Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

Of those living in the town the barber alone spoke their language worth a damn, and he traded them a modest heap of ancient, disfigured coins for their smallest grave-found ring. Even after they gave a few coins back to that same barber in exchange for being treated their purse still had a little jingle to it, so they purchased clean clothes, had their weapons banged straight by the smith, left their horses with the farrier, secured lodging, and, when the priest disappeared for a time, secured a small pouch of unseasonably early belladonna berries to crush and smear on blades or drop in food, depending on what the situation dictated. Manfried used reason and vague threats but could not coax the woman to leave the wagon, but otherwise they each achieved everything they intended that night and felt rejuvenated the next morning.

Men gathered around the Grossbarts at breakfast to hear where they had been and what they had seen, but even the priest was reluctant to discuss their adventures. They were indeed on the correct road to Venezia, and against the farrier’s insistence to let the horses rest another day they set out before noon. The good food cheered them immensely, and the wheel of cheese Hegel had demanded of the innkeeper would go nicely with the cured pork Manfried had secured from a farmer.

Martyn’s crossbow wound had not festered but the barber bound it in a sling, giving him an excuse to indulge in more of the Brothers’ beer. They passed several farms before the road arced down into the plains, their wagon bouncing now from the speed instead of the rough trail. After splashing through several creeks they came upon a small wooden bridge spanning a river, and slowed to maneuver across the dodgy structure.

Across the river Clement and Innocent squatted in the tall grass on one side of the road with Urban on the other, arrows notched in their bows. Having drawn the short straw, Benedict hid under the bridge on the opposite bank. He had argued for hacking through the supports but the rest advised that such an action would result in their spoils following the horses and bridge into the drink. Word had come from the farrier’s apprentice Vittorio just in time, for as they decided on their plan and settled into hiding the wagon appeared up the road.

The horses slowed to a stop a short distance from the bridge, and the three men on the bench appeared to be holding council. Clement murmured that they were close enough to fire but Innocent urged him to be patient. After a pause two of the men squirmed around and entered the wagon’s interior. Crawling forward, Urban saw one of them reappear and hoist a barrel onto the seat beside the remaining man. This fellow again vanished behind the tarp covering the mouth of the wagon, but when the vehicle began moving forward Urban signaled his anxious comrades across the road that everything still looked favorable.

Following Hegel’s assertion that something stank ahead and the Grossbarts’ subsequent abandoning of the reins to Martyn, the priest broke into a fierce sweat. The Brothers generously set the beer barrel beside him to allay his worry but it hardly helped. The shallow yet quick river shimmered under the sun but Martyn felt only the wind stirring the grass and his habit, and he nervously tried to spy movement in the grass ahead. Without any options, he prayed and let the horses take charge, lazily clipping forward.

Hearing hoofbeats, Benedict moved to the side of the bridge, ready to burst out from underneath and scramble up behind the wagon. The horses reached the river but a sharp twang came from up the bank and something splashed in the water behind him. Spinning around, he scanned the riverside but saw only the leaning reeds and the clouds overhead. The wagon tramped above him, rocking the entire bridge as it slowly crossed the river. Rushing out from under the side, he failed to notice the crossbow bolt that had narrowly missed his neck bobbing rapidly away down the current.

When the horses were almost across the small bridge Innocent shouted, “Stop where you are!”

“I’m a priest!” Martyn shrieked with decidedly more fear in his voice than he intended.

“That means you’ll do as we say, yes?” said Innocent, and the three brigands left their hiding places in the grass.

Their appearance-and their physical appearance in particular-impeded Martyn’s heart of its usual pace. While wild-stained, their white robes were unmistakably modeled after those of the Pontiff, and above their plain cloth masks perched hats that amounted to blasphemy. Indignation stirred within the weary priest, and he shakily stood on the bench.

“Sacrilege!” Martyn trembled with fury. “You dare?”

“Easy on, old man,” Clement called, aiming his bow at Martyn while Urban and Innocent flanked the wagon.

“Mockery of he who rules on earth?!” Phlegm rained down on the bored horses.

“Can’t very well all have the same name!” said Urban. “So let’s say those who have ruled, what?”

“We’re the Road Popes,” Innocent said from the other side of the wagon, “and as a priest, you’d best defer to our wisdom.”

“Or face excommunication!” Clement hooted, his arms shaking from the strain of holding his bow notched.

“Death,” raged Martyn, “death has come for you, blasphemers!”

“We’ll just have the coin you’re carrying and not worry about any of that, if you aren’t opposed,” Innocent responded.

“The other two are inside,” Urban called over the wagon to his allies, and then to the wagon itself, “Come on out now, hop quick or we’ll set you on fire!”

Innocent stayed with Clement near the front while Urban moved to the rear, training his bow on the tarp-covered entrance and waiting for Benedict, who had just gained the bridge. The last pope ran toward them, but something about his hunched-over gait prompted Urban to glance back. He did so just in time to see Benedict stop, his robe falling open and a crossbow stabbing out. Only then did Urban notice the copper beard jutting from under the mask.

Disguised in the costume of the man he had just murdered, Hegel shot the pope staring at him directly in the gut. Urban slipped backward and toppled off the bridge, dropping his weapon and howling as he fell the short distance to the river. Innocent turned to fire at Hegel but the bolt Manfried issued from the shallows beneath the bridge struck the bandit under his armpit, tearing through muscle and spearing his heart. Innocent’s arrow took wing as his corpse fell, Providence guiding it to strike the half-empty barrel beside Martyn on the bench. The already teetering stash of booze toppled onto the bridge and rolled toward the edge.

With Clement left alone on the road, the Grossbarts’ plan became complicated when their passenger’s song emerged from the wagon. Martyn screamed at Clement, who responded to the chaos by shooting the priest. Hegel charged around the side of the wagon, clumsily withdrawing his pick from the baggy robes. Manfried saw the beer barrel splash into the water beside him and dove after even though he could not swim.

Slumped on the wooden seat, Martyn moaned and bled, the arrow riveting his previously good arm to the back of the bench. Through watery, squinted eyes he saw Pope Stephen the Sixth-or was it the Seventh?-drop his bow and draw a sword, then Formosus leaped from under the horses and they did battle. Stephen went defensive but Formosus’s charge was too quick, and the papal imposter fell to the road under the force of the attack.

His sword arm under Hegel’s boot, Clement screamed for mercy. Hegel gave it to him in the form of his pick, skewering the bandit’s elbow thrice in quick succession. The third time Hegel left the pick embedded in the mangled arm and snatched Clement’s wrist, tugging until the pope’s forearm came free and blood misted their faces. Clement went mad with pain and Hegel simply went mad.