Blood Ties (7 page)

There was a cough. He stood and turned swiftly, a hand reaching to his belt and the dagger there. Behind him, Wilhelm was kneeling before the pews, his hands clasped. He glanced toward the door and Gianni nodded. Making their final kneeling tributes, crossing themselves, they stepped out into the day. Rain had come and Gianni scanned the sky for a break in it. Rain did not help his plan.

‘You’re bleeding.’ Wilhelm ran his finger down Gianni’s cheek. ‘See?’

On the finger before him, a red streak. In its centre, a shard of tile.

Gianni grabbed the finger, bent it back. The big German leaned down toward him in self-protection. When he had him close, Gianni put his lips to his ear, and whispered, ‘Would that I could shed all my blood in what we are to do. And yet live to do it again and again and again.’

He released the finger and Wilhelm rubbed it. The piece of tile had penetrated and there was more blood now.

‘Have a care, Gianni.’ He sucked at his finger.

‘Oh, I do.’ His dark eyes flashed. ‘I have a care for the Lord’s work.’

The two grey-cloaked figures shrugged into the rain, heading for Trastevere.

It fell in angled sheets, slanting into the ground, bouncing off olive trees, so heavy that the house in the centre of the grove shimmered as if insubstantial. The three shadows had gathered beneath the eaves, round a brick fire place, which they tried to stoke with a supply of sodden wood. They were having a little success, enough to keep them occupied, and the times between one of them leaving and walking around the house were growing further apart.

Gianni dropped from the wall, landing beside the two Cubs. The hulking one, Bruno, was throwing his knife into the ground between his legs, rain cascading off his cloak, oblivious to all but the way the blade dug into the mud before him. The slight one, Piccolo, was trying to light two more oil lamps from the one cradled in his lap. Each time he took a taper from its shelter, however, the rain or wind snuffed it out.

Gianni’s arm snapped forward, grabbing the handle of the dagger in mid-flight. Pointing the tip at Bruno he said, ‘Help him with the lamps. When they are all lit, take one to each of the others. Tell them to wait for the call. Then return.’

He threw the dagger between the spread legs, close to the groin. Bruno flinched, sheathed the weapon, and hurriedly moved to obey. Cupped hands transferred the flame and soon all three oil lumps were lit. Taking two, Bruno moved off into the rain and around the corner of the wall.

Gianni rested his back against the flaking plaster. The rain made a difference, but not that much. It might even help, concealing the Wolves’ approach, even if it did mean the flames of retribution would be harder to conjure.

Raising his face to it, closing his eyes, Gianni allowed himself a smile.

Thy will be done. As always
.

Then Bruno was back, a nod showing that all was prepared. Putting his foot into Bruno’s joined palms Gianni carefully raised his head above the parapet. As he did, he saw one of the shadows detach himself from the fireplace at the side of the house and move around the building, out of sight of his comrades. Another ten paces would carry him around the other wall to the welcoming grasp of Wilhelm, brought running by the cry Gianni was about to order. He looked down into Piccolo’s tensed face and nodded. Instantly, the boy threw back his head and let out a perfect imitation of a scavenging crow.

Looking back into the yard, Gianni saw three things happen. A large log flew over the front gate, landing with a soft but distinct crunch on the gravelled path. This brought the two guards by the fire to their feet, turning toward the sound. At the same time the other guard, stopped, hesitated, then carried on around the corner. Pulling himself over the wall, landing in the soft earth there, already running as he landed, Gianni heard the thump of Piccolo close behind, the heavier thud of Bruno following. There was a shout from the far side of the house, a cry of alarm, then of pain, turning the other sentries for a moment. He was ten paces away when the first of the men turned back and five when the guard began reaching to the wide-mouthed arquebus resting under the eaves. Gianni dropped his shoulder, put it into the man’s chest at full charge, knocking him off his feet and hard against the wall. The second man swung a fist at him, but Gianni dodged, falling onto the back of the one now struggling to rise. He heard but did not see the blows as first the faster Piccolo and then the heavier Bruno caught the other man with their cudgels. Gianni found the prone guard’s chin, jerked it back and swiftly to the side. There was a crack and he rode the body to the ground.

The other three Cubs from the front gate now picked up the log they’d thrown over and ran with it at the door. It splintered at the first impact, folding in on itself, the three carried through by the force of their charge to sprawl on the other side. As Wilhelm and his two Cubs joined them – one of them clutching what looked like a broken wrist – Gianni stepped through the shattered timbers into the one room beyond.

He had been there before, had anticipated the sight that would greet him. The smiling girl who had given the thirsty ‘student’ some water, she would be cowering there. And the Jew, of course, their quarry, finally brought to ground, he would be there. But the tall man with the pistol drawn and levelled, behind whom Jew and girl crouched, he was not meant to be there. And when he discharged the pistol and the bullet grazed Gianni’s face, to bury itself in the plaster behind him, Gianni knew he must be there no longer.

‘Mine!’ he cried, a dagger appearing in his hand, matched by one in the hand opposite. There were few times when he did anything but curse what his father, Jean Rombaud, had given him, but lessons with a knife, he almost blessed him for those now. The man he opposed had also learned, dropping into a stance, the dagger level with the other hand that reached out, balanced, but Gianni saw he was not quite square, his right foot forward. Throwing the dagger to his left hand he thrust it toward the man’s face, while his right reached up, flicked the clasp of his cloak open, swept it from around his shoulders, his hand passing over his head, carrying it down and around to the right where the rain-heavy wool wrapped around the man’s leg. Stepping back, Gianni pulled hard and the cloak jerked the man’s leg from underneath him, sending him crashing back onto the table, collapsing it. Dropping the cloak, stepping forward, the knife thrown back to his right hand, grabbed overhand, Gianni plunged down. With a sharp cry of agony, the man folded himself in on the blow that found his stomach, dropping his own knife, folding himself around Gianni’s.

The attack had brought his face level with the old Jew’s.

‘What? What …?’ was all the old man could get out and the look of pure terror, coupled with the exultation of the violence, made Gianni howl with joy, howl like the animal whose name he had taken. The wolf cry, echoed from those behind, ended when Gianni raised a hand.

‘Vat? Vat?’ Gianni’s impersonation was exaggerated, deliberately so. ‘You will find out
vat
in a moment.’ He called over his shoulder. ‘Take the girl outside, and the servant. And finish this …’ He kicked at the writhing body on the floor. ‘Leave the Jew with me.’

His wolves obeyed, dragging the moaning man, the whimpering girl, the pleading servant, taking them to the side of the house. The rain on the tiled roof, increasing in frenzy, swallowed all other sounds, leaving only the ragged breathing of the man before him. Gianni put his hand into the man’s bony chest, pushed him gently back into the seat he’d risen from not a minute before. Setting up the other chair, Gianni sat too, arms folded, leaning on the back of it.

In the street the man’s hood had been up, but the cloak was discarded now, his head bare, save for the little leather cap that clung to the crown. Thick hair radiated downward from it, streaked with grey, glossy with some rich oil, to fall onto the large lace collar. The hair and cap were his only distinguishing features. The Jew’s doublet was plain but well-made, the apron such as would be worn by any artisan. Boots came halfway up the leg, meeting the thick wool leggings there.

No
, Gianni thought,
aside from the head, they really don’t look much different from us
.

He studied the face, the trace of greying stubble, the dark eyes under heavy brows now flicking around the room, seeking Gianni’s, seeking to avoid them as well, to not antagonize with a stare. Gianni let them move around, making his own neutral, keeping them fixed on those circling before him, until, like a butterfly finally settling on a flower, the Jew was staring back at him. His lips started to move, a hum coming into his throat; finally a sound escaped.

‘What …?’ He broke off, remembering what that word had produced before.

‘Please …’ He tried again, stopping when Gianni tipped his head to the side, smiled, a parody of attention.

‘No, go on. I’d like to hear what you have to say.’

‘Dear sir, young master’ – the words came out in a rush now, as if too long stoppered – ‘I am sure we can settle this … this problem between us. There’s no need … no need for anyone else to be hurt. My people will pay, they will give you anything you want, however much you want, you only need ask, you only …’

Gianni’s hand raised slowly, politely. ‘You believe we are thieves? That we want the jewels you carry?’

The Jew cleared his throat. ‘Well, I know how it is. Debts, life so expensive for a young man. If you owe anything to any of my people, if the interest is too high, I … I feel sure we could …’

The hand rose again. ‘Debts are owed. But not in gold. Repayment demanded. But not of interest.’

‘Then what, sir? What debt do I owe? I will pay it, I assure you. I will pay.’

‘Oh, I know you will.’ Gianni was slowly rising from his seat. ‘You will pay everything you have, for the greatest debt in the world. For did you not murder Our Lord?’

The change in the man’s demeanour was not the one Gianni had expected. Instead of growing terror, a veil seemed to draw across his face.

‘Ah.’ The old Jew sighed.

‘“Ah?” Is that all you can say? Can you deny it, Jew?’

‘Would it help me if I did? Has it ever helped my people before? If we admit it, you kill us. If we deny it, you kill us. Death is the only thing we get from you.’

‘Your people?’ Gianni brought his face close. ‘Shall I tell you something about your people? Shall I tell you a secret?’ His voice dropped to a whisper and he pressed his mouth close to the other’s ear. ‘My mother was one of you.’

He pulled back, so he could see the reaction, the little hope that would spring up there. It was always the same. He liked it when men died with a little hope. It made it harder for them.

The hope was there, in the hand raised toward him, clutching at his doublet, in the eyes.

‘Your mother’s blood is your blood. Her faith is your faith. Inside here … here’ – his fingers tapped at Gianni’s chest – ‘you are one of us.’

Gianni waited, savoured. When he spoke his voice was gentle.

‘If you can show me where the Jew within me lives – be it in my spleen, in my liver, in my very heart – I would take this knife and I would cut it out, though I die as I cut. But I don’t need to do that, because I have been saved by Christ’s love. All I need do is return that love to him every day.’

In the man’s eyes, the hope was replaced by something else. The younger man sensed what it was, even as the wrinkled hand dropped and grasped the handle of Gianni’s knife at his belt, even as Gianni’s hand closed over his. The Jew was old, but his wrists were strong and he had courage. He had pulled the knife up and out, lunged high, the point nipping Gianni’s ear before he could force it up and away, bending him back over the table, using his weight, his height, his youth. He rested there with just enough pressure to hold against the old man pushing up.

‘Pay the debt,’ Gianni said and, twisting, he pushed the dagger home.

The old man cried out then, something Hebrew, a curse, a prayer perhaps. Then the blood rushed to his throat, choking further words.

Gianni slumped back into the chair, staring at the twitching body on the table, while the sound of the rain on the roof filled the room. It had found some crack above, because drops were beginning to fall, spattering off the table, bouncing off the body’s forehead, off the bright little leather cap. Yarmulke, his grandfather had called it. His had been frayed, dull, barely clinging to the wisps of hair there, always slipping off as his grandfather pulled and twisted it, babbling his nonsense. His mother said he’d been a brilliant scientist in his day, more, an alchemist, a seeker for the Philosopher’s Stone. There had been no trace of the philosopher in the drooling child Gianni had known.

There was a cry from outside, fear strong enough to pierce the pounding rain, a woman’s terror. Gianni was at the door, through it, in a moment. The deluge was still so intense it took his eyes a moment to adjust. He saw the knife man first, feet hovering over the ground, swinging by his neck from one of the olive trees. Next, through the falling sheets, a huddle of bodies. Wilhelm was crouched between the writhing legs of the girl, slowly folding the skirt up. Two others held her arms, while the rest of the Cubs were scattered around, looking or not, fascinated, disgusted.

Gianni crossed the space in three strides, his hand making a fist, catching the German on his ear in a sharp blow. The men clutching the girl let her go and she scrabbled to pull down her skirts, a cornered animal, backing up against the wall.

‘But, Gianni,’ Wilhelm said plaintively, ‘she’s only a heathen whore.’

Gianni remembered when he’d scouted the house, the girl giving him some water to drink, the darkness of her eyes reminding him for a moment of his sister’s, though set in a face as dull as Anne Rombaud’s was lively.

‘Have you forgotten your vows, Wilhelm? Do you not all know the sin that lust is?’

Wilhelm rubbed at his ear. His voice was petulant. ‘I haven’t taken my final vows.’

Gianni smiled. It seemed so absurd, the German sitting and sulking in the mud, in a rainstorm, the body of a man he’d killed dangling ten paces away. Smile turned to a laugh and he said, ‘But Willie, look at her – she’s not even Jewish.’