From Hell with Love (35 page)

Instead, he leapt forward and sank his short blade into the man’s thigh, the closest thing he could reach.  He was rewarded with the Norman’s scream and a swift boot to his face, but he could not care less about the strike; he had done his work.  Niccolo turned around, still dazed from the blow, and tried to run as fast as he could the other way.

“G-get him!” the Norman screamed, already slapping the reins of his horse and making it gallop away from his attacker.  At least, that’s what Niccolo assumed; he did not have the time to watch.  He steeled his nerves and took off into a sprint once more, trying to make it to the cross street he had used previously.  The assassin was within a few yards of the street when he heard the galloping hooves of the two horses in pursuit, so he dived to the right, hoping the guards would not anticipate the movement.

He felt something strike his back and heard the grinding of metal against metal followed by the snap of wood.  Niccolo rolled along the ground with the extra momentum, but as soon as he was able, he jumped to his feet.  The two horses were ten yards in front of him, having to expend their momentum before they could turn to make another pass at him, but Niccolo knew he was in a terrible position.  His bow had been broken and was lying in pieces in front of him; both of his blades were buried in his victims.  While he was grateful his armor had saved his life, he knew that armor would not be able to stop two determined horsemen.

Niccolo ran forward, causing the mounted guards to spur their horses toward him, and wondered if he had enough skill to pull off the plan in his head.  The two guards were yelling and held their swords by their side, ready to cut Niccolo off at the neck, but he tried to ignore that; he was looking at their mounts. 

As the guards brought their blades down, Niccolo leapt to the left side and threw his arm forward, the broken shaft of a barbed arrow clenched in his right fist.  He only just avoided the blade of the man on his left, coming within inches of death, but Niccolo needed to level the playing field.  The assassin slammed his hand into the side of the left rider’s horse and kept hold of the shaft as he fell.  Though it broke after just a split-second, it had the desired effect; the horse’s front leg tore open as the barb ripped open its muscles, causing the creature to falter.

Niccolo slammed into the ground and skidded from the momentum, but he flipped over and then scrambled to his feet to find that the first horse had fallen toward the side of the building and then overcompensated, careening into the other horse and sending them both to the ground in a heap of flesh.  Niccolo heard the creatures cry in anguish and felt guilty, but their misery was absolutely vital to his continued survival.  He ran forward, feeling a sharp pain in his left knee which meant it would be useless the next day, and brought another arrow out of his quiver.  One of the men was pinned underneath his horse, groaning along with the two mangled creatures, but the other was shakily getting to his feet.

The guard did not have a chance to do much more than that; Niccolo was on top of him within the moment, his hand already plunging toward the man’s throat with an arrow held in his fingers.  The man gurgled in protest, but Niccolo did not have the option to leave him alive.  He brought the arrow back out, skin and blood coming out in a grisly display as the barbs did their work, and then pushed it up through the bottom of the guard’s jaw and sunk it deep within the man’s brain.

Niccolo breathed out shakily as he saw the life leave the guard’s blue eyes and felt the guilt tearing away at him again.  This man had done nothing to him.  He did not deserve to die; he just had a different employer.  Then Niccolo remembered that he did not have a choice, either; God had made him this way.  He was to serve as an example to other men.

Niccolo picked up the iron sword lying nearby and then walked over to the other guard, who was moaning in pain.  Even if Niccolo was not already been obligated to remove any witnesses, he still would have provided mercy for this soldier, as his lower half was completely crushed.  Niccolo beheaded the man before turning to the squealing horses, their legs a mess of broken bones and torn skin.  He cut their throats as well, hoping to provide an end to their pain, and then took off into the cross street.

The young assassin fought off the tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes, trying to justify his behavior, but he could not hold out for long.  Out of his ruined eye, a single tear fell down the blight covering the left side of his face, which had become mostly numb from the disease on his skin.  He pretended he could not feel it, that he was past caring about the people he killed.  Niccolo tried to convince himself that his soul was just as horrific and ruined as his outward appearance.  As he disappeared into the night, he tried to forget that he had been a merchant prince from Firenze.

For the rest of his life, he would only be a killer from Napoli.

***

Niccolo stood at the entrance of the catacombs and watched the fog of his breath dispersing in the air.  In the last few hours, the air had become chilly, causing Niccolo to feel fortunate that he was still bundled up in his gear.  Innocenti sure knew how to make him appreciate the simple things.

He had only stopped by his room for a short while after his mission, taking time to readjust his sleeve of bandages.  The spread of his illness had somehow stopped after coming to Napoli, Innocenti liked to say the air was better for Niccolo, so he really only had to deal with the ruined skin on his left side.  It covered his entire arm, his fingers and shoulder, as well, and had continued down his chest to his ribcage.  Of course, there was also the blight on his face, but it had miraculously stopped at that point.  Niccolo lost an eye and he had to hide his arm for the rest of his life, but the sores had stopped seeping pus and blood.  The only reason he needed to readjust his sleeve was because of the note that had been left on his desk.

Catacombs.  We need to talk.

-

L.

So Niccolo wrapped up the loose bandages, gathered another set of short blades and his extra bow and quiver, and set back out into the night.  In addition, he let down his hair to obscure his face; he did not need to keep it out of the way anymore.  Niccolo did not bother to run along the rooftops and instead walked freely through the streets, confident no one would see him in the pre-dawn light.  Besides, the Norman’s complex was on the other side of the city; no one would be looking for him on these dark streets.

It was a half-hour of walking to the catacombs, which were placed outside the city; no one deliberately wanted to walk near corpses if they could help it.  As a result, Lorenzo Innocenti would meet with his assassins and business partners there, out of sight of any spying eyes.  He had even trained Niccolo in its depths, hoping to hone the young assassin’s skills for blending into total darkness.

Now Niccolo was waiting for his master, feeling the cold air starting to sink beneath the layers of cloth and armor.  He looked at his left hand, sheathed in a leather glove, and could feel the bumps and ridges of his skin rubbing against the material.  Without meaning to, Niccolo started to think about when it had been perfect and smooth, when his life was still on the correct path.  Immediately, Camilla’s frustrated face came to his mind and he smiled before remembering the last time he had seen her.  When Niccolo remembered Giovanni, his lip curled and the leather of his glove creaked as he clenched his fist.

“You have so much animosity,” Innocenti’s voice called out, causing Niccolo to remember that he had more pressing matters.  His master was seated atop a mule, a mount beneath his station, but Niccolo was used to the merchant’s behavior.  Niccolo crossed his arms in front of him and shrugged.

“I do what I can to temper it these days.  I do learn
some
of your lessons,” he said, trying to keep a light tone.  He did not want to step on the merchant’s toes, as Innocenti did not call meetings lightly.

“Some, but not all.  You made quite the spectacle tonight,” he said as he approached on the mule, stopping by the entrance of the catacombs before letting himself fall from the saddle.  He turned his back to the assassin and went about tying the reins to a nearby post, but he continued the conversation.  “You do know we are supposed to stay silent and unobserved, don’t you, Niccolo?”

“No one knows it was me; no one saw me,” the assassin explained, pacing around the entrance of the catacombs.  “And the target should be dead.  I used enough poison to kill a man twice his size.”

“Oh, he’s dead, though he was going on and on about a disfigured assassin,” Innocenti said before turning back to his student and setting his hands on his belt.

“Impossible.  He had less than a second to look at me,” Niccolo said, his eye narrowing, but Lorenzo put out his hand to stop Niccolo’s excuses.

“His assassin had snake fangs and three eyes; don’t worry,” Innocenti said with a smile before rummaging around in the bag by the mule’s saddle.  He brought out a lantern and went about lighting it.  “But you were lucky the poison had a hallucinogenic effect.”

“I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again,” Niccolo apologized, his head bowed as Innocenti made the lamp glow and then started toward the entrance to the catacombs.

“No harm done, Nico.  Well, relatively,” he said before beckoning for Niccolo to follow.  “We
do
have to do something about this Norman threat.”

“Italia should belong to Italians, even if we’re at war with each other,” Niccolo said, which brought out a short laugh from his master.

“Ah, if only the Italians understood that, as well, my young friend.  Now, come, I have a story for you,” he said as he walked down the carved steps, ignoring the corpses as they went.  Niccolo followed, not bothering to hold his nose.  After so many years, the desiccated corpses were no threat to his senses.

“What story is this, Lorenzo?” Niccolo asked, wondering what sermon Innocenti had for him today.  The merchant tsked him before continuing.

“You have a problem with authority others might not find agreeable, Niccolo.  You are lucky that I feel such fondness for you,” he said before taking a turn to the right, banishing the path ahead of Niccolo into darkness.  The assassin did not know how Innocenti was able to find his way in the catacombs, but he assumed that the merchant had spent more than enough time to discover its secrets.

“That, and you feel such sympathy,” Niccolo added, which made Lorenzo turn around with a smile.

“Not
that
much, Niccolo, but I do have a sense of humor.  And, well, sometimes you provide for that.  However, that is all beside the point.  I have a story for you.”

“You said something like that,” Niccolo agreed, but Innocenti ignored the statement, waving the lantern around the people in the catacombs.

“Do you ever wonder what role you play in this world, Niccolo?”

“I assume that I kill people for a living, but, well, that could be up in the air,” Niccolo joked, causing his master to shake his head.

“Yes, but what does that
mean
, Nico?”

“They had to be killed,” Niccolo muttered, looking at the light dancing on all the bones they passed.

“For some purpose, yes.  Just like all of these men died for a purpose,” Lorenzo said as he waved around the lantern again, taking a left turn and walking down another set of stairs.

“Not to interrupt, master, but not all of them had purpose.  Some people live for no reason, some people die for no reason,” he said, remembering the angry face of the rooftop guard, the pain-filled cries of the horses he had just killed.  Even that Sicilian merchant’s face flashed through his mind.

“Some, of course. 
Most
, if we’re going to be serious.  But those who matter, those who
have
purpose, it’s clear for them.  It’s clear that something more important is meant for them.”

“Innocenti,” Niccolo interrupted, wiping his right eye with his hand; somehow dust had gotten into it.  “If you’re trying to assuage my guilt for killing the Norman…”

“Oh, why would I do
that
?” he asked, making Niccolo snap his attention back to Innocenti, who had stopped by an alcove that seemed to be decorated more than the usual grave.  “I have no use for guilt.”

“Then what is this lesson?” Niccolo asked, which made Innocenti smile before waving at the alcove, which held a number of objects and relics, but the skull in the center seemed to be the focus of the arrangement.

“Sometimes our purpose lies in something more than our lives.  This man, here.  He was a bishop in the early church.  He was a martyr, having been beheaded in a very public spectacle.  That glass right there,” Innocenti said before pointing the lantern toward the ampoule by the skull, “is filled with his blood, which supposedly liquefies every year.”

“Wait, this is…”

“Yes,” Innocenti said before drawing back the lantern and holding it by his side.  “This is Januarius, the so-called patron saint of Napoli.”

“I’m sorry,” Niccolo said, breaking his gaze from the skull in the alcove, “but why are you showing me this?”

“This man,” Innocenti said before sighing, “was more useful
dead
than alive.  He was a bishop and quite popular, but when he was executed, Christianity spread, his influence spread along with word of his miracles.”

“I don’t see the point,” Niccolo said as he shook his head, but Innocenti looked at him disapprovingly.

“You still have
one
good eye, Nico,” he said, drawing the glare of the assassin.  “The point is that, although beloved by God, Januarius was forced to die in a horrific manner.  His usefulness occurred after his death.”

“I understand,” Niccolo started, but Innocenti stamped his foot, forcing the assassin to swallow his words.

“Clearly, you don’t.  God had his plan, Nico, as horrible as it was.  And this man was a saint!  What I’m saying is that,” he said before walking up to his student and placing his free hand on Niccolo’s shoulder, “your…ailment, may not have been revenge.”