Highlander: The Measure of a Man Page 3

  Overflowing with partygoers, most masked and many cloaked against the October chill, the fairy-tale Piazza San Marco sprawled before him. The cathedral, with its golden domes and white and gold facades, was a roar of noise and color. The Campanile, where the church bells played, rose like a red-hot sword from the cobbles.

  At MacLeod’s left, the Doge’s magnificent palace lay before him. Drunken revelers had managed to climb atop the bronze horses along the balustrade and were making great show of urging them to war. He remembered the interior as an ornate and splendid combination of grand paluzzo of the most powerful aristocrat in Venice, as well as functional seat of government. Besides the grand apartments and private quarters of the Doge, it was bulging with warrens of council chambers, administrative offices, and guard rooms overpowered by beautiful Byzantine mosaics, priceless Greek statues, and exquisite Veronese paintings. During his last Carnival in Venice, he had witnessed no fewer than six trysts in one evening, atop the desks of mid-level bureaucrats, in his simple quest to find a privy in the cavernous building.

  Over the water spanned the Bridge of Sighs, through which prisoners entered the dreaded New Prisons. Trials were swift in Venice. Punishment was swifter. If he was lucky, Ali languished there, but he doubted Ali would count himself lucky. Or that the great general was simply languishing. The Venetians had a reputation throughout the world for their vicious torturing of suspects. There were three prisons in the Doge’s palace—the piombi, the torresella, and the pozzi,—and two in the New Prisons, the Leads, on the top floor, and the Wells, at the water level. None of them was a place a man wanted to be.

  MacLeod scratched his cheek as he contemplated his next move. With a grappling hook, he could hie himself up and over the—

  “Breathe, and you die,” growled a man behind him. The razor-sharp end of a knife penetrated MacLeod’s silk shirt and pierced the skin between his shoulder blades.

  One swift backward kick would free him. But it would not be the quietest way. So he bided his time.

  The blade pierced more deeply. By the man’s guttural chuckle, it was clear he enjoyed inflicting pain and fear on those he considered defenseless.

  Angered, MacLeod whirled around and grabbed the man by the forearm. He smashed his own hand into his attacker’s mouth as the man began to bellow in pain. “Shut up!” he whispered violently, and pulled up and forward on the arm. The man fell to his knees. With a swift chop to the back of his neck, he crashed face forward onto the dirt.

  MacLeod waited a moment, then checked the pulse at the man’s neck. He was unconscious, but not dead. His coarse clothes and start-up boots identified him as a peasant, a man of no account in the glittering city that worshiped wealth. A thief, no doubt. That was good; MacLeod feared discovery from the guards, not the inconvenience of simple robbery.

  MacLeod exhaled and felt in the man’s pocket. He found a large leather purse jingling with coins. A thief, indeed. And a busy one.

  He looked left and right again, checking for the man’s mob. Then he began to climb the wall.

  The moon blinded him as he reached the top. Straddling the stonework, he blinked rapidly to regain his sight, pushing off for the other side just as he felt

  another

  a presence.

  More than one.

  A ringing in his head, of voices past, of lives taken.

  His nerves vibrated. Immortals waited below. Takers of heads, or friends?

  Before he had landed, his scimitar was drawn. He had no sense of having done so. In a small, dark square, he crouched and faced a crowd of people carrying torches and dressed in outlandish costumes: firelight flickered over sphinxes, goddesses, and monsters, commedia figures. They observed him with delight, clapping and smiling like children at a puppet show. A breeze off the lagoon riffled their feathers, silks, satins, and brocades. Eyes crinkled at him behind a dozen masks or more.

  A demon cut an elaborate bow, furling his hand over his extended cloven hoof. He was dressed all in scarlet with horns and a forked tail such as Mr. Dante Alighieri had described a couple centuries back. (Or so Hugh Fitzcairn had claimed. It was blasphemous to insist that a man had invented the Devil, even if MacLeod was no longer sure there was one.)

  Despite the kaleidoscope of costumes, it was another man who caught MacLeod’s attention. Carrying no torch, he was clothed from head to toe in a jet-black robe, save for a flash of white above the collar and a fuller expanse of sleeve below his elbows. Beneath his flat, black hat, his hair was white. An elegant black domino hid only his eyes, revealing an aquiline nose and small, tight lips and chin. His face was angular and sharp. He reminded MacLeod of a fox.

  The man plucked off his mask, took a step forward, and acknowledged MacLeod with a haughty smile.

  MacLeod shifted his body weight forward in a challenging stance. “I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” Moonlight flashed on his sword as he angled it slightly.

  To his astonishment, the man applauded. The group followed suit. Someone called softly, “Bravo.”

  “Put away your weapon, signor,” the man urged in a friendly, deep voice. “You cannot fight us all. And we would much prefer a cup of good wine in the moonlight with you to drinking your blood in the street.”

  MacLeod did not move. The man walked toward him, pushing away his scimitar blade and extending his hand. “I am Machiavelli,” he said. “Niccolo Machiavelli. Though of course, here in Venice, I am my own descendant, proudly named in honor of an illustrious ancestor.”

  The others tittered. MacLeod narrowed his eyes as he scanned the throng.

  “They are like us,” the man assured him. “Immortals.”

  All? An Immortal regiment? MacLeod had not dreamed such a thing was possible.

  “We have no quarrel with you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. So please, disarm yourself. Join us in our revels.”

  MacLeod made no move to put up his weapon. “Ye are a clan, then.”

  “Like a clan. More like a family.” Machiavelli clapped MacLeod on the shoulder. MacLeod stiffened. “Our horses wait to take us to the gondolas. We have been at the Doge’s ball. Five hundred, there were! We dined like Frenchmen. We go home now, and we would be pleased to offer you our hospitality.”

  Another swirl of merrymakers entered the square, but he could detect no Immortals among them. The false sense of privacy he had enjoyed with Machiavelli and his Immortal clan evaporated. There seemed no way to break from them without causing suspicion.

  Yet he must rescue Mustafa Ali as soon as possible. In the past two years he had spent in Algiers, Ali had become as close as family to him. His son, Hassan, regarded the strange, tall foreigner as a favorite uncle. Ali was a respected warrior and one of the richest men in Algiers, and being included in his household had made MacLeod’s way easy.

  Ali had been the one to rescue MacLeod when he was lost in the desert, half-mad with grief and remorse over the death of Hamza el Kahir, another Ottoman—and an Immortal—who had befriended him. Ali had no other reason for doing so than that Allah decreed that all men befriend the weak.

  Thus, it had been an honor and a pleasure to accompany the revered Ottoman general on his journey to Venice. If it meant his life, MacLeod would rescue his friend and return him safely to Algiers. This he vowed upon his head—the most serious oath an Immortal could make.

  “Whatever engagement you have,” Machiavelli pressed, “can it not wait?”

  Not one bloody moment, MacLeod thought. But he couldn’t hope to break into the prison tonight. Shrugging to hide his disappointment, he said, “Aye, so it can.”

  “Then let’s be off.” Machiavelli raised his hand like a king on procession and began to walk with MacLeod. “I think you’ll like my home, Signor MacLeod. No expense has been spared, no luxury denied my company. I possess originals by Bemini no other men have seen.” He said in a lower voice, “And Immortals who are beyond compare. Each clever, each beautiful. Each very… useful.”

  Machiavelli proudly
glanced over his shoulder at his followers. “From near and far they have sought me out.” He cocked one eyebrow. “That’s why you’re here, is it not? Because you seek to join us? The Court of Beauties of the legendary Machiavelli?”

  Though MacLeod hadn’t the slightest idea who the man was, it seemed the wisest course to flatter the peacock, who spoke of the others as if they were possessions. “Aye. I’ve heard of you all over Europe.”

  “Then I welcome you.” Machiavelli’s hand lingered on MacLeod’s arm, then fell to his side. “My friend, if you stay with me, you shall have whatever your soul desires.”

  “Grazie, signor,” MacLeod replied. He couldn’t help one last glance at the silhouette of the New Prisons as the troupe of Immortals capered from the tiled square into the dirt and mud of Venice.

  Machiavelli watched him like a hungry lion. “You seem to have a fascination with that building.”

  “Och, ‘tis no’ a fascination,” MacLeod asserted. “I thought I heard screaming, is all.”

  “I’m sure you did. You’ve heard of the dungeons beneath the Doge’s palace?” Smiling pleasantly, he shivered. “Venetians are artists in all manner of things. Art, love, and torment.”

  “Are ye.”

  Machiavelli bowed. “I myself am originally from Florence, of course. I have been here but a year.” Which explained why MacLeod had not met him when he had been in Venice before.

  Now the Highlander did hear a scream, followed by a wail of despair. Ice water skittered up his spine. It had not the sound of Ali’s voice, but when a man shrieked in pain, it was hard to tell.

  “Poor devil,” Machiavelli said, still smiling.”Come, let’s be off to happier places.” He put his hand on MacLeod’s arm as if to guide him. “And I promise you, Murano is a much happier place.”

  They walked on, the screams chasing them. MacLeod’s body thrummed with the urge to fight. Deep in his gut, he disliked this man. He had no clear reason as yet for his feeling, but he trusted his instinct, as Connor had taught him. He set his jaw, forcing himself to appear calm, and kept on his mask. He had the feeling that unless he stayed cloaked, Machiavelli would read every emotion on his face and every thought in his head.

  And the dominant emotion was urgency, and the dominant thought was, MacLeod, you’re in grave danger. Kill him.

  Now.

  Chapter Three

  “At this point one may note that men must be either pampered or annihilated.”

  —Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

  Though Venice proudly proclaimed itself the pearl of democracies, it was a tight-lipped mussel of despotism. Gold more than merit bought a man a title, and the “election” of the Doge was nothing more than a pretty play to appease the common folk. Like everywhere else MacLeod had traveled, the real ruling was accomplished behind thick, locked doors by a handful of powerful and dangerous lairds.

  Yet the government of Venice was as virtuous as a convent lass compared to the fiefdom Machiavelli had made of the islands of Murano. From the beautiful summer villas and pleasure gardens of the Venetian aristocracy to the white-hot fires of the glass blowers, Immortal and non-Immortal alike displayed a servile attitude MacLeod knew all too well. Fear made folk bow and scrape, smiling while you bought their daughters for whoring and unmanned their sons for guarding ‘em, as the Turks were wont to do. Or made them murmur, “Thank ye, milord,” while you raped their country, deposed their king, and made their native tongue illegal.

  Many Scots bowed and scraped, but in every Scots heart burned an equal measure of hatred for their English overlords. That was the way of it, and a natural way it was, too. His Scots heart burned. But he would be damned if ever he licked the boot of another man.

  It was not so among Machiavelli’s subjects. They worshiped the Immortal. To them, he was not a merciless aristocrat, but a saint. Though he was a hard taskmaster, and greedy of their wares to boot, he gave them meat, and presided over their petty quarrels. On feast days he and his “Beauties”—his Immortal clan—flung florins and ducats to the cheering crowds. He arranged better marriages for their sons and daughters than the simple farmers and tradesmen could have ever hoped for. He declared half the water wells on the islands that made up Murano public, not a small thing in the salt lagoon of Venice.

  He cited law to his people that took from them the work of their hands and their fields, then graciously offered to set aside the law and give back half of it. Thus, while he stole from them, they thanked the sweet Mother Mary for his mercy.

  That’s where the danger of the man lay. The local inhabitants were too simple to see that to Machiavelli, kindness and cruelty were the same: means to achieve his ends. The Muranese, who had hearts and hopes and ills as all people do, were nothing more to him than pawns in his huge personal chess game, like the one in Marostica.

  MacLeod accompanied Machiavelli and the other Beauties to that famous game, called the Partita a Scacchi. It had been played every two years since 1454 to commemorate a wedding feast. On an immense field of black and white, costumed individuals representing the pieces of a chess set stood in each square, waiting to be moved, captured, crowned.

  “This is the grand metaphor of life,” Machiavelli said, with a sweeping hand. “People are as easily moved as these players, friend Duncan. Sometimes it take a little shove. Sometimes, the mere crook of a finger. A promise is as good as a threat. Remember that.”

  “Aye, that I’ll do.” MacLeod wondered which technique the Immortal planned to use on him. For he would one day, of that MacLeod was certain.

  For his part, Machiavelli moved the mighty Doge and his counselors with the case of wooden bishops, knights, and kings. Armed with false rumors about the new Pope and the military buildup of the French, and reacting to rampant, inaccurate speculation about the spice trade now that the Portuguese had found a new trade route, special messengers whisked through the mazes of colonnades and Byzantine mosaics of Machiavelli’s lavish palace.

  He moved MacLeod as well, isolating him on the islands that sat a thirty-minute voyage from Venice. Though wild to be gone, MacLeod had not yet managed either to secure the services of an island gondolier or to steal a gondola himself. He assumed he would be recognized in the city. That would not bode well for a man intent upon engineering an escape from one of the most notorious prisons in Europe.

  Despite his anxiety, he found it within himself to chuckle at the self-important courtiers, blue jays in their foppish petticoat breeches decorated with rows and bunches of ribbons, more ribbons heaped on their shortened doublets, their sleeves, and their gloves. Their curled wigs tumbled down their backs as their bootheels and red high-heeled shoes chattered on the black-and-white—chessboard—marble floors. Though he dressed with the times, he clothed himself simply, in doublet and riding coat, wearing his hair loose. It was more dignified.

  And easier to fight in, should the need arise.

  There were scribes and secretaries and dozens of functionaries ensconced in Machiavelli’s palazzo. The government revolved around the Immortal rather than the Doge and the Signory—the ruling body of Venetian government—and Machiavelli received dignitaries from foreign countries with the air of a prince. Talk of war increased—war with the Ottomans, with France, with the Pope. Everyone in the world was waiting for Venice to fall, so they could rape her.

  As nonchalantly as he could, he hid himself from the scores of visitors. But everyone seemed to have forgotten that a tall, dark-haired Highlander had attended court just two years before. The Venetians were too distracted by their worries and the high fever of their desperate merrymaking.

  Perhaps he should just swim to Venice.

  Because Machiavelli was not distracted by anything, and he made merry only when it pleased him. What pleased him was to dine with the other Immortals, and to play chess and discuss his philosophy of life with his new chess piece.

  “My board is almost complete,” he said to MacLeod one evening as he set up the board for another game. He hel
d up the pieces as he put them on the board. “I have two bishops. Two castles. And now, a second knight.” He smiled at MacLeod. “Knights travel fast, attack fast, withdraw. They make their way through the twisted paths of treachery to power.”

  MacLeod put his own pieces on the board as he digested what Machiavelli was telling him. He didn’t know the other Immortals well enough to know which ones Machiavelli referred to—rooks, bishops, knights. But the implication was that most of them were only pawns.

  “You’re very skilled,” Machiavelli said, then added, “at the game. Who would have thought it from a man still smelling of sheepskins?”

  MacLeod picked up his queen and put her on her white square. He still had trouble comprehending the reality of the strange and menacing court Machiavelli had brought together on the island. It was with a purpose, and they were not random choices he’d made in his selection of “pieces.” Did Connor know of the Immortal Court of Beauties? Surely it must be legendary.

  For though the Immortals who had joined Machiavelli carried, for the most part, the air of the bored hangers-on of a wealthy aristocrat, in truth each had been carefully selected by the master because of a special talent or ability. Bernardo Caprio, a forger, could make exquisite copies of the paintings of the masters that graced the palazzos and churches of Venice, which Eugenia de la Croix then stole, replacing them with the copies. Sergei Aloysovitch, from Russia, was Machiavelli’s eyes and ears for things Russian. What were they, castles and horses or pawns? Annette Rouens was Machiavelli’s French spy. Cristofori—simply Cristofori—kept track of Greece for him, vital for a power-hungry man such as Machiavelli, as Greece was forever the thorn in Venice’s aching side.

  Paloma Alcina danced. Giuletta Fantini worked her way into the beds of the rich and returned with detailed maps of their treasuries, and scores of family secrets whispered during midnight escapades that the proud Venetian aristocracy would pay dearly to keep secret. Machiavelli had a penchant for using such information to fan the tempers of the families, playing one against the other. All over Venice he had caused blood feuds, the famous, vicious vendettas, of the hotheaded Venetians.