill my brother,’ Paolo spat back. ‘You are a murderer.’

Before he could even think, Longo had his knife at Paolo’s throat.

‘Longo! What is this?’ the elder Grimaldi called out as he descended the
palazzo
steps. He gestured to Longo’s blood-stained clothes. ‘What has happened?’

Longo released Paolo and turned to Grimaldi. ‘Your son hired men to kill me.’

‘Paolo, is this true?’ Grimaldi demanded. Paolo looked away. ‘I’m sorry, signor,’ Grimaldi sighed, turning back to Longo. ‘I knew that Paolo was upset over his brother’s death, but I never thought he would go so far.’

‘Something must be done,’ Longo said. ‘I will duel him, tomorrow.’

‘I cannot allow it,’ Grimaldi replied. ‘Paolo is my only son. If you strike him, then you strike me. I do not wish to be your enemy, signor.’

‘Nor I yours,’ Longo said. He turned to Paolo and spat at his feet. ‘Count yourself lucky,’ he said, then turned and strode away.

‘This is not over,’ Paolo called out after him. ‘Carlos is not done with you. That English bastard of yours is as good as dead!’

‘William,’ Longo whispered and broke into a run.

‘William!’ Portia giggled. ‘Your beard, it tickles!’

He stopped kissing her ear. ‘But you think me very handsome
with it?’ he asked with a grin. Now eighteen, William was inordinately proud of his short, reddish-brown beard.

‘I find you … acceptable,’ she teased.

‘Acceptable?’ William asked, kissing her neck. His hand moved slowly up her leg.

‘William!’ Portia gasped, pushing his hand away from her inner thigh. He moved his hand to her back and pulled her down into the straw of the hayloft, kissing her passionately. She opened her mouth and pressed herself against him. His hand slid down her side to her hip, and then between her legs. ‘Stop!’ she exclaimed and pulled away. She was breathtaking, her long black hair tousled, her dress half undone and her dark eyes lit by the low flame of the lamp William had brought. ‘You do not love me,’ she pouted.

‘Why do you say such things?’ William asked.

‘You know why,’ she said. She turned her back to him and pulled her knees up to her chest. ‘You are the same as all the others. You only want one thing.’

‘You know that is not true,’ William said, placing his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

William had met Portia two years ago, a few weeks before the Genoese ambassadors came. She was fifteen then, the daughter of a leather worker in a nearby village. Word of her beauty had spread throughout the region, and more than one prosperous merchant had already approached her father with talk of marriage. The boys of the village followed her in an adoring crowd, but Portia would have nothing to do with them. Later, she had confessed to William that the boys had terrified her. Her wet-nurse – a bitter widow who had lost her husband and child to the plague before taking in Portia – had told her horror stories about what men would do if they ever got their hands on a woman, and Portia had believed her.

William had wooed her for weeks before Portia had even spoken to him. Even then, communication was slow at first, constrained by Portia’s shyness and William’s halting, broken Italian. Eventually,
Portia had grown appreciative of his constant attention. With William around, she no longer had to worry about the groups of boys who whistled and leered at her when she went about town, at least not after he single-handedly chased off a gang of would-be lovers, slapping their backsides with his sword and threatening in English to cut out their tongues and stuff them up their arses. Portia had begun to look on William as a friend, and then as something more.

Portia’s father did not approve of William. He did not want his daughter married to a soldier. So they met in secret, spending long afternoons walking the countryside and magical nights here in this barn behind a farmhouse just off the main road. It was the only place in the countryside they could find that was safe, private and reasonably warm, even if it did smell of chickens and cow manure.