The Boy Who Wept Blood (21 page)

38

Esposito Lost
–
18 Agosto
325

The men in grey had gained much from their raids on Demesne. Many were armed with halberds liberated from fallen guardsmen.

‘Fall back,’ grunted Marcell, but it was a futile suggestion. There was no safe path of retreat, no place to fall back to. They were surrounded.

‘I’ll kill Salvaza Prospero for this myself,’ grated Dino from between clenched teeth. He batted aside a clumsy thrust from a pole-arm.

‘You may not get the chance,’ replied Margravio Contadino.

Marcell had downed an opponent and was parrying strikes from two more. The quiet clearing was now alive with the sound of steel ringing on steel, urgent grunts of exertion, the wheezing rasps of the dying.

‘Mass, get behind me,’ said Dino, eyeing his friend’s wounded shoulder.

‘I’m fine,’ came the terse response. The swordsman threw up a weak parry, narrowly avoiding a halberd heading for his vitals. Dino sized up their opponents, looking for a gap in the circle they might break through. Hope was in poor supply.

‘What do you want?’ bellowed the
margravio
, but no one replied, least of all the veiled and hooded attacker from the courtyard, who appeared to be directing the grey men. He stood on a fallen tree, staring at the four swordsmen with glowering intensity. The previous attacks had been predicated on the need for food. The only outcome sought today was death.

Margravio Contadino’s party was now hard pressed on all sides, in a small circle, fending off a ceaseless number of savage swings. Abramo lay several feet away, face down, the grass around his throat slick with blood. Marcell succumbed next, taking not one but two halberds to the shoulders. Dino heard rather than saw it. Stifled disbelieving grunts shaken from the veteran, collarbones shattered. Dino dared a glance over his shoulder to see Marcell sink to his knees, unable to parry the next attack, and the next. His head was split asunder, coming apart in a shower of gore.

Dino cursed.

Another attacker used the moment of Dino’s distraction. The Orfano turned back to find a halberd levelled at his chest, blurring forward. His left arm snapped out, the bound forearm meeting the wooden shaft at an angle, the tines providing a measure of armour. He knocked the blade up and aside, his hand closing down on the weapon, clamping shut even as his right hand thrust his sword forward. There was an agonised yelp as the sword emerged from the ragged man’s back. Dino felt steel grate on ribs, knowing it was lodged fast in the man’s chest. He relinquished his grip on the blade, spinning the halberd around his hand in a blur. Another attacker found himself bereft of his head a heartbeat later. Dino lunged forward, abandoning the
margravio
and Massimo, breaking free of the encirclement. The attackers faltered, unsure how to proceed.

‘My lord, this way,’ shouted Dino. He regretted it immediately. Margravio Contadino turned toward Dino’s path of escape. A halberd smashed into his shoulder. His attacker struck again, knocking the
margravio
to his knees. Massimo cried out, his blade falling in a sunlit glare of steel. The sword cleaved through the wrist of the man responsible, but it was too late.

Margravio Emilio Contadino stumbled to his feet, bent double, a savage slash across his broken ribs, now slick with crimson. Massimo knocked aside two more killing blows, desperate to delay the inevitable death of his master. The swordsman split another attacker’s face open, a soundless howl of fury on his lips. Dino ran forward to gather the wounded lord in his arms, but was separated by yet more attackers. For one hateful second the
margravio
locked eyes with the Orfano.

‘Run, Dino.’ He coughed blood. ‘
Avanti
.’ His head was severed in a single strike. Dino stumbled back, almost losing his footing as he knocked over a grave marker. So much death.

Massimo broke into a flat run, disappearing through the trees pursued by six men, rags flapping about them like diseased skin. The veiled and hooded leader looked on, immobile at the edge of the clearing, arms folded across his chest. If he had orders to kill Dino he appeared unwilling to execute them.

Dino ran, fear a jagged song playing on his nerves. Frustration snagged at his boots; shock made a knot of his stomach. The willows sighed and shuddered in the wind, roused by the ecstasy of violence. The woodland was oppressive with shadow, occasional flashes of sunlight blurring Dino’s vision, threatening to blind him. His flight was long and panicked, thrusting him into a meadow, gasping for breath. He dared snatch a look behind. Shapes and colours beneath the trees coalesced into figures, lurching, sprinting.

Dino dropped the halberd, fleeing across the yellow grasses of the meadow, waiting for the moment his flesh would fall prey to implacable steel. Nardo waited ahead, astride his mount, holding the reins of Dino’s. His face was marked with questions.

Margravio Contadino dead. And Massimo too most likely. The thought almost brought Dino to his knees, momentum carrying him on. He vaulted the hindquarters of the mount, landing in the saddle with such force he nearly slipped past the horse’s neck. Thighs grasped at the horse’s flanks, hands clutched at reins. The beast complained, then took off. Nardo looked on astonished and silent.

Dino struggled to find the stirrups, cursing, clinging on, desperate not to fall to the road below, as it slipped past under hooves that beat the dust into tawny clouds. With each beat he was carried away from where Margravio Contadino had fallen.

And Abramo.

And Marcell.

And Massimo emerged from the woods breathless and ashen-faced. Dino veered in to meet him, the horse leaping the fence beside the road into the meadow. Nardo followed, his own blade free of its scabbard. The first of the pursuers broke free of the trailing limbs of the willows, lunging after Massimo. Dino’s breath caught in his throat, chest constricted. The Contadino swordsman hadn’t seen his pursuer. Dino put his heels to his mount, the horse surging forward. He reached for his sword but found nothing: the blade remained lodged between a dead man’s ribs. Dino gritted his teeth and trampled the attacker into the long grass. The impact near shook him free of the saddle; a curse slipped his lips. The horse’s momentum carried it past the grey man, but it sagged a second later. Dino wheeled around to pull Massimo up into his arms. Nardo had engaged another of the attackers, but the man’s halberd was proving dangerous to both horse and rider.

‘Mass!
Porca miseria!
Get over here!’

Massimo stumbled toward him, confusion crowding his features, his gait stumbling and unsure. Dino reached down, pulling the swordsman up with a grunt. His hand came away bloodied.

‘Picked up a few more scars,’ said Massimo with a weak smile, arms folding around Dino’s waist. So many times had Dino wished for this, but never under such hateful circumstances.

‘Nardo!’

The messenger didn’t waste time trying to finish his opponent, content to let the speed of his mount protect him. They fled from the woodland edge as more and more attackers in grey spilled from the shadows.

‘
Dottore!
Someone fetch a
dottore
!’

The horses were all but forgotten, abandoned in the Contadino courtyard. Dino carried the wounded swordsman in aching arms. The pain in those strong limbs was as nothing to the fear that racked his chest.

Don’t die on me. Don’t leave me here.

A silent prayer to any who might hear it, even Santa Maria herself. They stumbled through Demesne, porters and cooks’ faces stricken with shock and concern. None looked more stricken than Massimo, who had slumped from the saddle, eyes closed, into the arms of Dino.

‘A
dottore
! Please!’

Dino pressed on, out into the rose garden, from which shocked courtiers fled. Others remained, desperate to know Margravio Contadino’s whereabouts. Windows opened on all sides of the garden, on all floors of Demesne. Faces appeared beneath pointed arches, regarding the unfolding tragedy, hands pressed to mouths and chests, powerless and aghast.

‘Don’t leave me here alone, Mass. You can’t leave me.’ He was whispering now. Blood-red and cloud-white roses surrounded them, roses the colour of Massimo, bleeding freely from uncounted wounds, staining his tabard. The swordsman’s face was paler than Dino had ever seen it.

‘Please don’t die on me. I’m begging you.’

Massimo’s eyes fluttered a moment but remained closed.

‘A
dottore
for my friend.’ He’d meant to shout, but the words were no more than sobs.

‘Put him down here. We’ll improvise some bandages.’ Nardo was grim-faced, dusty from the road. He gestured to the centre of the garden, where the calming gaze of Santa Maria looked over a congregation of flowers.

‘Please don’t leave me,’ repeated Dino like a mantra, not realising the words escaped his lips. Massimo’s eyes opened slow, his gaze unfocused. Staff emerged doorways, some brave enough to investigate further. They edged closer among the roses, eyes intent on the fallen swordsman, watching the Orfano hold back tears, regarding the messenger, whose face foretold the outcome.

‘Please don’t leave me,’ whispered Dino. He’d sunk to his knees in the shadow of Santa Maria, clutching the swordsman in arms slick and red. ‘Don’t you leave me, Mass.’

‘I’ll always be here for you.’ The tiniest of smiles creased the corners of Massimo’s perfect mouth. How many times had Dino’s eyes lingered on Massimo’s lips, barely hearing the words, only watching their shape and curve.

‘I never told you—’

‘I know.’ Massimo laboured a weak cough. ‘You never needed to; I always knew.’

‘How?’

‘The way you look at me. No one else ever looked at me like that.’

Dino tried to swallow, stomach hollow and collapsing, his chest like rubble, heart fractured at the centre.

‘Don’t leave me, Mass. I couldn’t bear it.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ The swordsman smiled, impossibly serene, his eyes wet with unfallen tears. Dino bowed forward, pressing his lips to the beautiful man in his arms, but when he opened his eyes there was just the body of a swordsman – another casualty, another corpse, another funeral to be planned, another name to be added to the rolls of Demesne’s history.

‘Mass?’

Nardo dropped to one knee, reaching out a tentative hand for Dino’s shoulder. That simple touch told him the very thing his mind would not accept. Could not accept.

‘Mass? Please. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. Anything you ask, just don’t go.’

‘It’s too late, my lord.’ Nardo’s voice cracked with the telling of it. The Orfano shook his head, clutched the dead man tighter, eyes pressed shut, willing the tears away.

‘No, I won’t allow it.’ His voice was like gravel scratching on wood.

‘He’s gone,’ whispered Nardo, ‘There was nothing we could do.’

‘Where’s the
dottore
?’

The
dottore
, when he arrived, could do nothing but shake his head sadly.

‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ was all he said. Dino was numb and broken. By now the windows of the rose garden were packed with every stripe and rank of person that inhabited Demesne. They had all borne witness, not just to the loss of life but the loss of love. Scandalised whispers would come later, but for now the gossiping tongues were silenced by the outpouring of Dino’s grief. Until tomorrow it mattered not that he’d loved a man, only that he’d been parted from him in such a brutal fashion.

Camelia appeared, viewing the scene with tears frozen in her eyes. One arm curved around the Orfano’s shoulders. She hauled him up and led him step by step through Demesne to House Erudito. He’d yet to open his eyes, blinded by grief, the sight of Massimo’s serene smile etched into his memory.

‘I never told him I loved him.’

Camelia could say nothing, only wipe the bloody tears away as they appeared at the corners of his eyes in greater and greater profusion.

39

The Brooding Drake
–
25 Agosto
325

The wine glass hit the door, shattering into a hundred jagged slivers. Many of the pieces that fell to the floor were coated with dregs, tiny bloodstained blades. The door had seen its fair share of projectiles over the last seven days. Other glasses had been thrown, a wine bottle and three books. All had followed the same fate, now forgotten on the floor. Drink combined with anger had seen a stiletto cast at the offending portal, impacting hilt first. This proved fortunate, else the blade be stuck firm for all to see, a painful marker of a time that would haunt Dino long into the future.

The summons issued from the door yet again, the rapping loud and raucous. Achilles hissed and pushed his head beneath his tail. Dino cursed under his breath. There was nothing else left to throw, bar the bottle of Barolo in his hand, half full.

‘If you think I’m wasting this on—’ The knock interrupted his slurred soliloquy. ‘
PORCA MISERIA!
’ he bellowed, then lurched up from the couch like a windblown scarecrow. He almost lost his footing on the short walk to the door. The knocker was keeping up a steady percussion now, the sound driving Dino to murderous intentions.

‘WILL YOU PLEASE FUCK OFF?’ he bellowed through the door. The rapping continued unabated. Dino struggled to fit the key in the lock, finally dropping to his knees so he might finally fill the offending keyhole. He opened the door still kneeling, peering through the gap. A familiar face waited in the corridor above him.

‘Are you deaf, old man?’

‘Profoundly. Now stand up, you little shit.’

To his great surprise Dino found himself doing just that. Virmyre entered, giving the Orfano a long and withering look. He turned his attention to the apartment and folded his arms, one hand straying to his chin.

‘Well, I’m glad the rumours of your decline are unfounded.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Dino, holding on to the couch for support.

‘Yes.’ Virmyre looked at the room with distaste. ‘Interesting interpretation of “fine”.’

‘Interesting how?’ Dino slumped against the arm of the couch and tried to swallow. He felt as if he were suddenly plunged back into his schooldays. Virmyre had ever been a stern teacher, his reprimands legendary.

‘Well, I hadn’t thought the word included such descriptors as unwashed or unshaven.’

‘So I took a few days off from—’

‘And the apartment?’ Virmyre took in the desolation. ‘Is deep and unrelenting squalor the new fashion?’

‘I didn’t feel like letting Fiorenza in.’ Dino’s voice withered with each exchange.

‘And the fact you smell like you took a shit in your britches.’

‘I do not smell like I took a shi—’

‘Shut up, Dino.’

‘I just …’ He gagged on the words, his chest filling with the all too familiar pain of his grief.

‘I know,’ said Virmyre, laying one hand on his shoulder. ‘I know. Go to your chamber.’

A bath had been prepared by a team of maids before Dino was fully aware. He’d sat on the bed while Virmyre urged him to drink coffee.

‘Is this to sober me up?’

‘No. All the coffee in Landfall couldn’t achieve that miracle. Besides, that’s a myth. Coffee keeps a drunk awake, which means they’re a good deal more manageable. I simply want you to stay awake long enough to perform your ablutions.’

The staff departed the wreckage of the bedroom, shooting wary looks at Virmyre. He nodded to them with his usual stern demeanour, then locked the door.

‘I’d throw those britches from the window if I were you. I couldn’t give them to the laundry staff in any good conscience.’

‘They’re not as bad as all that.’

‘How about we burn them and I’ll never mention it again?’

Dino peeled off the offending garment and slipped into the wooden tub, gasping as the heat of the water seared his skin. Virmyre seated himself on a stool, drawing a straight-edge razor from inside his jacket.

‘Well, get some soap on your face then. You really don’t suit a beard and I’m not here to help you kill yourself.’ Virmyre eyed the razor, the blade reflecting the sunlight. ‘However, I must congratulate you: you’re doing a remarkable job of that by yourself.’

‘I’m not killing myself.’ Dino frowned. ‘I’ve only been drinking. What time is it?’

‘Around seven,’ replied Virmyre, tilting Dino’s head back. ‘In fact seven seems to be a number you’re rather keen on.’ The blade was pressed to his face and began to scrape the whiskers from his cheek. ‘Seven days cooped up, wallowing in your own foulness. Seven breakfasts untouched. Seven dinners not eaten. Seven messengers turned away.’

Dino could feel waves of disappointment emanating from the older man.

‘I just want to be left alone,’ he protested between scrapes of the blade, now working at his throat. Virmyre held his head firm with his free hand. He was sitting so close that Dino could smell scented soap and laboratory chemicals.

‘You’ve also missed four funerals.’

Dino tensed against the man’s grasp but stayed still. The insistent scrape of steel on stubble, the only sound in the room, suddenly deafening. The suffocating grief in his chest became a dull spike.

‘Couldn’t you have killed off another three people? Just to round it out to that seven I’m so fond of?’

‘I considered it.’ Virmyre sighed. ‘But there are so many worthy targets I rather lost my focus.’

Dino said nothing, allowing the news of Massimo’s burial to filter through his mind. There was the usual sting of denial, a hot flash of anger to no avail. Only resignation remained. He’d never see the Contadino swordsman again, never spar with him, never drink with him, never hear his voice. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. Wanted to breathe and at the same time wouldn’t have cared if he’d never drawn another breath.

‘It does get better,’ said Virmyre in a quiet voice.

‘Really?’ Dino couldn’t keep the sneer from his lips. ‘When?’

‘When you start facing it and stop hiding behind the drink.’ Virmyre still had a hand on him, still patiently scraped the blade over his beard, now thinning with each stroke.

‘I don’t want to face it.’

‘And the alternative is what? Staying here? Drinking yourself to an early death? Refusing to eat, like some damn fool lovesick teenager?’

Dino broke free of the man and turned to face him, lip curled back. If Virmyre was surprised he refused to let it sully his features.

‘And what do you know about losing anyone? You’ve never loved; you’re as bad as Anea and her infernal machines.’ Dino stood up, displacing a good deal of bath water onto the floor. Staggering out of the tub, he snatched a towel to hide his nakedness, fully aware how ridiculous he must look. ‘Please, if you’re such an expert, tell me all there is to know.’ His teeth were bared now, fingers balled into fists of frustration, the yawning emptiness of his stomach knotted with anger. Virmyre’s gaze was steady, face impassive. He rinsed the blade, dried it on a small towel and folded the razor neatly.

‘My wife died in childbirth the night Lucien appeared on the steps of the castle. My son died too.’

It was as if a great hand had placed itself on Dino’s chest and pushed down. He slumped onto the bed.

‘I may be an educated man but I’m no
dottore
. And I’m no midwife.’ The words were evenly paced – no inflection, no emphasis, just the pleasant rumble of Virmyre’s baritone sharing his most intimate defeat.

‘Angelicola was supposed to deliver the baby, but he was busy. It was different back then. There were hardly any
dottori
, and most were reluctant to leave the houses they served. Not one came to us. I lost the most precious woman in the world and the boy too.’

Dino’s shoulders slumped, head bowed.

‘Where was Angelicola?’

‘Delivering Lucien.’

‘Oh.’ No word existed to respond to such a revelation. Dino wished he’d remained silent.

‘So you see –’ Virmyre’s voice was a calm hush ‘– I know quite a lot. About death. About blame. About guilt. Powerlessness. About missing someone so badly you’d rather forget their name. Easier to persuade yourself you never knew them that way, easier to pretend they had never existed.’

Dino pressed a fist to his mouth, forcing down the sobs of his own despair. ‘I’m so sorry. I never knew.’

‘Few do. It’s not one of my favourite topics of conversation. And it was a long time ago now. But I do know, Dino. And I also know each day is an improvement on the last. But only if you face it, accept it. Only if you take it into your heart and not let it poison you.’

‘They took him from me.’ Dino whispered the words so quietly he doubted Virmyre had heard.

‘I know. And Emilio too, and those brave swordsmen, and a dozen
cittadini
. We’ll get them, Dino. We’ll bury every last one of the them, but only when you pull yourself out of that bottle.’

Dino nodded, every muscle tense, holding in the desolation.

‘Now get back in the tub and let me finish what I’ve started. Massimo would be horrified if he could see that beard.’

The sitting room had been restored to its former glory by the time Dino had bathed. The glass on the floor was swept up, the bloodied rags of his grief spirited away; everything had been neatened and brushed, dusted and wiped clean. A barber was waiting, setting to work on Dino as Virmyre sat at the dining table reading a book. The
professore
idly worked his way through the remaining wine while Dino concentrated on not throwing up. The barber had mastered the age-old art of remaining silent, only his scissors disturbed the quiet.

‘Do you
have
to drink that?’

‘It would be a shame to waste it.’ Virmyre regarded the wine, breathed in the bouquet. Dino’s stomach turned. ‘And besides, if I drink it I know you can’t. So I’m doing you a service really.’

‘How selfless.’

It was then he noticed Virmyre had come without a walking stick. Age no longer slowed his steps; the grey in his hair and beard was much reduced; the lines of that craggy face were softened. It were as if time had withdrawn from the man, taking its erosion with it.

‘You look …’ Dino fumbled for the word ‘… well.’

‘It’s true, I am markedly more vital these days.’ Virmyre gave a small shrug and sipped his wine. ‘I’ve been sleeping better. Eating better too.’

‘What did I miss?’

‘During your hiatus?’ Virmyre eyed the barber, clearly weighing his words. ‘Nothing you couldn’t guess at, I’d wager. Demesne is in uproar, of course. Medea is accusing Salvaza of laying an ambush for her husband and consorting with the raiders. Salvaza is denying everything, but her position is precarious. The
capo
’s silence is scandalising everyone. Stephania frets and House Erudito makes polite but empty gestures.’

‘What does Anea make of all this? Has she convened the court?’

‘I’ve not seen Anea since the whole business began.’ The words were like flecks of ice, Virmyre’s eyes wintry.

‘What?’ Dino almost started from the chair. The barber paused his labours.

Virmyre cleared his throat. ‘She fell ill and retired to her apartment here in Demesne. I assumed you knew.’

Dino shook his head. ‘So the Domina is left in charge, trying to keep everyone from killing each other?’

‘Yes, although she’s as rare a sight as you are these days. She’s not returned any of my messages.’ Virmyre stroked his beard and the barber shifted position. The scissors resumed their work, and brown hair fluttered to the floor.

‘What of Medea?’

‘She’s taken Emilio’s death very badly. She adored him, of course. Maria has moved in with the children and is taking care of them full time.’

‘I told him not to go,’ mumbled Dino.

‘Some are saying Medea may not come back to herself.’ Virmyre seemed to utter this comment reluctantly, almost an aside. He looked through the window at the thin clouds stretching to nothing against the evening sky.

‘What does that mean? “Come back to herself”?’

‘They say her mind may have gone.’ Virmyre turned back to him, a frown above his pale blue eyes. ‘The staff are unwilling to leave her in her own company. She’s been worried about you, of course, on the occasions she’s lucid. Everyone has been worried about you. Well, everyone except me. I always knew you were a drunk.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I just didn’t realise you were too stupid to eat while getting drunk. Amateur.’ Virmyre shook his head.

‘Can we talk about Nardo? I feel we’ve already covered my failings.’

‘Good point.’

‘Is he well?’

‘He feels terrible about the death of Emilio, naturally, but also the two swordsmen and—’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ interrupted Dino. ‘Nardo would likely have been killed had he ventured into the woods. It’s a miracle that Massimo and I got away.’

The barber stopped cutting.

‘I mean …’ Dino swallowed. ‘I mean …’

‘Are you nearly finished?’ Virmyre looked at the barber, who spent a moment on some finishing touches and departed without fuss. The
professore
closed and locked the door after him. He circled the Orfano and settled into the armchair opposite.

‘I mean got away from the woods,’ continued Dino. ‘I didn’t realise how badly wounded he was.’ He wasn’t speaking to Virmyre now, just letting the words pour out. ‘I pulled him up onto my horse. My hand came back bloody, but I’d seen him wounded before. He always recovered. He couldn’t die. Not Massimo.’ Dino crossed his arms, clutching himself, almost forcing the words out of a chest now leaden. ‘And his arms grew weaker and weaker around my waist. We were riding so fast. I knew I had to reach Demesne, reach a
dottore.
He was barely holding me at all by the time we got back.’

Dino’s vision had pinked at the edges, his malformed tear ducts feeding blood across his grey eyes. The room was turgid with sadness and regret seen through a filter of red. Dino took a deep breath and pressed his eyelids shut.

‘So what do we do next?’ Perhaps duty would free him from the inertia of sadness. He hoped so; anything to stop feeling so desolate.

‘I’m going to pay a few calls on the houses,’ said Virmyre, ‘take the temperature of the various parties. See if I can’t prevent things from boiling over.’