On the sixth day, we got the legate through the streets by misdirection, using Sister Marie’s apprentice as our bait. The French monk was hit with a rock and brought back unconscious. I’d been with him, as part of the misdirection, and my beautiful surcoat was smeared in excrement.
By mid-afternoon, they were all around our inn, and threatening to burn it. The arsonists were the podestà’s men, of course – responsible for keeping order.
We were all in full harness. Juan was with the legate, as was his new squire, a Catalan boy of good family, who had relatives in Athens. Nerio had found him for Juan, but that’s another story.
Sabraham was out with his killers, and I had Nerio and Fiore and Marc-Antonio and Alessandro and a dozen unarmed clerics to protect.
We’d shuttered the windows. The yard was defensible, but we needed a garrison twice the numbers we had.
‘What can we do?’ Marc-Antonio asked. He was in his breast and back, formerly my armour, now his. He’d lost so much weight that he could fit my old harness. I was in my new stuff.
Nerio was, for once, at a loss and we could hear them clamouring outside.
‘They burn the inn, and then what?’ Fiore said.
‘Then there’s no one to defend the legate. They invite him to stay at the palace. He sickens and dies.’ I shrugged. That was Sabraham’s scenario.
Nerio’s eyes met mine.
‘Anyone you can buy?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘I wish. This is Genoa. They hate Florence.’
‘And they hate the Church,’ I added. ‘At least, the Guelfs do, and they seem to be in power right now.’
A window broke.
I had a moment of clarity. I asked myself how John Hawkwood would deal with the situation, and the whole thing revealed itself to me. It unrolled like a carpet.
It may have been the first pickaxe of the first pioneer undermining my devotion to the order, but at the time—
‘I have it. Are you with me, gentlemen? It won’t be nice.’ I looked around. ‘It is a routier’s solution.’
Fiore grinned.
Ser Nerio laughed aloud. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ve about had it with doing the right thing.’
I went out the main gate of the inn with one of the matron’s caps tied to a roasting spit. Fiore was at my shoulder, looking humble, and Sister Marie followed us, demure and harmless.
We were mocked, and yet, in the process of telling us that we were sons of whores and mere children and various forms of sexual deviants, our tormentors emerged from their cover. I knew the man across the street immediately, and so did Fiore – the whoreson Fiore had dropped in the muck.
I leaned out. ‘Send someone to talk!’ I roared.
Whoreson laughed. ‘Come out and surrender.’
I shook my head. ‘I have priests and nuns here. Tell us what you want.’
Whoreson swaggered towards me, master of the situation, and slapped his gauntleted hand against his cuisse. ‘What I want is that catamite right there!’ He stepped to the right to get a better view of Fiore, ignoring Sister Marie.
She tripped him, Fiore slammed a fist into his head, and we had him. But I wanted more, and I took a long stride into the confused rabble, kicked a man in the knee, got a hand under his aventail and dragged him back.
Fiore put Whoreson on the ground with a knife-tip at his temple.