Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

Slowly as pitch trickling down the planking of a ship, comprehension dawned and I realised what I had to do. I must hide the pope's decree at once. The yellow-haired woman was no scullery maid, and what she had been scrubbing from the emperors floor had been blood. I had not liked the voice of the man in the shadows. I had not liked that he did not show his face, and the way his flat Venetian voice had drilled into me, full of command and condescension. If they were following me it was not for myself, for I was nothing. It was for what I carried.

I had a fairly good idea where I was, so I made my way, through back alleys and the narrowest passages, west to the piazza in Agona. The long, broad field of the piazza I skirted to the north, through alleys overhung with towers snarling across the air at one another. I thought to slip across the bridge to my lodgings in the Borgo, but that would be too obvious, for that man in the White Hound was used to command – he would have more than a wench at his call, that was certain – and no doubt he was watching the bridges.

Who could I go to for help? I was starting to feel exhausted, for I had been on my feet in the heat all day and had eaten and drunk but little. A cup of cool wine would surely clear my head. I thought of a comfortable cellar and a friendly barrel of white wine from the Alban hills, and then it struck me: Marcho Antonio Marso, the Captain's old companion-in-arms.

I found the covered passage with a little difficulty, for I was coming at it from the wrong direction, but at last I was in the piss-soaked gloom and walking past the crooked windows and the midden heap to the door of Marcho's inn. To my dismay I was not the only customer at that early hour, for a couple of carters, already drunk, were mock-arguing in the corner and a whore was flirting mechanically with the potboy in hopes, no doubt, of a scrap of free food. I beckoned him over, slipped him a silver coin and asked for wine and meat. When the wine came I enquired, casually as I could, if the master was about. I got a look, sharp and curious, but before I had taken my second mouthful, the ominous form of the innkeeper appeared at my side.

‘I am busy’ he said, shortly. He was radiating annoyance like a brazier.

'Good Marcho Antonio, I am a companion of Captain de Montalhac. Do you not recognise me? I have enjoyed your hospitality often’

'So what?' growled the man, although his countenance seemed to soften imperceptibly.

I was wasting time, and I wished to get things over with one way or another, so I stood up and placed my arm around his shoulder. Ignoring his palpable irritation, I leaned close in and muttered in his scarred ear:

'Marcho Antonio Marso, are you a Good Christian? I mean, are you a credente?

He stiffened as if I had driven a knife between his ribs. I pressed home.

'I am guessing, Signor Marcho. But you have my master's trust, and I am giving you mine. Listen to me: I am about-Captain de Montalhac's business, and the enterprise is in danger. I need your help’

Marcho let out a ragged breath. He glared at me, but he had gone rather white, and there was a bead of sweat working its way out of one eyebrow. Then he gave a twitch of his head, half nod, half spasm.

'In the back’ he hissed. Then, raising his chin, he bellowed over to the pot-boy: 'Eh, Lodovico! I’ll be in the back. Do not bother us, understand?'

I followed him through the door in the back of the room, which opened on to a short flight of stairs. We descended into a low-beamed cellar, earthen-floored, with walls of narrow bricks and hunks of marble. There were barrels everywhere, hams and sausages hung from the beams, and a soft light shone over all from a brace of fat candles that were melting slowly over a battered table at the far end. Marcho halted in the middle of the floor and faced me, arms crossed stolidly across his chest.

What do you mean by all this, boy?' he asked. His voice was cold, and suddenly I wondered if I had made an awful mistake. Nevertheless I bit my lip and pressed on, heart fluttering.

'I have sailed with Michel de Montalhac for two years’ I said determinedly, although I was all too aware of how hollow my voice sounded in this cave of a place. 'He saved my life. That is what he does, is it not? Save people, the unwanted, the persecuted? I am not a Good Christian. I… am nothing, an outcast from my own church, an exile from my home. I meant no offence, and I did not mean to alarm you, for I know

'Ah, boy, enough’ All of a sudden, Marcho looked bone-tired. He pointed to a barrel. 'Sit yourself down. You look ready to fall’ There was kindness in his voice now, at least a tinge. Yes, I am what the people of Toulouse call a Good Christian. My brothers and sisters call ourselves Patarani. There: you have the power to burn me now, as my brothers were burned six years ago in front of Santa Maria Maggiore. You see, they still make human sacrifice in Rome’ 'I am sorry for it’ I said, sinking down on the barrel.

'Do not be: they made a good end, despite the baying of the mob’ He shrugged, that fatalistic shrug that I had seen Gilles and the Captain give a thousand times. 'Now, what is your trouble?' 'Captain de Montalhac has been in negotiation for a.. ‘ 'No! I do not need to know the details. It is business, yes?' I nodded. 'Then tell me the trouble that afflicts you now’ 'I am being followed. I have something that the men.. ‘ I closed my eyes for a moment, and saw yellow hair and sharp eyes. 'They are Venetians, I believe. I am carrying something they want. They will probably kill for it. It would be better if they killed me and lost this, than the alternative. As far as business goes, that is’ I added. He did not laugh, and I could not. ‘In the valise?' I nodded again. 'Give it to me.'

I made to open the satchel, but Marcho shook his head. 'Do not. Again, I do not need to know. I will not open it. What will you do?'

'I need to give this to the man it is intended for, but failing that, to the Captain himself’ I said. ‘I will ride north to Venice, for that is where the Cormaran is headed. But Rome is deadly to me now.' 'And you cannot leave today?'

I explained, as briefly as I could, that my lodgings lay in the Borgo, together with my horse and the money that Gilles had entrusted to me. They would be sure to have the Pons San Petri watched, and perhaps my rooms as well, though I doubted they knew where those lay. I would have to grab my belongings and my horse, and make a dash for it.

Marcho grunted when he had heard it all. 'You will have to cross to the south’ he said. 'Take the Jews' Bridge or Saint Mary's. Then work your way through the gardens under the Janiculum and round the back of Saint Peter's. They'll be watching the city side, not the country.' 'But I'll have to come back for…' I nodded at the valise.

'No. I doubt you will be safe coming back over here, even on a horse.' He squinted at me, as if worrying a broken tooth. 'I will bring it to you’ he said finally. 'Ride north along the river. I will meet you at a place called Saxa Rubra, just beyond the Milvian Bridge.' He must have seen my look of shock, for he smiled for the first time. ‘I owe Michel a turn or two. Do not concern yourself about me: I will amble up the Via Lata with the rest of the bumpkins, as I do whenever I go to look over my vineyards. I’ve got a nice little farm picked out for myself when I leave this game, away over in Tolfa. No one will blink if they see me leaving town’

This was beyond hope, and I was so moved that I doubt I could have found enough words to thank him with had he not bustled me out of the cellar and walked with me to the door of the inn. You are armed: know how to use it?' 'A bit’ I said.

'My advice? Do not. If they catch you, they'll be wanting this.' He tapped the bag. 'They will not harm you unless you give them reason. I know… and you must know, boy, that there are men who are glad enough for a reason to spill blood. Right then. Tomorrow, the Saxa Rubra, around eight bells.' What manner of place is that, Marcho?' I asked.