Paul Doherty - A Brood of Vipers

The leading rat crawled across the floor, fat-bellied, sliding over the ooze, its snout twitching. It turned and watched me. Another joined it, sliding up beside it, then another. Four, five now dropped into the cell. They stopped, packed together like a group of imps from hell. I stayed still, not from any cunning but from sheer terror. One of the rats edged forward, then came at a scurry towards my leg. I screamed and lashed out. The rat withdrew.

'Signor!' A voice sang out from above. 'You like your new companions?' I yelled abuse back.

'There are more, Signor. Surely you would rather talk than dine with them? Or should I say for them?'

Lord, I could not believe it! Another grille, in the far corner of the cell, hidden by some wet straw, was lifted. More of the slimy bastards emerged. Now my dear little chaplain often gives a sermon about the enemy encamped around us. I know what he's bloody talking about! Most people believe rats are furtive rodents, squirming under a bale of straw, fleeing like shadows at any footfall. But you talk to any rat-catcher, a man who knows his business. He'll tell you about sewer rats. They are fierce and, when hungry, relentless hunters. There must have been at least a dozen in the cell. At first they snouted amongst the straw for bits of food. Then they massed like an enemy for attack. I closed my eyes. If I showed any sign of weakness they would close in. I edged across the cell, took the candle from its holder and began to rip the shirt from my back. I lit this and used it as a torch, flinging it at the rats. They retreated back to the grille, but then the fire died. The smoke made me cough and the rats re-emerged. The candle was beginning to die. I shook my chains, shouted and screamed, but the rats appeared to have become accustomed to this. One edged forward, then another. They began to fan out. I kept my eyes on their grey-muzzled leader. A lean, vicious bastard, he suddenly sprang across the floor and, abruptly changing direction, came at me from the side. The little bastard went straight for my neck, those yellow teeth scrabbling for the great vein which pulses there, as if I was some chicken in a farmyard. I put my hands up, more in fright than in bravery. I felt the slimy body squirm in my hands. God knows how I did it. Its claws were round my wrist and fingers. I brought my arm back against the wall of the cell, smashing like fury. I flung the rat at his watching companions. Oh God, the nightmare grew worse! The rats withdrew. I don't know whether I had killed or only stunned their leader. Its body lay on the floor until the pack closed in and tore it to pieces. I will not offend your sensibilities by describing the sound, the smell or the sight. I was contemplating prayer when the trapdoor was opened and a ladder pushed down. The rats scurried away as torches dropped in amongst them. Burly arms seized mine. I was hoisted up the ladder and collapsed in a heap at the foot of my master.

'What is this?' Benjamin shouted. 'Frater Seraphino, explain this!'

'Signor Daunbey, Signor Daunbey, my apologies. There was an affray and this prisoner was brought in. I did not realize he was your servant.' Lying bastard!

Guards pulled me to my feet. I was in a small cell. Black-garbed buggers stood around, holding torches. Frater Seraphino sat languidly in a chair. My master stood next to him. Little Maria, her hand through his, was dancing from foot to foot. She moaned when she saw me and, running up, jumped like a little child about me, clapping her hands. I'd had enough! I looked at one of the torches, it began to whirl! Maria was still calling my name as I collapsed in a dead faint.

When I came to, I was seated in a closet of a taverna. (Something very similar has now been introduced into England to provide privacy in the taprooms – private recesses cordoned off from the stare of the vulgar by wooden partitions.) I had been placed on a bench and covered with my master's cloak. Maria was standing beside me, pushing a small bowl of herbs doused in hot water beneath my nose. I struggled awake, sat up straight and stared across the table at my master. He pushed a large goblet towards me. 'Drink, Roger! Drink some of Caesar's wine!'

Drink! I gulped it in one mouthful, so fast that 1 began to feel dizzy again. I leaned my hands on the table. Well, you know me, I was out of that damned pit and away from those hideous rodents so I felt happy and very, very hungry. Benjamin stood up, leaned over the partition and shouted at the innkeeper. Within the hour I was sitting back, my belly full, gently burping, sipping at another goblet of wine. I had gorged myself on the juiciest pieces of steak, cooked in a strong pepper sauce with a bowl of vegetables, and the softest white bread I have ever tasted. I looked down at the marks on my hand. My arm and the back of my head still ached and the nightmares returned. 'What took you so long?' I wailed.

Benjamin shrugged. 'The tavern-keeper pulled us down a secret passageway which led out into a street. But the time we returned, all I could see was the blood on the floor and some Florentines jabbering about how the Eight had taken you away. I went to the Stinche. They, of course, denied any knowledge of you. I returned to the Medici Palace. I had to threaten, shout and plead until the good cardinal agreed to intervene. I returned to the Stinche with his personal warrant. Only then did Frater Seraphino order a thorough search of the records, admit there had been a mistake, profusely apologize and take me down to where you were.'

I told him in short, pithy sentences what had happened. Benjamin whistled under his breath and shook his head.

'When we return to England I shall inform dear uncle and-'

'He'll laugh his bloody head off!' I roared. 'How long will it take for a letter to come to Florence? And, if that cruel bastard, the Master of the Eight, decides to reply, he'll apologize as prettily as a maid, as well as point out the dangers that might befall anyone who breaks the peace in Florence. Master, I am not as stupid as I look!' Benjamin tapped my hand. 'No one says you are, Roger.'

I slurped from the wine cup and looked at Maria. She gazed owlishly back. 'You are so brave, Shallot,' she murmured.

'Brave!' I bellowed. 'Brave! I've been shot at, nearly died of sea-sickness and escaped from a burning chamber. I have twice been inveigled into a duel. I have been burnt on the back of my neck, thrown into a filthy pit and tormented by a horde of filthy rats! And I am not only talking about the creatures I met in the dungeon!' Maria smiled and stroked my hand.

'You are not a rogue, Shallot. You are just a man who has lost his soul.'

(I looked at her curiously. What did she mean? Years later a young priest I was hiding said the same, or something similar. Not that I had lost my soul but that I had misplaced it. God knows what that means!)

Anyway, in that sweet-smelling tavern which, after the horrors of the Stinche, seemed like paradise on earth, I just stared at the dwarf woman, belched softly and turned back to Benjamin. 'Master, what is happening? When can we go home?' Benjamin looked away.

'You know we've been told lies!' I snarled. 'Everything's a lie, Master. Nothing is what it appears to be. Why didn't the good cardinal question us more closely about the deaths amongst the Albrizzis?' Benjamin glanced at Maria.

'Oh, I trust her,' I said, smiling. 'She's too weak to have fired that arquebus, if that's what was used.' 'What do you mean?' Benjamin asked.

'Master,' I cried in exasperation. 'What are we doing here in Florence trying to persuade an artist who has long disappeared to come to England? That wasn't Borelli we met.' I explained the conclusions I had reached in the prison. Benjamin cupped his face in his hands.

'Let's go back to the beginning,' he said. 'We have a physician who commits suicide because he has been invited to court. The letter's not threatening, yet poor old Throckle fills a hot bath and opens his veins. We have a Florentine lord shot through the head in Cheapside, a steward who disappears on board ship and a priest-magician killed whilst we all look on.' He glanced across at Maria. 'We bring messages to a powerful cardinal, pure gibberish to us but meaning something to him. He gives us an equally nonsensical reply. We have the Master of the Eight, who senses that some juicy morsel of information lies behind these mysteries so he tries to torture it out of Roger. However, you can't tell him, for the simple reason you don't know yourself.' He paused. 'What else, Roger?' 'The artist?'