“I took food and wine to the prison, for Petrus, and found him mute and bedazed, like the children who stand by the road while a town is sacked.” She must have given some reaction, for he looked at her and nodded. “Yes. I have seen their faces too. In terrible number.”
She said, “Go on.”
He shrugged. “I may as well have been one of Petrus’s jailers for all that he knew me. Each day thereafter was the same. He never spoke a word to me again. They burned him in the piazza a week later, and by then it was an act of mercy. I was able, at least, to buy the executioner’s mercy. He strung a bag of gunpowder, which I gave him, around Petrus’s neck.”
There was a clank in the darkness nearby and Mattias looked up. There was a homicidal flash in his eyes, and Carla felt that had she not been there he would have drawn his sword and set to. She looked over her shoulder and her stomach quailed.
Ludovico stood on the rubble in full black armor, the latter pocked with divots and matte with filth. His casque hung by a strap from his left hand. Two bright pinpricks of light shone from the sockets of his eyes. His face was drawn with fatigue, but revealed little more.
Ludovico said, “Have you refreshment to spare a fellow Christian?”
His eyes were on Carla and she turned away. She was afraid. Afraid with a serpentine fear more unsettling than anything she’d met in the field. Mattias glanced at her. She felt him on the verge of explosive violence, and hoped he would contain it, though she didn’t know why. He stood up and called to Ludovico.
“If the fellow has cheek enough to ask, then let him sit down, and welcome.”
Ludovico walked over. He limped, but so did every man in the garrison short of Bors. He bowed to Carla and sat. He set down his casque and pulled off his gauntlets, which were gummed and sticky with gore. He crossed himself and murmured grace in Latin. Mattias gave him the wineskin and watched him drink, then took it back and drank himself. Ludovico ate in small bites, which he chewed at length with an ascetic’s deliberation. He stared out at some vacant spot known only to himself.
Mattias stared at Ludovico.
Neither spoke.
Carla felt more and more disconcerted. It seemed like a contest, with rules of which she was ignorant and whose conditions of victory might include sudden death. She didn’t know what to say and so said nothing. She didn’t know whether to leave or to stay, and so she sat immobilized and tense. She cast furtive eyes from one man to the other but neither returned her glance. She clenched her hands in her lap and looked at her knees. A vague nausea coated her tongue. The silence that surrounded the fire became immense, until it was larger than the dark itself, until even the din of the battle seemed muffled and far. When at last she could take it no more, she started to rise to her feet.
Both men stood up at once.
“Thank you for the food and companionship,” she said to Mattias. “Now I should return to my work.”
“No,” said Mattias. “Our conversation isn’t done. Stay.” He added, “That is, if it should please you.”
Ludovico bowed to her again. “I did not mean to be boorish,” he said. “If you wish, I will leave at once.”
She saw Mattias contain a sneer. “Finish your supper, monk,” he said. “When you’ve filled your belly you may crawl back into the night.”
Ludovico regarded him without expression.
“Sit,” said Mattias. “Our paths were bound to cross again and this is as good a place as any.” As if not to be outdone in etiquette, he bowed to Carla and added, “That is, if the good monk’s company is not too unpleasant a prospect. If it is, he will understand as well as I.”
She wondered why Mattias wanted Ludovico to stay. She found herself nodding and they all three sat once again on their chunks of stone. She couldn’t help be aware that both men were killers, for their harness was caked in gore. More disquieting still, both were in contention for her affection, and she sensed the strings of their virility drawn taut. It was like sitting between rival hunting dogs. But at least she’d broken the silence. Whatever else followed, she hoped she wouldn’t have to drag them from each other’s throat.
Ludovico inclined his head toward the clamor. “You’re deemed an expert in the manners of the infidel, Captain Tannhauser. How many more of these devils will we have to kill before they pack up for home?”
“Bold words for a priest, who’s in the habit of sending vipers to do his killing.”
Ludovico looked at him with a bland smile. “The question was put in earnest.”
Mattias replied in kind, yet beneath the veil of cordiality lay a cold rage. “Suleiman’s armies haven’t turned their back on a siege since Vienna, in ’29. And it was snow that thwarted him there, an ally we can hardly count on helping us here.”
“We can count on the mercy of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Merely by passing through your lips His name is defiled,” said Mattias. “You couldn’t soil it more foully if you voiced it from your arse.”
Carla was shocked but didn’t speak. Why was he provoking him so?
But Ludovico was unperturbed. “I’m moved to hear you defend Our Savior’s dignity.”
“I’m more familiar with the words and deeds of Christ than most of your flock,” Mattias replied. “For I’ve read the Gospels and the letters of Paul and the Acts of the Apostles for myself.” He glanced at Carla. “Though to do so is a crime that carries a penalty of death. Ludovico’s masters have banned their own Holy Book in the common tongues—a novel idea, we all may agree, but it helps to keep the Inquisition working to capacity.”
“Without Mother Church’s guidance,” explained Ludovico, “the common man can’t be expected to understand the sacred texts. Thus he may fall into error.” He looked at Carla. “Surely no more proof is needed than the wrongs of the Protestants.”
“Christ was a common man,” countered Mattias. “And if He’d foreseen the wrongs that you’ve committed in His name, He’d never have laid down His tools and left His father’s workshop.”
“If you’ve turned your face against the One True Church,” said Ludovico, “why make your stand here, with the soldiers of the Faith?”
“The true soldier’s faith resides in the fight alone, not in the cause.”
“It’s said all men believe in God on the field of battle.”
“Maybe so, for they’re quick to shout His name. But if I were God I’d not be flattered, much less reassured. As Petrus Grubenius would say, their belated cries for His mercy hardly provide sound proof of His existence.”
“Ah,” said Ludovico. “Grubenius again.”
“Carla asked to know how Petrus met his end.”
“And you told her,” said Ludovico, without expression.
Mattias nodded. “I told her all but the name of his torturer. But I had no need, for her heart supplied that intelligence without my prompting.”
Ludovico looked at Carla and she felt sick.
“Grubenius was a brilliant man,” said Ludovico. “His eternal soul was saved that day, for if he’d been set at liberty he’d have surely recanted and damned himself for all eternity. Mattias and I watched him go to the flames.” He looked at Mattias. “The captain here stood a good head and shoulders over every other man in the piazza, though he made no conspicuous protest that I can remember.”
Carla tensed in anticipation of the violence that now seemed a certainty.
Mattias moved not a muscle.
Ludovico turned back to her. “He cut a figure too splendid to miss, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Ludovico’s demeanor was as serene as ever, but his black eyes gleamed with jealousy. He took the last piece of bread from the basket, but didn’t eat. “You seem distressed, Carla,” he said. “And you must be exhausted. Surely you should take some rest.”
He was right, and she wanted nothing more than to leave, but she sensed that if she did so it would mark a subtle shift in her loyalties. She sensed also that this was his intention. She shook her head. “Mattias
and I have much to discuss,” she said.
She deliberately used his forename, and Ludovico marked it.
“No doubt you have,” he said. He turned to Mattias. “Carla told me that you and she are to wed.”
Carla glanced at Mattias in alarm. She’d told him nothing of the visit Ludovico had paid her, for fear of what he might do. Mattias nodded as if their bargain was common knowledge.
“It’s true, we are betrothed.” He smiled at Carla and his warmth banished her anxiety. “And a love match it is, too.” He turned back to Ludovico. “I trust we enjoy your blessing and good wishes.”
“As you told me when we first met, you’re a fortunate man.”
“A reputation I cherish,” Mattias replied. “I hear that your own has received a much-needed polish, and that you’re now a Knight of Justice.”
Ludovico inclined his head in acknowledgment. As the insults and barbs accumulated Carla wondered when he would rise to the goad.
“I never expected to pity La Valette,” said Mattias, “but at the news of your ordination I admit I did so.”
“Why pity?”
“Because you will ruin him. And his beloved Order too.”
Ludovico blinked. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Why else would you come back to Malta? Ruin is your profession, is it not?”
Ludovico toyed with the bread in his hands. “Even if I owned to so fantastic an ambition, what power would a lowly knight have to achieve it?”
“Ah, yes,” said Mattias. “The lowly knight. The humble priest. As regards the art of war, La Valette may be touched by genius, but in the art of politics, he’s as naïve as a choirboy invited to a bishop’s bedroom.”
“You underestimate the Grand Master.”
“I hope so. But I don’t underestimate you. La Valette hasn’t left the island in years, and before that rarely set foot on dry land, let alone in the snake pit of Rome where the likes of you ply their slimy trade. Even Oliver Starkey is as straight as a string, and he’s as skilled a diplomat as the Religion can boast. These are men who keep their word, who pay their debts, who are bound by their oaths.” Mattias leaned forward. “Men who cleave to their holy vows. They don’t bring shame on their Redeemer. They don’t conceal their evil behind the smoke of burning flesh. They don’t abandon young girls to pay the price of their incontinence.”
At this litany of slurs Carla saw Ludovico’s head crane back and his eyes narrow to slits. It was the first and only crack in his façade, and quickly repaired. Yet he didn’t dare look at her.
“Fra Starkey, I’m sure, would find these conspiracies fascinating,” he said. “Why not enlighten him?”
“Honest men are hard-pressed to understand duplicity,” said Mattias, “especially on so extravagant a scale. I flatter myself that I’m almost as sly as you, but I’ve not the advantage of the fraudulent robes and lofty doctorates, and the trick bag of relics and bulls.”
“It’s as well, then,” said Ludovico, “that our interests don’t conflict.”
He tossed the heel of bread back into the basket and picked up his helm. He rose to his feet, as did Mattias, and bowed to Carla.
“I’m happy to learn that our son is alive after all,” he said, “albeit in the hands of Moslem demons.”
“He could do much worse,” said Mattias. “He could be within the ambit of his father.”
A movement of the wide blue jaw told her that even Ludovico’s patience had worn thin.
He turned to Mattias. “Nevertheless, I pray for his safe return to the fold of Christ. He’s occupied my thoughts a great deal. And he’s filled my heart with a substance I’d not known existed, thanks be to God.” His eyes were sincere, and for a moment Carla felt for him. “Tell me, truly now, what kind of fellow is my son?”
Ludovico had opened his heart. Mattias shoved his hand in and squeezed.
“An account of his virtues would detain you until dawn,” Mattias replied. “Suffice to say that it’s damnable hard to believe that he sprang from your seed.”
Ludovico’s face closed like a bear trap.
Mattias tipped him a salute. “Assalaamu alaykum.”
“Pax vobiscum.”
As she watched Ludovico limp away into the fiery night, she couldn’t suppress her pity. She’d never seen a man so lost in his own darkness—except, perhaps, her father.
Mattias peered out into the murk. “Anacleto is out there somewhere. I wonder he didn’t shoot me. Without you so near, perhaps he’d have done so.”
“Anacleto?”
“Ludovico’s factotum, his shadow, his knife in the back. A man of striking beauty and virulent character. He puts me in mind of the Sultan’s assassins, the deaf-mutes of the seraglio—his footsteps make no sound.” He took her arm. “Let’s back to the infirmary. I’ll feel easier knowing you’re there, at least for tonight.”
She acquiesced without argument and they walked back through the town.
“You treated him so roughly I feared you’d provoke a duel,” she said. “Was that what you wanted?”
“I’d not contest a duel with a man I don’t honor. Rather, I’d cut his throat while he slept. But he endured enough insolence for half-a-dozen mortal disputes and swallowed the lot. And Ludovico is no coward. This tells me that in his mind, I’m already dead. And that you’re already his chattel. He’s just biding his time until the moment suits him.” He frowned. “Tell me, Carla, what passed between you and him while I was gone?”
“I kept it to myself because—”
“That’s not material.”
“He came to my room in the auberge at the dead of night.” She saw a look flit across his face that justified her fear of telling him sooner.
“What of Bors and Nicodemus?”
“Bors was on duty, Nicodemus asleep.”
Mattias scowled.
She said, “Ludovico’s footsteps also make no sound.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s lost his senses. He said he wanted to marry me, and to have another child to replace Orlandu.”
“Mad with war and mad with love. In his case, mad with power too.”
“His whole life stands before him as a dreadful error, and he seeks to repair it through me. To hold him at bay I told him I loved another, and he knew at once that I spoke of you.”
“I hope that wasn’t purely a ruse.” He grinned. “Dwell no further on Ludovico. He’ll bother you no more. Think only on our escape, and if you might be persuaded.”
“I’m already persuaded.”
“Good. Say nothing of all this to anyone else, not even Amparo.”
She feared that some betrayal was afoot and stopped. The street was narrow and dark. She stood close to look at his face. She said, “Amparo must come with us.”
He looked so affronted she felt an instant of fear.
“What manner of man do you take me for?”
Before she could apologize, he waved it aside.
“I’d leave my corpse behind before I’d leave Amparo.” He grimaced with perplexity. “But let me grasp this nettle now. I love Amparo dearly, but not as I love you. Not less. Perhaps even more. Bear with now, for who can measure these things? Man or woman? I mean no deceit and confess myself beleaguered in this matter. The heart and loins won’t always accept a harness. And you and she are a sublime pair. What else can I say? In the catalogue of my present tribulations, this vexation doesn’t rate high for urgency, though it’s the root of all the others, true enough, for if not for the two of you I wouldn’t be here. And if I’ve sinned, it’s a trifle compared to my other felonies. Withal, if we survive these hardships and perils, and I bring Orlandu home, and if you’re still willing, we’ll marry, you and I, and Amparo will endure, and what will be will be.”
He waited and Carla nodded.
“Until then, I’m prone to let things stand as they are. The sea is already stormy, so why rock the boat? Can you accept this?”
What he gave with one hand
he took with the other; yet he dared to be who he was and his forthrightness stirred her. If she was a fool, then let that be so too. Her body ached and without knowing it she raised her mouth and he kissed her. He scooped her against him and lifted her onto tiptoe and she felt his own ache against her belly. The urge to surrender, there, in the alley seized her. Some counterinstinct fought it but his mouth was hot on her throat and his hands encircled her waist and her breath was taken away. She felt her skirt rustle on her skin as he pulled it up and gathered it in, and his callused palms caressed her thighs, and her insides convulsed and she felt dizzy. A war broke out within her. She thought, I will not deny this out of fear or false piety. But she didn’t find either in her heart, and this itself was victory. She had other reasons—fine reasons—for not wanting to consummate her passion in an alley, like a drab. And if he was willing to fail Amparo—and he was a man just walked off a field of blood, and she would not judge him—she was not. His fingers slid between her legs and caressed her wetness—Oh God, my Lord God—and she clenched them hard against him and pulled away. In defiance of her every natural instinct she put her hand against his chest. He understood at once, and though his eyes drooped with lust, he didn’t press her. He stood back and swiped his hair from his face.
She said, “Until then, let things stand as they are.”
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice gruff. “Madness rides the wind tonight. And more than one wild beast is yoked to his wagon.” His eyes cleared. He gave her a rueful smile. “On this occasion, at least, you’re wiser than I.” He glanced to the end of the alley and the infirmary piazza beyond. “It’s as well you’re almost home,” he said. “And I have urgent matters that need my direct attention. So I’ll bid you farewell.”
She felt a suspicion without clear substance. “What urgent matters?”
“Military matters.”
She sensed that same cold-blooded absence in his psyche that she’d felt on the Syracuse Road, before he killed the priest. She saw he had no intention of telling her more. Without warning he whipped his sweatdrenched scarf from out his sleeve and dabbed at her neck.
“I’ve sullied you,” he said.