1635 The Cannon Law: Chapter Twenty Two

Rome

    Frank stood behind the bar and moodily wiped at a glass. That morning’s meeting with Sharon at the USE Embassy had been an eye-opener. It hadn’t been helped by the fact that he’d been tired and sweaty and aching from another punishing session of sword practice with Senor Sanchez.

    The goddamn nerve of the bastards! They needed him, and claimed they would keep their inquisitors off their backs. They hadn’t been able to do that for poor Galileo, and he had been one of the Pope’s oldest friends. What chance did a bunch of scruffy revolutionaries stand? He wasn’t even that safe by being inconspicuous, and had to dance pretty damn fast to make sure the Inquisition didn’t blame him for the crap that was going around with his name on it. Come right to it, they were all but admitting that even that pathetic little protection was about to dry up like spit on a hot stove.

    And it was that last part that had Frank worried. It looked like it was going to be a long, hot summer, and he’d heard that there were always at least some riots when food prices went up. Apparently it was like summer storms, everyone expected it and provided it didn’t go too far, there wasn’t much official reaction. Except this year, Frank had heard of at least two groups getting attacked by militia horsemen, and some of them had been killed. That was pissing people off. And there was also the rumor that whoever it was that was claiming to be the Committee was being run by some Spaniard, and that was pissing people off even more. So, if there were riots, they were likely to be bad ones. And since riots tended not to happen in the nice parts of town, Frank’s Place was at risk.

    Senor Sanchez had been round and gone over how to defend the place, but he’d been more focused on the best ways out. He’d not been too reassuring about that, either. Frank’s place was backed in to blind walls on three sides. Pretty much the only ways out were into the street out front. Frank had been over the cellar as carefully as he could, and he thought that one bricked-up arch might lead somewhere. But he’d been afraid to knock it through in case it turned out that the folks next door had something in there that they’d be ticked about him getting in to. Like he’d be, if someone tunneled into the cellar he kept his stock in. Although, if there was any real trouble, he had a pick and a prybar down there and he reckoned he could be through any of those walls inside an hour or so.

    Still, despite it being a hot, sticky night that might have seen everyone get irritable—more so since they’d stopped leaving the shutters open at night, to avoid repair bills if nothing else—the crowd in Frank’s place seemed to be pretty good-natured. The football league had had its first five-a-side tournament, and the winners were drunk and singing while the losers were drunk and, well, singing too. Frank felt a bit peeved that he wasn’t really able to get in to the mood with everyone, although there was a rowdy edge that seemed to have everyone a little on edge, under the cheerful barracking and singing.

    “Why so melancholy, husband?” Giovanna said, coming stand behind him and wrapping her arms around him.

    “Mmmm,” he replied, as she began to nuzzle his neck. “Melancholy, me?”

    “Melancholy, you,” she said. “You’ve done nothing but mope since you got back this afternoon.” She began rubbing his stomach in tight little circles. Fortunately, Dino was tending the bar, because Frank was beginning to think that stepping back from the counter to get anyone anything might suddenly not be so good an idea. And—he looked—a few of them could clearly see what was going on, and were smirking.

    What the hell. He turned around and hugged her back. “Sorry,” he said, “it’s just all that crap about the inquisition. And maybe it’s going to come to us having to bug out. I mean leave, that is. Because it might come to the inquisition having a free hand to act against us because Borja’s taken him out.”

    “Borja’s trying to assassinate the pope?” Giovanna said, her eyes going big and round. “The Dottoressa didn’t say that!”

    “Not assassinate, maybe,” Frank said, “but make him unable to act to protect us. Do something political, maybe, make him a lame duck or something.”

    “You said the pope is going to be assassinated?” The voice came from behind him. One of the regular barflies, a guy name of Giacometti, and Frank found it kind of surprising that he’d heard over the hubbub of a pretty raucous night in the club, or was sober enough to follow the conversation. Still less that he’d been able to say something relevant.

    “No, Giacometti, I didn’t say that. But all the crap you’ve been hearing about the Committee is part of a plot to make the pope look bad. It’s Cardinal Borja, he’s pissed at the pope.”

    “Not going to assassinate him?”

    “No, Giacometti. Nobody thinks he’ll do that. Well, he probably won’t. He might, I guess.” Frank realized that he probably ought to start a rumor that the fake committee was part of a plot to assassinate the pope. That would piss people off with the rent-a-mob organizers, maybe make things more difficult for them. It was just that Frank was, deep down, too frigging honest. He heaved a deep sigh. “Mostly folks think he hasn’t got the balls, you see.”

    “Cardinal Borja’s got no balls?” Clearly that was getting through, although Frank wasn’t sure what starting a rumor about Cardinal Borja’s testicles was going to do to help.

    “That’s right, Giacometti,” Giovanna added. “No balls at all. It’s why he’s got guys pretending to be Committee when they’re not.”

    “So you don’t really think the Pope must die, then?” Giacometti frowned. “Everyone said that didn’t sound like you.”

    Frank frowned back. “What didn’t sound like me?”

    “Was in a paper, going around. Heard it today while I was toting some stuff over by Sant’Angelo. Committee paper, they said, but it sounded like it was a phony one. Everyone knows you folks got married in the Sistine chapel, like not even nobles get to do. You wouldn’t want to kill the Pope, not when he’s your buddy.”

    “Not buddy, exactly,” Frank said, “But we’ve met. And no, I don’t want the Pope dead. Freedom of religion and all that, y’know?”

    “Right, let everyone be Catholic how they really want to be, not like these princes in Germany and England who make people be Protestant and spit on the body of Christ at mass.”

    “I don’t think they do that, Giacometti,” Frank said, not sure how to follow this turn in the conversation. For all he knew, spitting was part of it. He’d been raised—technically—in a religion that had smoking as a sacrament, so who knew? It still sounded unlikely.

 

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    “No, it’s true.” Giacometti leaned over the bar, swaying slightly, and attempted to bellow over the noise and music in a confidential manner. “They say they’re Christians, but it’s all devil-worship in disguise.” Giacometti seemed pretty sure of his facts on this point, although Frank wasn’t sure what he’d do if he was ever confronted with an actual Protestant. Stay out of spitting range, that seemed certain.

    “I wouldn’t know,” Frank shrugged. I’ve never been in a Protestant church. He tactfully omitted the information that his youngest brother had taken a notion to become a Protestant minister of the Lutheran variety. What Giacometti didn’t know wasn’t likely to hurt him. But, you know, pass the word. It’s not us saying the Pope should be killed, it’s these other guys. The Spanish.”

    “Eh? I thought you said they didn’t want to kill the pope.”

    “No,” Frank said, as Giovanna went off to serve another customer, “They’re just saying that, I don’t think they mean it.”

    Giacometti sneered. “Frank, you’re too good a guy to see it. Not everyone’s a nice fellow like you. Spaniards, hah! You watch, they wouldn’t say a thing like that unless they meant it. No balls, Frank. They got no balls.” He made a gesture of grabbing and squeezing a pair. “They ain’t gonna just mess around when they can stab the Holy Father in the back, now.” Giacometti sat back on his barstool with the air of a man who’d completed a logical proof.

    “I, uh, guess that stands to reason,” Frank said, although he wasn’t sure exactly what Giacometti was saying. He’d only had one drink himself tonight, so he wasn’t able to follow the beer logic.

    “’s right, Frank it does,” Giacometti said, waving his glass for another drink.

    He was just pouring Giacometti’s drink and wondering where the man put it all—a bar could stay open just with him as a customer, and he’d never been in a condition where he’d plainly had enough—when there was an almighty crash from somewhere out in the main room. Frank winced.

    The room went quiet, as usually happened, but the ironic cheers Frank was expecting as the usual response to someone going ass-over-teakettle didn’t happen. Instead, there was a hiss of indrawn breath.

    Oh, hell. He’d heard that before. It was the noise people made when a fight was kicking off, but it wasn’t the sound you got when it was a kind-of-fun brawl. This was the sort where people got badly hurt. Frank put a foot on the shelf under the bar and boosted himself up to take a better look.

    It was pretty clear what the problem was. The two characters involved hadn’t even bothered with the glare-and-insult stage, just gotten straight at it. One of them with a knife. “Oh, shit,” Frank murmured. They had seconds before it spread, crowded as they were, and—he looked—Dino wasn’t going to make it from his bouncer’s station over by the door. The place was way too crowded.

    Frank watched with a feeling of helplessness as the two combatants grappled and staggered out of the ring they were in. There was shoving and jostling and two more guys, their blood up from watching the first brawl, started yelling and shoving at each other. Someone shoved one of those guys from behind, and he turned and threw a punch, and—

    It was like watching a slow reaction spread through a reaction vessel. Roiling a little at the interface where the reagent was titrated in, but it quickly diffused. Frank heard glass break, and then the first scream of pain, shrill over the roaring. “Get down!” he shouted at Giovanna. For a wonder, she did. Probably seen more bar fights than I have, he thought, and then there was a bright flash in his eyes and a shock ran through him and everything seemed to be red a moment and then black and then he was looking at the ceiling and couldn’t get his breath.

    And then he whooped air in to his lungs and started hauling himself to his feet, taking a couple of tries at it because he suddenly had to think about moving his arms and legs instead of just doing it. He could sort of remember a bottle flying at his head. He must’ve fallen off the bar. Fallen right on his ass—nothing seemed to be broken, although his back, somewhere around his right shoulder blade, felt like one massive bruise. And the whole bar, it looked like, was throwing punches and swinging furniture. His vision blurred, steadied. Someone was pulling at him to get down, but he had to see, damn it.

    “Fuck!” he shouted, if only to hear himself over the din. Everyone was shouting something, the sound of splintering furniture was punctuating it and glass was shattering everywhere. The doors had to be open, both to the street and to the yard, the place was emptying fast leaving only the hard-core behind to duel on. The place was emptying in front of Frank’s eyes as people streamed out away from the mayhem.

    Which was all they needed. A crowd of angry, frightened, half-drunk people in the street outside his place. Nothing he could do about—oh, double shit. There were bodies on the floor. Two—no, three. Frank hoped like hell they were just unconscious, the last thing he needed was some magistrate poking around the place. And—oh, fuck!—one of ‘em was Benito. Dino had spotted him too and was cautiously making his way across to try and render some help.

    Frank saw that his way across was clear, too, and began to make his way, grabbing one of the cudgels from behind the bar. It wasn’t going to do much good—everyone left had either a knife or a broken bottle or a barstool. He felt a grab at his jacket—he turned, and Giovanna was there, her eyes angry, “Don’t,” she yelled, “let them finish.”

    “Benito’s down,” he yelled back, and she let him go. Please, he thought, don’t let her try and follow me. None of the dozen or so pairs now left grappling and thumping and trying to stab each other looked like they were in any condition to be chivalrous. Although even they seemed to be quieting down as their wind gave out. Twice in quick succession someone got hit hard enough to go down, was administered a quick couple of kicks for good measure and his opponent cleared out.

    Dino was already with Benito when Frank got over there. The poor kid was conscious, but groggy, with a nasty red mark, probably going to be a bruise, around his left eye and what looked like it was going to be a broken nose. “Got hit,” he said, now just about audible over the last of the racket, revealing that he was cut inside the mouth as well. Sure enough, his lip was swelling.

    “Doesn’t look serious,” Frank said, and indeed it didn’t. Maybe a punch to the face. In a way, Benito was lucky. He wasn’t a big guy, and getting knocked down quickly had probably saved him from worse.

    “Momento,” Dino murmured and stood up. Frank carried on checking Benito over, and winced slightly when he heard a solid, wooden thump and Dino growl “Enough. Now go.”

    Whoever it was didn’t think it worth starting in on the guy who’d waded in on his side—Frank hoped like hell Dino was at least trying to bean the right guy in each fight, because there was another—and another again, someone had had a hard head—and Frank didn’t like to think how it would be if they were just storing up trouble by cold-cocking people who might have helped if they hadn’t been half-brained by Dino.

    And then there were none.

    “Last of ‘em, Frank,” Dino said, heading toward the door to see the last guy went out. He’d added two more forms to the ones on the floor, one out cold and the other one on his hands and knees and vomiting impressively. Head injury, Frank worried silently to himself and then, slightly sickened by his own callousness, as long as he dies off the premises, we’re golden. Although it was more than likely just a great deal of drink catching up with the guy. Fabrizzio had finally gotten downstairs—he must’ve heard the ruckus—and was starting to check the bodies for life-signs.

    “Good work, guys,” Frank said, helping Benito to a chair. His eyes looked okay, as near as Frank could tell in the lamplight—oh,damn, the lamps—he checked around hurriedly but there didn’t seem to be any broken lamps that were about to burn the place down. He’d noticed that the previous owner had hung the lamps and candles up near the ceiling, and now he saw why. When the customers wrecked the place, they were less likely to accidentally torch it as well. “Dino, get the door,” he said, and then looked and saw Dino was ahead of him.

    “Frank, you should see this,” Dino said, standing with the door open only a crack and looking out in to the street.

    Frank went over. A whole bunch of rowdy drunks had spilled in to the street after a really savage brawl and hit the cool night air full of wine and hormones. There weren’t many nice possibilities that suggested themselves to him.

    He looked out through the gap. “Oh, fuck,” he said when he saw what was coming up the street.

 

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    “What I thought,” said Dino, from over Frank’s shoulder. “Anything happens, we lock the door real quick, you hear me Frank?”

    “Right,” Frank said. Dino’d know, he reckoned. Guy had grown up in a rough neighborhood and must’ve seen this sort of thing before. A whole crowd of rowdies in the street and then a militia patrol—on foot, or this would’ve been really bad—just happened along. Frank couldn’t see much—the moonlight was good right outside the club, but further down the street was shadowed by taller buildings and the fact that the street crooked slightly there—but it seemed that they were forming up with halberds to clear the revelers away.

    Since when did we get militia patrols around here? Frank had seen the like down toward the Vatican, quite close by, and a fair few across the river in the nicer parts of town. Here, on the edge of the Borgo? Let the scum slaughter each other, seemed to be the official attitude. Patrols around this neighborhood, maybe. Inside, there wasn’t jack to protect or to serve, so keep ‘em in to make sure they didn’t come out to trouble the nice folks.

    Frank snorted, softly. Set up! Danger, Will Robinson!.

    “Who called the militia, Frank? Any idea?” Dino asked. Sounded like he’d been thinking the same thing Frank had.

    “Same guy egged on those guys to start the fighting,” Frank said. “This could get ugly.” Not that it was exactly pretty work right now. It’d only been a few minutes since the fight started, so most everyone was still milling about in the street outside wondering whether to go back in, call it a night, or go somewhere else. A few people were squaring up to each other, but the space and lower temperature out here meant they were less forceful about it than they’d been. And at the edge of the crowd there were guys shouting things at the militiamen. Mostly, as near as Frank could tell, about their mothers.

    He got an impulse, and opened the door wide. “Folks,” he said, speaking calmly and evenly as he stepped out. Behind him he could hear Dino mutter something about damn-fool crazy Americans, but there was a note of admiration in his voice.

    “Folks,” Frank repeated, and got some attention. “Let’s get inside, hey, before the militia come? They’re getting ready to oppress us all, let’s go inside were we’re free, eh? Come in, Frank’s place welcomes no militia, pass the word, come on inside, fighting’s over.” And on and on, in a voice that he couldn’t stop from becoming sing-song. A few people went inside, and then others. He wasn’t trying too hard to get everyone in. He didn’t want to get too far from the door himself, and he could see the militia dressing out into an orderly line. Those halberds looked sharp, and Frank really didn’t want to be out in the street when they charged.

    Others noticed that people were going back in, and followed along. The militia were advancing, now, at a steady walk, halberds leveled. The wicked-looking spikes and axe-blades glinted as they passed the beams of light that stole through closed shutters. Some idiots were still shouting insults, probably figuring they could outrun a bunch of militia goons in breastplates.

    They were probably right, too, but only if Frank could get the street cleared behind them. More came inside, and a few drifted off in to the night, or at least into alleys and sidestreets away from the main street.

    Good he thought, since we ain’t got too many stools left. Where’d they all sit? He grinned a little. If he judged that heavy-footed march right, he’d have most everyone out of the way before they charged. He figured that was what the militia wanted, too. They probably didn’t like the idea of chopping people down in the street much either.

    And then someone threw a stone. One of the loose cobbles from Rome’s badly-maintained streets, it looked like. Frank never saw who did it, but then another cobble flew, and that one hit. A militiaman fell backwards with a shout and a curse, and apparently without orders the halberdiers charged.

    “Everyone inside NOW!” Frank roared and dived for the doorway himself. The charge had started from maybe thirty yards away, a long, long stone’s throw with one of those cobbles, but even militiamen could cover that in seconds. There was a press around the doorway, and people tripping over each other in the street, and then screams. And then a frantic heave to get the door shut when the people wedged in it got themselves shaken through.

    Frank winced at the sound of something—someone—being chopped with a leaden finality, and looked at Dino.

    Dino stared back. “Oppression,” he said, a slight quaver in his voice.

    The sounds outside went on for maybe a minute. Everyone inside Frank’s Place was deathly silent. Just standing there, looking shocked. A few of them were putting two and two together, as well. No way in hell did those halberds just happen to be in the area. And they’d arrived too quickly to have been called out to the disturbance. Even if they had, they’d never have come until the morning, any other time.

    When it got quiet again, he opened the door a crack and looked out. He could see two bodies in the street in just the thin slice he could see. He’d no idea how many they’d killed or maimed, and wasn’t about to go out and see. He could hear orders being barked. He shut the door and, with Dino’s help, barred it. This time, the bolts went home quickly and easily.

    Right, Frank thought. They want agitation? I’ll give ‘em fucking agitation.

    He got up on a table—one of the few still unbroken and on its feet. “People,” he said, into an expectant silence. “I think we’re safe for now. The militia are just clearing the streets of some people they think don’t matter. People like you and me. That’s all they think they’re doing. I want to tell you what really went down tonight. Why we’ve got people—people you all know, people from this neighborhood—lying dead out in that street. And I’m going to tell you why it happened. Let me tell you about Cardinal Borja …”

    He spoke for a good long while, it felt like. And it was a long, long night.