The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)

“Yes, Prince.”

“While you were in Rome, we received confirmation Marcus was behind the attack. What’s Rome’s position on the circumstances concerning our conflict?”

“According to the lieutenant, the Roman prefers to avoid public pronouncements on such matters, but privately, it was acknowledged our complaint has merit.”

The Prince took a moment to adjust his cuff links, reflecting on Lorenzo’s words. They were not what he’d hoped.

“Was there any indication of the Roman’s . . . retirement?”

“No, Prince. But there are rumors the Roman was replaced secretly when he reached his thousand years.”

“What rumors?” The Prince’s tone was sharp.

Lorenzo lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Nothing specific. But from here to Rome, citizens remarked how strange it is that no one has seen the Roman for at least a century. I was given to understand the lieutenant deals with all matters of state. He felt free to give his opinion during our conversation without leaving me to consult his superior.”

The Prince resisted the urge to comment and looked off into space, keeping his musings private.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.

Lorenzo bowed and opened the door discreetly, blocking the entrance with his body.

“I beg pardon, Sir Lorenzo.” Gregor’s Russian-accented Italian filled the room. “Ibarra has a gift for the Prince.”

“What gift?” Lorenzo sounded surprised.

“A Venetian one.”

Lorenzo was silent for a moment. “Tell Ibarra to bring his gift to the Consilium chamber. I’ll inform his Lordship.”

Gregor acceded to the command and Lorenzo closed the door.

The Prince lifted his eyebrows. “Well, what’s the gift?”

Lorenzo appeared distracted. “I’m not certain, Prince.”

“Assemble the council members. We may have need of them.”

Lorenzo bowed and withdrew.

In the quiet of his library, the Prince took the missive from his pocket and reread the note penned at the bottom in a familiar hand. A wide smile spread across his face.

***

“I move we torture him.” Aoibhe’s voice, loud and deceptively melodious, rang out in the council chamber.

The Consilium had assembled without the prisoner, who was being kept in a cell nearby under the careful watch of no less than four guards.

“The Venetian’s life is forfeit to the Prince. Perhaps he’d rather kill him personally,” Lorenzo interjected, eyeing their ruler as he sat on his throne.

“He’s a youngling and can be turned.” Ibarra’s voice was low but confident.

“We need to determine what contact he’s had with Venice.” The Prince focused his stern expression on his new head of security.

Ibarra nodded his agreement. “Without question, my lord, but I doubt he’s had any. He was separated from the others and has been hiding in the Arno. From the look of him, he hasn’t even fed since the night you were attacked.”

“Niccolò?” The Prince turned to his intelligence officer.

He stood. “We’ve had no news of information entering Venice from here. Marcus continues to believe you’re dead, my lord.”

“Has there been any movement in the region?”

“None. Our spies report that Venice has assembled an army, but they’ve encountered difficulties with our near neighbors. The allies have informed Venice that they will attack if their borders are breached.”

The Prince grinned. “Excellent.”

Niccolò continued. “As we predicted, Venice is making plans to travel by water. However, our spies have been able to determine where they may make landfall.”

“Possibly Rimini or Cervia,” the Prince mused.

“Both are reasonable possibilities, yes.”

The Prince tented his fingers. “Marcus has surprised me. I expected him to attack within hours of learning of my death.”

Niccolò nodded. “It’s possible Marcus was waiting for a report from inside the city.”

The Prince smiled again. “That is our good fortune.

“Our army is larger and certainly stronger. We are at the height of readiness. While we could secure permission from our neighbors to march through their territories in order to attack Venice, it would be prudent for us to wait. Venice will come to us.

“Niccolò, write letters to the Princess of Ravenna and the Prince of San Marino, asking them to side with us during any potential conflict but leave our adversary unnamed for now.

“Ensure our spies on the coast are at the ready and offer them handsome rewards for information about any movement from the north.”

Niccolò bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Ibarra.” The Prince beckoned his new head of security.

The Basque stood before the throne and bowed.

“The Venetian soldier is your prisoner. Extract whatever information you can from him and then kill him.”

Ibarra hesitated. He looked as if he wished to protest but wisely, he didn’t.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I place you in charge of the interrogation, as a reward. But I order Maximilian and Aoibhe to observe the questioning. Stefan the physician will also be placed at your service, should you have need of him.”

“I am honored, my lord. Thank you.” Ibarra genuflected and returned to his seat.

“And Ibarra.”

The Basque paused before sitting, turning toward the throne once again. “Yes, my lord?”

“One of your predecessors thought it would be a good idea to involve a priest in an interrogation.” The Prince’s expression hardened. “Don’t make the same mistake.”

Chapter 13

The Prince was pleased with Ibarra and the capture of the remaining Venetian. Confident in the steps he’d taken to defend the principality, and in the information that continued to trickle in from spies placed in Venice and on the coast, the Prince decided it was time for him to emerge from hiding, at least for a few hours.

He wanted his citizens and the Venetians to continue to believe in his demise, but he was running out of time with respect to the Emersons. They were scheduled to check out of the Gallery Hotel Art the following morning. If he was to have his revenge on them it must be that evening.

Thus, the Prince decided he would venture out of the Palazzo Riccardi and into the streets of Florence, but only for a few hours and with the single purpose of torturing and killing Professor Emerson.

But he needed to visit an old friend first.

He used a secret network of passages that led from the Palazzo to his villa, which sat atop a hill overlooking the city. As the sun began its descent, he piloted his Triumph motorcycle from the garage and down the winding road that led to the Arno.

No doubt it would seem strange to the citizens of Florence’

s underworld to see their prince taking such pleasure in riding a human machine. But he loved the sleekness of the body and the sound of the engine. He also loved the speed.

So it was that he drove like a demon across the Arno and over to Santa Maria Novella.

He was clad all in black, including a black helmet with an opaque shield, a pair of heavy, black motorcycle boots, and a black leather jacket that had been made in the 1950s. A piece of cloth, newly doused with a vintage from his cellar, was pinned inside his shirt.

Parking his roadster next to the church, he walked to the side entrance, still wearing his helmet. He was wary of being seen by one of his citizens and for more than one reason.

The second he stepped on holy ground, he developed a strong headache and his limbs began to feel weak. It was a harsh reminder he was no longer a servant of the Church.

His blood boiled with ancient anger.

Upon entering the church he removed his helmet, fighting the nausea that threatened from his stomach. He strode to the center, stopping below Giotto’s famous crucifix.

It was a thing of artistic beauty, to be sure. He took his time examining the Franciscan-inspired artwork, noting its colors. But he would not look at the face of the figure hanging on the cross.

He spat on the floor, blaspheming in Latin.

He turned on the heel of his boot and exited the church, moving across the grassy courtyard to the old chapter house. In the sixteenth century, it had been transformed into what became known as the Spanish Chapel. Andrea di Bonaiuto had painted the incredible frescoes that decorated the walls.

Now the Prince faced the person he’d come to see—a figure seated below the personifications of the seven virtues, wearing an expression of peace.

He made eye contact with the image, which appeared to stare back at him, and bowed very low, his body unaccustomed to the movement.

“Hail, Brother.” The Prince greeted him in Latin.

The figure remained silent.

“It’s been some time since I’ve visited. More than a century, if memory serves.” The Prince’s gaze flickered to the other less welcome images that flanked the favored one, before fixing on the personification of justice.