The King's Gold (25 page)

He was too far away to see in any detail, but I could discern that he walked alone among the trees, squatting on his haunches as if to examine the grass.

“Who was fighting with the Medici?” I asked into the phone as Erik parked the car.

“It would be mercenaries mostly.”

Erik rested his head on the seat and rolled his eyes back into his head from exhaustion.

“They had about five thousand men under the marquess of Marignano,” Manuel went on. “Give or take. Both sides were made up of hired guns—except the Sienese were weaker. Their army had been decimated a few months before, in another skirmish against the emperor’s men, and the survivors were tired and injured, as you’d expect. The two armies faced off there for months—until early August. Antonio was in the Imperial camp by that time—it was his money that paid for at least a third of the men who were fighting more for Cosimo than Charles. And then, there was the battle—something happened. There was bad weather, I believe. In any event, he became confused. Antonio began killing Florentines, not Sienese, and then was killed himself, by some mysterious explosive device—”

“Dad, I had a book in the library—it’s a history of the war.
God Loves the Mighty.”

“The Gregorio Albertini, yes. I
love
that book. Deathless propaganda! Here—let me go get it—I actually remember that Albertini had a curious description of the fight—”

This is when I heard my mother clatter onto the phone:

“Lola.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“
I’m
not upset.”

“Good.”

“It’s your
father
who’s upset. What did you just tell him? Do you know he looks like he’s about to faint?”

“I just—”

“And that your wedding shower is in an hour? And because you don’t have any friends but your sister and your boyfriend, I had to invite all
my
pals over here to play pin the tail on the stripper—”

“Oh —agh—
right.”

“
And
that Yolanda has gone running off to find you?”

“What, what, what do you mean running off—”

“You can’t yell like that in the car,” Erik grumbled. “Your voice is boomeranging off the windows.”

“She’s gone off, Terrible Creature,” my mother said. “She read some news on a blog yesterday about two or three unidentified and unstable Latins breaking into the Sienese Duomo, and she had this ridiculous theory about how it must be
you,
and she was already so edgy about the mariachi tryouts in the living room, and the butterfly motif of the bridesmaids’ dresses...” Her voice lowered into a gravely whisper. “And
also
about that craziness Erik nattered about. You know,
Tomas
? About where he was buried? In
Europe
? Despite the fact that I nearly got my head caved in digging around for him in the jungle? Because I was under some misimpression that I still
loved that old dead houndog
?! Well! Humph! I—that is,
she,
your sister, just couldn’t take it anymore—she’s been trying to call you, couldn’t get a hold—and finally just went racing off. You know how she is!”

“That’s not good,” I said, thinking about the tattooed man. Ever since Tomas had disappeared, my half-sister had fended off a serious depression. My sister is a very...
special
person, and I knew that if she learned de la Rosa faked his death and deserted her, all of her beautiful melancholy would flower into a devilish head-spinning rage that might be great in my Criterion copy of
The Exorcist
but heinous in real life.

“Who’s coming here?” Erik asked.

“Yolanda,” I said.

“Your sister? That will be so cozy—”

“She’s there now,” my mother went on, “landed in Rome a few hours ago. Monster, she said she’d track you down. And Tomas’s grave, if she could. And I heard your father saying something about Montezuma’s gold?”

“Yes, there’s maybe a possibility that we could find it here, but—”

“
How?
Do you have any good leads? Yes? Hmmm, you’ll probably need me to figure that out. But it
does
seem intriguing!

Manuel and I tried to find that gold ourselves, in Brazil, in eightythree. UCLA gave me a grant, but I have to admit that we spent most of our time streaking drunk through Rio. I think Tomas hunted around for old Montezuma’s cache, too...So! Italy
does
sound nice. Around here, it’s all taffeta and canceled scavenger hunts—and bridesmaids who look like dogs in their dresses, by the way. Where do you think you’ll be in the next few days?”

I could barely concentrate on what she was saying. “What?”

“I’m asking
where you’ll be
?”

“I don’t know, Mom— It could be anywhere.
When did Yolanda leave?
”

“Yesterday. Look—I’m asking you a question.”

“Oh—I don’t know. Maybe Venice if we’re lucky.”

“Venice. Perfect. Pop in, nose around, see what we find. Pop back in time, get you hitched. Though I suppose it will be cutting things rather close—”

“You’re not thinking about coming here?” I flabbered. If my sister would be Linda Blair at the sight of the resurrected Tomas, Juana would be Grendel’s
mami
. I looked out onto the green and gold paradise. “The weather here is so disgusting.”

“Since when did that ever stop me?”

“And...there’s been an outbreak of plague.”

Another clattering noise. “I’ve got it,” my father said. “Hello again, dear. Your mother’s turning a terrible shade of pink.
But
you’ll be happy to know I found the book!”

I pressed the ball of my left hand against my right eye, as if trying to keep the contents of my head from spilling out all over the car. “Let’s hear what it says.”

Over the line came the sound of pages being turned. “
This
is the passage I was thinking of,” Manuel said. “It’s awkwardly written.”

“Erik.” I lifted the phone. “Honey. Come hear this—it might be important.”

“Mmmm? What is it?”

“It’s from
God Loves the Mighty
—”

My father’s voice crackled over the phone line as he read out this portion of Gregorio Albertini’s history:

It was on August 2 that the Florentines won their great victory against the Kingdom of Siena, under the aegis of my Lord Cosimo I. In the hours before daybreak, the two armies faced off together on either side of the valley at Scannagallo, and the torches held by both armies revealed Siena’s black-and-white flag fluttering at the east end. Antonio Medici, the elderly Uncle of our Lord Cosimo, took his position at the Florentine vanguard, warning the gendarmes not to move before his command.

In the silence, we could hear nothing but the rattling of the pikemen’s staffs, and the snorting of the horses, the coughs of a few of the Swiss.

The next thing we knew, Antonio broke ranks.

It was already a warm morning, such as one will find on any ordinary day in late Summer, and so, even as the sun began to raise her golden head I could see quite clearly (from my position on the top of a very high hill, as I scribbled down my notes at Cosimo’s order), Sir Antonio rear his shrieking horse as if it were a Beast of the Devil.

The gleaming Steed charged down the valley’s cup. Antonio was the first into the Breach, wielding his halberd, hacking off many a Sienese head. From his Wallet he took a handful of amber Mud (a powerful and secret Weapon he had learned to craft in his days spent among the Moors), lit it with a Spill, and from these two Elements conjured a Ball of Fire as powerful as a Star.

But at this instant, just as he had raised his Rocket against the Sienese, a miscalculation occurred. It nearly lost us the war.

My Patron, the Lord Cosimo, wishes that I make clear in this History that all morning, the valley’s Battlefield had been plagued with a thick & hazy Grimpen Mist, for there have been various rumors surrounding The Error. My Lord instructs us, Dear Readers, that it was only on account of the terrific Fog that Antonio did not correct his wild horse, which turned around, away from the Enemy. So blinded was he by the Murk, he began to throw these Fiery missiles at Our own Men, killing nearly three hundred before a brave Florentine threw a pike, and struck the Wolf in the chest, causing him to fall dead.

“It sounds like he was using naphtha,” said Erik, when my father had finished. He and I were hunkered together in the car, sharing the earpiece.

“That’s a very interesting theory,” my father said. “Hmmm. Naphtha.”

“Not just a theory,” I muttered, still stinking of the ancient petrol that had nearly souffléd us beneath the Duomo.

“What?” my father asked.

“Nothing—just saying it’s a gruesome story.”

“Yes, it’s not very charming,” my father agreed. “And, like I said, confusingly written. But does it help?”

I looked out the car’s windshield. The sky had brightened considerably. “I don’t know, I don’t even know what we’re looking for. But we’re there now—at the field. We’re going to poke around, see if there’s anything interesting here.”

“Fine—my heavens—but
call us later
—”

“See you later!” I heard my mother hollering.

“And remember that we—that
I—
love you,” Manuel said.

“Me too, Pops—”

He clicked off.

My fingers formed a miniature tepee over my nose. “That didn’t go very well.”

“Lola,” Erik said.

“My father...and my
mother
. She’s not going to stay put. She’s going to come flying down here, like those flying monkeys in
The Wizard of Oz
—”

“Lola,
look
how beautiful it is.”

I hushed and looked.

From far off, beneath the opening sky, pale blue hills captured the first hues of the sun. In front of these lay the valley, painted by foliage in shades of green that varied from a nearly white lime to a chocolate-ivy. A recent rain had fallen and there remained still a glistening layer of dew upon the landscape. Wet-black dirt paths threaded through the vale; this part of the territory was a vineyard. Upon the descending hills struggled very dark, gnarled trees. These were more numerously planted in a small grove to the east. I glanced back and forth along the far edge of the vista, but could no longer see the farmer or vintner whom I had seen meandering through the grass when we’d first pulled the car up to the valley.

“A little sleepwalking will do us good,” yawned Erik.

He tossed the keys onto the front seat, also grabbing a bundle of foodstuffs before walking away from the car across a stretch of grass. Moving to the right, we spent the next twenty minutes heading down a sloping path that skirted around the rim of the declension, then into the valley, with its expanses of purple-black flowers and wild trees.

“Are you holding up?” I asked.

We had reached the west side of the ravine, as the sun continued to rise behind us.

“Yes, I’m awake now. It’s
nippy.
But I brought along some coffee—that manager man was nice enough to make a giant portion of
macchiato
—steamed milk and everything—and there’s cookies—little amaretti—and a couple of slices of orange cake—”

We ate these in a companionable huddle. The glen stretched visibly to the other side, where we saw a lemon-yellow car parked.

“Another Fiat,” Erik said.

“Can you see that from here?” I asked.

“My eyes are good. I can even see the spoiler. And anyway, that’s practically all the Italians drive.”

Below us extended a slope, covered with crystal-tipped grasses and fat scrubby bushes. The descent slipped into a small copse of sycamores. We half-walked, half-slid down the mud path while snagging our pant legs on the brambles. The decline was fairly steep.

“Let’s see,” I said, “the Florentines would have been flanked here. We’re on the west—”

“Right—the Sienese were on the east side. I’m trying to remember Renaissance battle tactics—the vanguard would have been made up of footsoldiers, pikemen, artillery, and cannons.”

We approached the dusky copse of trees.

“Albertini said the front line was commanded by Antonio, on horseback,” I said.

“Then—over
there
—to our far right, and to our left, would have been the light cavalry.”

We entered the grove. It broadened much more than it had appeared to from the car, though it had not been thickly planted.

The sunlight fell like water from the trees down to the grass and scatterings of dark purple, hooded-petaled blossoms.

“But he—Antonio—charged out first, without giving a signal to his troops,” I said.

“And he would do that because...?”

“Some kind of battle madness?”

“But he didn’t even believe in the war with Siena.” Erik shielded his eyes against the strengthening sun. “What’s missing here?”

“Missing?”

“I was expecting something else—I’ve read about the battle before, and I saw it the way that Albertini described it. There’s something about this place that isn’t...quite...
right
.”

“Albertini wrote—What?—‘
it was already a warm morning’—
something like that—’
the kind one will find on an ordinary day in late Summer.’
And he wrote that he had a good view of the battle, too—from far up on a hill—just like you saw the Fiat so clearly—”

“But
then
he wrote something else—about the weather—”

“That there was a mist,” I said slowly.

“That’s it—
that’s
what’s missing. He contradicted himself.”

I stopped walking. “And this is a colder morning than it would have been in August.”

“And—don’t you remember what your dad quoted to us? What did Albertini say? That Cosimo wanted him
to make clear—
something—”

“‘That all morning, the valley’s Battlefield had been plagued with a thick & hazy Grimpen Mist’—
something—’
there have been rumors surrounding The Error
.’”

“That’s right—it sounds almost as if he were lying.”

“To keep Cosimo happy. Revisionist history, to avoid a scandal.”

“Because if there were
no mist
—I mean, it’s impossible to know. It depends on the weather patterns of the fifteen hundreds—but still, Albertini doesn’t sound like he’s giving us the whole story. And if there
wasn’t
mist, then that would have meant—it’s just possible—”