"The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bullington Jesse)

XXI. The Conflagration of Desires

An hour before sunset fifty pikemen relieved their compatriots outside the captain’s gates. Two of Barousse’s men nervously waited until a spokesman for the doge arrived, offering them amnesty if they peacefully admitted the doge’s force if and when such an order came down. This was the offer the mercenaries had agreed would buy their surrender after hearing of the cardinal’s murder, wanting no part of the inevitable massacre. The leader of the doge’s pikemen insisted they were positioned only to prevent escape, but to prove their loyalty Barousse’s men hastened to inform him of Buñuel’s passing. Not caring a jot for some French brat and doubting the doge did either, the pikemen demanded admittance at once. A guard hurried to unlock the gate when an arrow fired from one of the house’s windows struck his traitorous leg and he went down howling. Then everything soured and to this day Venetians whisper that in the time that followed the eyes of God averted from Venezia.

Hearing a scream from the front, Barousse released the lever on the trebuchet, and the Grossbarts cheered as the anchor, coins, and cardinal soared into the setting sun. Rodrigo hurried about the second floor, having already doused every room of the first with oil. The mercenaries who had guarded the chevalier took shots from the room formerly occupied by the Grossbarts, Sir Jean and Martyn watching the catapult from the terrace.

Sir Jean stared in shock, his urge to flee around the house forgotten at the sight of Barousse’s nerve. The trio of crossbowmen with them on the terrace let out three shouts and three shots as pikemen flooded around the stable side of the house. Martyn fled inside and Sir Jean followed, terrified he might be caught between crossbow volleys or cut down by his rescuers before they identified him.

From the window one of the guards hurled an oil lamp at those swarming the front door, setting several ablaze and then catching a bolt between his eyes. He pitched foreward on the sill while the other two mercenaries retreated to the hall, the doge ordering an abundance of archers to make up for his earlier error. The two remaining guards saw Rodrigo rushing down the hall, laughing nervously.

The ground quaked under the Grossbarts’ feet from the counterweight’s impact, the hastily constructed catapult ripping apart and collapsing behind them. With the first step toward the house Al-Gassur realized he would be overtaken by the pikemen, so, snatching out his dagger, he cut the binding on his mock-lame leg, threw the crutch over his shoulder, and dashed after his masters.

On the raised terrace Barousse’s crossbowmen fired a second round but similarly armed members of the doge’s force responded in kind. Two of the mercenaries collapsed, riddled with shafts, but the third had ducked inside for a lamp to hurl. Coming up the terrace stairs with Hegel in the lead, the Grossbarts were each struck with several bolts. The quarrels bounced off Manfried’s shoulders and Hegel’s legs, their purloined plating saving their lives, Al-Gassur in pursuit but far enough back to avoid the volley.

Barousse did not share their armor, thus the two bolts striking his shoulder and the third hitting his thigh embedded in flesh. Ignoring the wounds, he knocked his remaining guard over as he burst into the house, causing the poor man to fall onto his lamp. The lamp shattered, engulfing him in liquid fire. The Grossbarts sprang over the flailing man as he burned alive, and Al-Gassur did the same moments before the pikemen reached the terrace. If the Grossbarts noticed their manservant had miraculously regained his missing appendage they did not mention it, instead tearing out from behind the now-flaming staircase and following the wounded captain up to the second story.

With Barousse’s guards hurling oil lamps from the second story onto the invaders at the doors below, the walls of the entire house soon crawled with fire, arrows whipping through the smoke-clogged windows. Al-Gassur overtook his masters on the stairs, his crutch bouncing in their sooty faces. The railings beside them cracked and hissed and their boots smoked as they reached the distraught group of Rodrigo, Martyn, Sir Jean, and the two remaining guards waiting at Barousse’s locked door. The Frenchman wore the quarrel of one of the doge’s men through his bicep from an attempt to flee out the front, and his golden tresses were singed from his subsequent reentry through the burning doorway.

Fumbling with his keys, Barousse shook the smoking walls with his laughter despite his grievous wounds. One of the guards swayed from the heat and pitched backward over the railing before any could stop his plunge. Throwing open the door, they saw several pikemen had braved the inferno and rushed up the stairs behind them. Barousse turned to battle them but the Grossbarts dragged him inside and slammed the door, knowing he had the only key to the cage in which they all now huddled. He unlocked this, and they pushed inside at the same moment that Al-Gassur brushed against the smoldering door, his oil-spattered clothes immediately catching fire. The others dived away from him as he charged Barousse’s oversized tub and hurled himself into the water, his mustache crackling along with the rest of him.

Al-Gassur had always equated asexuality with practicality, but when he opened his eyes under the surface the stinging salt water filtered the woman floating before him into an angel of all his repressed longing, an embodiment of femininity that melted his heart as it solidified other regions. Barousse charged after the errant Arab and hoisted him out of the water by his hair, the woman darting away to a dark corner of the pool. Sir Jean attempted to make a spectacle out of his wound but his vocalized pain merely earned him a cuffing from Hegel. The chevalier swooned when the remaining guard carefully removed the bolt from his arm. Hegel grinned and put his pick’s tip under Sir Jean’s chin, helping him find his feet again.

Manfried had followed the captain, viciously kicking Al-Gassur as he yowled on the floor. Necessity had driven the Arab to do what Manfried had longed to every time he entered the room. Barousse snatched a sheet from the bed and scrambled over the rim; up to his waist in the water, he whispered to the woman.

Timber collapsed outside the door, the pikemen hacking their way in, screaming as the floor gave out and they plummeted into the inferno, the one who had snatched the railing suffering longer than his countrymen before he too let go, the flesh of his fingers welded together. Martyn stomped around the room screaming damnation, his spit hissing on the smoking carpets.

“To the Virgin!” Hegel bellowed, hoisting a satchel from those piled on the table and shoving it under Martyn’s left arm.

Barousse shielded Manfried’s view but then she stepped past him in the bath, her body swathed in wet, translucent linen. Al-Gassur crawled after the last guard and Rodrigo, who disappeared behind the statue of Mary. Hegel seized his brother’s arm and pressed a satchel to his chest.

“This ain’t Gyptland, brother,” Hegel intoned, his eyes locking with Manfried’s.

She took another step toward Manfried, the waters parting for her, but he found the strength to turn away. Sir Jean and the guard had followed Rodrigo down the shaft, with Martyn close after. Al-Gassur reached for a coin on the floor but it burned his fingers, and somewhere in the room bottles began exploding, flames belching and broken glass snowing down on them, each shard radiant in the blaze that consumed the walls. Then Hegel hurled a sack full of ducats at the Arab, who heard the chinking of coin and grabbed it along with his fallen crutch before vanishing into the passage.

The captain shouldered one of the satchels but six remained, and these the Brothers clumsily threw past Mary into the chute. A fearsome tearing sound arose behind them, and they saw the entire massive tub pitching upward for an instant before being swallowed by the house, the floor between them and it collapsing. Hegel dived behind the Virgin and shimmied backward into the shaft, but to his disgust he saw Manfried turn to something out of his periphery. Hegel descended only a rung before he envisioned that treacherous woman undoing both Barousse and Manfried.

A rafter fell from above, driving the woman to the floor. The captain vainly tried to lift it, screaming as the smoldering wood blistered his hands. The stink of burnt skin and other meats permeating his nose, Manfried turned away from brother and Virgin to help the captain. She did not shriek or moan or cry, but smiled up at them as they lifted the burning log from her pinned legs. She scooted out and they dropped it just as the floor caved in beneath the beam.

A chasm now separated them from the Virgin, flames riding the squealing walls around their small island of floor. The captain’s face fell, his tears popping before they reached the ground. Manfried grabbed hold of the woman, steadied his boots, and hurled her over the fiery gulf. Her head struck the Virgin’s feet and she lay still, and the captain let out a wail as he jumped after her.

He almost made it.

His legs dangling in Hell, his fingers splayed and gripping the smoking floor, and his eyes fixed on her countenance, Barousse struggled to lift his weighty frame. Manfried went after him, overshooting his mark and pitching into the Virgin. He knocked the statue loose of its base and it toppled sideways, tearing through the burning wall as if it were wet parchment. On impulse he reached to stop Her fall but then he felt a lady’s hand on his ankle and he saw another woman smiling up at him despite the blood running down her forehead. The captain forgotten, he knelt to kiss her when Hegel appeared out of the passage, spoiling his objective.

Seeing her turn to Manfried instead of him, Barousse released his hold and closed his eyes. Hegel leaped at him, having moored himself to a rung with a length of rope. He caught one of the captain’s hands but flat on his stomach could do no more than hold on, staring into the surprisingly calm face of Barousse.

Manfried lifted her up, the sheet sticking to his armor, but he looked away and pushed her gently into the passage. Hegel grunted and twisted, the captain slipping from his grasp when Manfried joined the struggle and together they hauled Barousse up. Another chunk of the floor gave way beneath Barousse’s chest and they almost lost him before all three tumbled backward into the nave. Hegel cut the rope and scampered down the rungs, Barousse shoving Manfried after him. The captain went last, the bars scalding his palms, the last view he had of his home obscured by waves of heat and smoke.

Rodrigo moved down the narrow shelf beside the channel. The tallow he had lit from the walls before descending illuminated Sir Jean and the guard behind him, and Rodrigo handed each of them a candle of his own. Sir Jean lacked the strength to assault them or flee, panting against the wall with his bare feet dangling in the water. Martyn and Al-Gassur came next, several satchels landed behind them, and then nothing.

When all had realized the remaining four must be cooked alive they shouldered what bags they could carry and turned their backs, only Martyn staying behind to pray in the flurry of embers coming down the chute. The stone ceiling shook and they quickened their pace, only to stop when Martyn let out a triumphant shout. In the glow of the shaft they saw the pale woman emerge alone and unblemished.

Then Hegel dropped, shouting, “Slow on, you mecky assholes!”

Manfried fell the last few rungs and almost rolled into the channel but Hegel helped him up. The Brothers narrowly avoided being crushed under Barousse as the captain popped out, having nearly become stuck in the shaft. Grabbing the remaining satchels he pushed them ahead down the shelf to where the rest waited, flaming debris bursting out of the chute behind them and backlighting their progress.

The woman looped her arm through Barousse’s, smiling at Manfried as she did. They rushed through the tunnel, their lights extinguishing one by one from dripping water and splashing filth. At the very moment they reached the ladder the last tallow went out, and they stood waist-deep in the sulfurous water.

“How many of my men are with us?” Barousse asked.

“We’re all your men, sir,” Rodrigo answered.

“No, no, my personal brigands,” said Barousse.

“Me and Hegel both,” Manfried replied.

“I know that.” Barousse’s voice rose. “I mean the men I hired to keep my manse, those that would make up our crew onboard Angelino’s.”

“Mine ownself,” the guard put in, “being Raphael.”

“Who else?” said Barousse.

“Mine ownself alone,” Raphael responded, clearly struggling with his German.

“Shitfire and brimstone.” Barousse rubbed his blackened brow with blistered fingers.

“There be also mine, eh, the,” Raphael mumbled something in a tongue none present save Sir Jean understood, then brightened, “the hostage! Still I maintain hostage.”

“The knight?” Barousse squinted in the blackness, then switched to Italian: “You’re still with us, eh Jean?”

“Sir Jean,” the knight shot back.

“We don’t need any witnesses,” said Barousse. “Raphael, slit his throat.”

“Wait!” Sir Jean yelped.

“Wait,” Barousse allowed.

“Hurry,” Hegel added in German, starting up the ladder.

“While our plan has heretofore been flawless,” Sir Jean stalled, “murdering me might foil it.”

“How’s that?” Barousse drew his cutlass and made toward the sound of Sir Jean’s voice.

“If my body is found down here, or washes out in the canals, what then? They’ll know people escaped the fire!” Sir Jean smiled at his own wisdom. “And if you are discovered after we leave here, there’s still my priceless value as ransom.”

“Shall mine ownself slay him open?” Raphael asked in German from behind the knight.

“Nah,” Barousse whimsically decided. “Can always do him later. Don’t see how we’re going to get anyone to pay a priceless ransom, though. Up, then, all of you.”

Hegel had chased off the dogs lurking at the mouth of the pit, taking his usual obscene pleasure in bashing one’s snout with his pick. The barking bounced down the alleys but in contrast to the quiet of the previous night the entire city reverberated with noise. Manfried came next, sliding in the fish-mire in front of Rodrigo. The rest followed, with the woman coming last after Barousse. Hegel had advanced to where their alley crossed another but found no trace of the dead street urchins. Leaning against the wall, he saw the setting sun alone did not light their way, a distant glow implying Barousse’s house still burned.

The alleys were desolate save for a few drunken beggars, whom Barousse ruthlessly ordered put to the sword. Manfried and Hegel laughed at Sir Jean’s offer to assist, instead taking the duty upon themselves with aplomb. Al-Gassur recognized one of the victims as a swindling chum of his named Six-Toed Pietro, and his dislike of the Grossbarts shifted to outright hatred. The Arab attempted to make his escape of their vile company but they set him back on course with a series of kicks, and he cursed himself for rebinding his leg in the subterranean passage. The yelling of the murdered sots drew no attention, and they arrived at the back of the tavern without further incident.

Angelino ushered them into the back room and through it, the blind barkeep the only other man present. The party fractured and rejoined beside the hearth, dragging chairs and wringing their clothes. The blind man could not leave his bar before the Grossbarts descended, liberating him of cup after cup of ale. While the old man’s face sagged he did not protest when they rolled a barrel out from behind the bar.

Angelino grinned at Barousse. “What’ve you wrought?”

“Brought him the Hell he would’ve had rain down on me.” The captain smirked.

“Rain is right! A golden shower for Venezia, eh? If I didn’t know where certain things was located I’d surely compete with the throngs to snatch a few ducats for myself.”

“And did the anchor make a sound impression?”

“Anchor?”

“An anchor right on Strafalaria’s head, if my laborers constructed it proper.”

“Something to hope, to be sure, though I can’t testify to whether it struck true or not.” Angelino noticed the woman and winced. She sat on the floor with her ear to the wall beside the barred front door. “Christ.”

“You’re a good man,” Barousse whispered, squeezing Angelino’s shoulder. “We’ll be rid of her soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Angelino said, and, seeing the pain on his friend’s face, added, “Not too late, either.”

“Where’s Seppe at?” Hegel interrupted.

“On the boat,” Angelino replied, “soon as the rest of your men pull in we’ll pull out.”

“What other men?” said Manfried.

“The rest of the crew you said were coming.” Angelino cocked his head at Barousse, “What, you said more than six but less than twelve besides this lot?”

Barousse shook his head sadly. “Wasn’t wagering on all but one of my guards being stomped like grapes.”

Angelino bowed his head. “Oh Hell, Alexi, you mean we’re to sail to the ends of the ocean with this lot and nothing more? Not even a skeleton, just a bunch of loose bones!”

“Can’t be helped.” Barousse shrugged. “So let’s get a move on.”

Angelino again glanced at the woman. “You’re sure there’s no other way than on board with us?”

“Angelino,” said Barousse, “please-”

“Can’t be helped, I heard, I heard,” said Angelino. “Giuseppe won’t like it, though.”

“Giuseppe?” Barousse scowled. “Say he isn’t.”

“He is.” Angelino scowled right back. “As captain, I choose my crew. And if I don’t have a say in who you take, you sure as shit don’t get a word on my choices.”

“Who else is aboard?” Barousse asked.

“Find out soon enough,” Hegel advised. “Oughta left by now. Hey you bitchswine, give me a hand with this!”

Ripping his eyes off her, Manfried made sure the bung fit snugly before tilting the barrel over and rolling it toward the door. The others crowded around the door behind Angelino, Raphael being sure to stay behind Sir Jean at all times. Hegel marched back to the bar and fished out Al-Gassur, who had slipped behind it and feigned sleep. Sending the Arab on his way, Hegel reached in his bag and removed a gold bar, turning to the blind barkeep.

“Any man you fence that to tells you it’s less than genuine you bite his face, scream for help, and hold on to that til the watch comes,” Hegel said.

The barkeep burbled something unintelligible, maybe Italian, maybe not, but the gold disappeared regardless. Turning back to the nervous group, Hegel grinned and drew his pick. The captain extended his hand to the woman, who took it and rose beside him.

“Bid your city farewell and good passing,” Barousse announced. “Only the most foolish of you would dream of setting your eyes on it again, for now our crimes can scarce be counted. We must turn our back on it for all time, and with the grace of God we will come to a better end than all who dwell here. Their curses will not find us, and the judgment they would seek to level will go unpronounced.”

Rodrigo closed his eyes and whispered goodbye to the only city he had ever known, the place where his family had lived and died for generations. Martyn yawned and Al-Gassur seconded it, while Sir Jean’s eyes welled at the realization that he would not actually be rescued. Raphael clung to the captain’s melodrama, the mercenary having less idea than anyone else what destination they made for.

“Straight out and up to the end of the dock,” Angelino informed them. “They’ll hoist a light soon as we open the door so we’re all sure of course, but anyone you see to right or left catch and kill, young or old, man or not.”

“Get on, then,” said Manfried, hefting his loaded crossbow.

“Mary bless us,” Martyn intoned, and Angelino threw open the door.

Subtlety had no place in their flight to the boat, the group all but whooping as they charged. Sheer ill luck had brought a tipsy couple toward the alehouse to celebrate the five ducats that had dropped into a gutter before them earlier in the evening, and Al-Gassur and Rodrigo averted their eyes as the Grossbarts did their business. Manfried’s bolt caught the surprised young woman in the chest, and before her head cracked open on the stones Hegel had thrust his pick through her beau’s neck.

No other witnesses stirred and the Grossbarts quickly rolled the bodies off the quay and returned to their barrel. Rolling it up to the ship they heard a heated argument between Giuseppe and Barousse but before they could contribute Giuseppe had relented due to Angelino’s intervention. They took their time getting the barrel safely up the gangplank and a pair of burly young toughs in tarred breeches untied the ship. While the Brothers were curious as to how the vessel moved, Barousse hurried them out of sight below deck, and hopping off the ladder they saw their compatriots lounging in a large, barren room. Only when the sailors lowered their beer barrel did the Grossbarts relax, confident Gyptland lay just across the sea.

“This boat got a handle?” Hegel asked the massive sailor named Merli.

“You’ll get your sea legs soon enough,” came the reply.

“You take the piss again and I’ll bring the red to yours,” Hegel said, irritated by his brother’s amused snort. “A name, boy, heard tell they name these things.”

“The Gorgon’s Kiss,” said Merli.

“Well,” said Manfried. “That’s a pretty name.”