The French Executioner (31 page)

Mother and daughter reached down together and dragged him to the pond’s edge where he managed to claw his way onto the bank.
He rested there, sobbing.

‘Never again,’ he gasped. ‘I will grow old and dirty and happy. No more swimming.’

It was then that the water stopped once more, for several seconds this time, until an eight-limbed creature shot out of the
wall above them like a ball from a cannon, soaking them all. Beck was pinned under the unconscious weight of her father, but
hands loosened the slingshot ties binding them together, pulling them clear just as she was beginning to enjoy the feeling
of no air in her body.

Beck fell back, gasping until she became aware that her shirt, and the bindings underneath, loosened in the pell-mell water
descent, had flopped open. As she struggled to readjust her clothing, she looked up and saw the eyes of the Fugger, staring
in shock at the folds she had closed too late.

It didn’t take long for the last body to come through, and though he was grappled onto the bank to lie beside the others,
Cibo’s guard was undoubtedly dead, his skull stoved in by one of the collisions in the rocky passages above that the others
had miraculously avoided. Yet he was no more speechless than the rest of them, for the normally loquacious Lucrezia could
only stare at her daughter and sob, while Maria-Theresa did the same back. The shaking terrors went on for several minutes,
during which time Abraham awoke, to a similar speechless sense of wonder.

Finally, Maria-Theresa managed to say, ‘Mama, these people saved my life. But I think they are in great danger now.’

Lucrezia Asti loved nothing more than a purpose in life.

‘Come.’

Clutching her miracle to her side, she led them out through the willow branches. She held them aside for the others to stagger
through, then glanced back once to the waterfall, bowing her head in gratitude. As the green curtain fell she heard, within
the swish of foliage, the faint but unmistakable sound of a girlish laugh.

‘No!’ screamed the Archbishop, backhanding his manservant, getting momentary relief from his frustration at the sound of the
blow. ‘I do not want to hear about the difficulties. I know it is the day of the Palio. Do you think I am dressing like this
for my pleasure?’

He gestured for the other man in the room, the tailor, to approach again, and the old man did, nervously eyeing Cibo’s jewel-laden
fingers. Very carefully, he continued to affix the ceremonial ermine to the collar. It required stitching, and the Archbishop
was always fidgety with a sharp point near his throat.

The tunic was of Cathay silk, the robes over it of finest Anatolian lambswool, dyed with the livid purples only found in certain
muds in the streams of the high Atlas. The
needlework had taken the Sisters of St Matilda two weeks to complete, the pearls mounted in a complex pattern denoting the
astrological alignment that prefigured His Holiness’ birth. Woven into the gold cross that stretched from neck to waist and
across the chest were tiny filigree patterns of a deeper reddish-gold. Only the most sharp-sighted would be able to see they
were in the shape of a series of fighting cocks, engaged in the very act of the contest, wickedly curved spurs glinting at
their heels, combs raised in the attitude of combat. As the Archbishop of Siena, he was above the rivalries that rent the
city this one day of the year. As a Sienese of the Rooster
contrada,
he was as passionate as any of his tribe.

The servant, hand raised to his throbbing cheek, spoke again, making sure he stayed out of the range of his master’s fists.

‘The word has gone out, Your Holiness. Your spies stroll the streets, the criers declare your generous reward in the taverns.
Descriptions have been circulated.’

The servant felt it unwise to mention the joke he’d heard that morning, already doing the rounds, based on the fugitives’
descriptions. It involved the sexual permutations wrought from a one-handed fool, a virgin and a Jew. He did not think the
Archbishop would appreciate the humour.

‘And my brother?’

‘Your brother, Eminence?’

Cibo flapped the tailor away and moved towards the servant, who backed off, hands raised nervously to ward off a blow.

‘My brother, yes, my brother, returned to the city last night. Sent for these five hours since.’ The voice was calm again,
silky. ‘Why does the Duke di Linari not come?’

‘Eminence’ – the servant bumped into a pillar, was pinned there, his eyes seeking to avoid his master’s – ‘he sends word that
he will attend when he can.’

‘When he … can?’

‘He is preparing, my Lord. You know, for the Palio?’

The servant smiled, which was foolish. He had nowhere to retreat, and the blows fell on him from every side. He covered his
face as well as he could.

‘The Palio! The Palio! Will you never cease squawking? On and on. I ask for my brother to come to me and you obviously failed
to convey the importance of immediate response. Idiot! Dolt! Where is my whip? I will lash you to a bloodied mess. My whip,
I say!’

‘Here,’ someone growled from the doorway, ‘you can use mine.’

Cibo turned at the familiar voice to an unfamiliar and bizarre sight. A giant rooster stood there, crimson and emerald feathers
across a vault of a chest, wings of chestnut brown, a black, silver and red coxcomb cresting a mask from whose centre protruded
the sharp blade of a beak. The long neck of the bird was covered in white feathers, but in the middle were two slits. Behind
them, something twinkled.

Hand raised to strike again, Cibo paused. ‘Franchetto?’ he said. ‘What in hell’s jaws are you wearing?’

‘My colours.’

The rooster strode stiff-legged into the room. The stockings were black and wound about with red and gold straps. At his groin,
a monstrous codpiece proclaimed a cockerel’s chief function. At his heels, two curving Arab blades glinted. The bird stopped
in front of the two men. The long neck bent down to inspect the Archbishop’s chest, the head on an angle, as if considering
a tasty piece of food.

‘You have to hide your cock, being the impartial Archbishop, while I’ – and here he preened, displaying his leg, thrusting
out at chest and groin – ‘I am free to display all the finery of my allegiance.’

He turned, walked a few paces back. Flapping his wings, stretching them wide, he let out a huge crow.

‘Have you seen my latest trick? It’s better than a whip. Stand back and watch this. That’s right, another pace.’

The rooster whirled into the air, leaping from one foot to
the other, spinning round in a circle, heels high. The servant cowered against the pillar, his hands still raised to ward
off a blow. The blade at the cockerel’s left ankle sliced his little finger off.

‘Cock a doodle dee,’ crowed the bird, ‘another victory to me!’

As the servant stumbled from the room gushing blood, Cibo laughed. ‘Always so good to see you, brother.’

‘And you,’ said the bird, reaching up to pull off the headdress and mask in one piece. ‘Let me kiss you.’

It was a moment Cibo dreaded; but, as a sibling and a Churchman, he could hardly refuse the embrace. It was a relief then
to see that the face emerging from the feathers was less ravaged than usual, the high forehead under its dark thatch ruddy,
that plug of a Roman nose, and the jowly cheeks unspotted by canker. He would never be the Adonis of his youth, dissipation
had seen to that. But the new cure for the French disease appeared to be working, at least temporarily, and he wondered if
it had had any effect elsewhere. The skin was clearer, but what of the mind? Cibo, in his studies, had often noted the link
between the rotting faces of the syphilitic and the blinding insanity that also seemed to afflict most of its victims. But,
of course, with Franchetto any progression was hard to calculate, for he had been mad from birth.

And yet,
Cibo considered,
this has not stopped him becoming the most powerful man in Siena. After me. And it hasn’t been any evenness of mind that has
got him there. Indeed, with the amount of blood Franchetto has had to spill to achieve power, the madness has been an advantage.

The Cibo brothers,
the Archbishop continued to reflect as the younger brother embraced the elder,
together again. The power restored to Siena, the twin pillars of society, Church and state. Giancarlo running the holy, Franchetto
the secular, just as our father planned.

Whenever he hadn’t seen his younger sibling for a while,
Cibo always marvelled at their physical difference. Down to the mothers, of course, which accounted for his own refined features
and the peasant, big-boned coarseness of the Duke.

Saying a little prayer in the hope that Papa, the late Pope Alexander, was enjoying some special torment in hell, the Archbishop
hugged his brother back.

‘Big brother.’ Franchetto nuzzled into the other’s neck then turned to plant a kiss and whisper into his ear, ‘I have missed
you. I have so much to tell you.’

‘And I you, little brother.’ Cibo disengaged himself from the large man’s embrace and turned to the tailor. ‘Leave us. Return
an hour before the race.’

When the man had retreated from the room, Cibo shrugged off the heavy wool cloak and went to fill two crystal goblets from
the decanter. He took them on a tray back to the chair his brother had sprawled over, his huge legs straddling one arm, swinging
restlessly. The Churchman knew he could not keep Franchetto’s attention long, especially on the day of the Palio.

‘Your choice,’ he said. Franchetto smiled and chose the left one. It was a game they always played, but it was a game with
a serious history. Their father had died shrieking, poisoned by a brother. Not even a half brother.

Sipping, Franchetto said, ‘And your travels? They were successful?’

‘Up to a point. I ran into certain difficulties. But I got what I was after.’

‘Oh yes?’ Franchetto’s tone betrayed his boredom. ‘And what was that? You never told me.’

In answer, Cibo threw the velvet bag into his brother’s lap and went to stand by the tall windows of the dressing chamber.
On the street beneath the palace walls, costumed figures darted around on the personal errands of the Palio.

‘It’s a hand.’

‘Yes.’

‘You journeyed to England for some criminal’s hand? My
gaolers take half a dozen every week. You could have had one of them.’

‘Do you notice anything special about it?’

Franchetto turned it over and over. At last, with some triumph, he said, ‘It’s a woman’s hand.’

‘Very good. Anything else?’

It took a while longer, but when the oaths came they were loud and vehement.

‘Yes! Six fingers!’ Cibo continued staring down at the street. ‘They used to fidget in the lap of Henry’s queen, Anne Boleyn.’

‘The witch? The whore majesty?’ Franchetto was animated now. ‘They say she knew tricks even my Cecilia is ignorant of. Which
doesn’t leave much out.’ He placed it on top of his codpiece with a sigh. ‘If only the dead could awaken, eh?’

The Archbishop turned from the window. ‘That is exactly the point.’

Franchetto was puzzled. ‘But you’ve been gone the best part of two months. What have you kept this in?’ He sniffed it. ‘It
doesn’t smell of brandy. Smells of … flowers.’

‘I haven’t kept it in anything.’

‘Then … Holy Christ! Holy Christ!’

‘And that is my other point. Look, pick it up off the floor and put it back in the bag, will you? I can’t touch it. I can’t
even look at it. I’ll explain why.’

And to a now attentive Franchetto he briefly retold the story of his journey, the triumph and the setbacks, ending in the
events of the night before in the chamber deep below them. His brother was suitably impressed with the tales, up to the last,
when his humour got the better of him.

‘Oh, Giancarlo, big brother!’ He wiped tears from his eyes. ‘In the heart of your palace? In the middle of an orgy? You with
that stag’s head? How frustrated you must be! But you still have the hand. You can try again. I’ll find you another virgin,
it’ll be my pleasure. What more do you need?’

The Archbishop kept his temper. Franchetto was the only
person he had to do that with, and it gave him a pain in his stomach.

‘I need Abraham. Without him I cannot hope to free the essence of humanity latent in this hand. Which will make me – and you,
dear brother – the most powerful men in Italy. No, in the world.’

He went to look once more down into the street.

‘Make no mistake, brother,’ he continued, ‘it is vital we find both the Jew and these dogs who rescued him. For once the secrets
of this hand are revealed, we will be in control of nothing less than the quintessence of life itself.’

It was a fine day for a horse race. The sun shone from a cornflower-blue sky, unblemished by cloud, yet the heat was tempered
by one of those breezes the Sienese called ‘the breath of the Virgin’, fragrant with almond blossom, borne down from the Tuscan
hills. In addition, the fountains had been scattered with rose petals and filled with the distillations of rosehip, so the
sweet smell of that flower pervaded the city too. It was those scents, mingling with the musk of the chosen horses, one for
each
contrada,
that created the particular savour all in the city adored. The citizens’ nostrils filled with it – that and the equally strong
scent of money to be had. For on this one day of the year money flowed around the city like water from the thousand fountains,
passing from the purses of rich and poor alike to the sellers of meat and wine, to the whores and the pickpockets, the fire-eaters
and the stiltwalkers, to the men who gave odds on the race and those who sought to change those odds with bribes to jockey,
trainer and groom. Fortunes won and lost, reputations shattered and made, lives ended in tavern brawls and alley assassinations
and life begun in the same locations as the lust for money transformed to the lust for flesh. It was the day to put aside
one’s identity and don another with a mask, to revel in the freedom granted by a disguise.