he had ever carried out.
Luke Wadding clutched his crucifix, kissed it, and felt his heart explode into a hundred “Our fathers” and “Hail Marys” for each of his companions, for surely, he hadn’t enough time left to say even one such prayer. Anthony McEgan, whose sturdy defense of the left flank of lightly armored Lieutenant Hastings had kept that worthy from death at least half a dozen times, was slow coming back from a riposte that wounded an enemy. The adjacent assassin swept out his cutlass, opened a nasty cut across McEgan’s right forearm. The Irishman snatched it back-at just the moment he needed it to protect against a hand axe wielded by a cutthroat who’d slipped into his left flank. The axe made a crunching sound as it caved in the lower left side of McEgan’s cuirass. The blow did not penetrate, but over the wounded man’s grunt, Wadding heard the snap of ribs. Hastings’ protector was thrown sideways, writhing as he fell.
The other assassins rushed to get in at the lieutenant, so eager that they bunched up, knocking together. Hastings, dripping sweat and blood from almost half a dozen wounds, was still alert enough to discern which of the assassins was too hemmed in by his mates to effectively parry. The tall Englishman slashed with his sword; the targeted cutthroat staggered back, now weaponless and clutching the stumps of three missing fingers.
But the remaining assassins continued pushing Hastings back, and still more came behind them.
Wadding wanted to close his eyes while he gave his cross a final kiss, but would not do so. I owe it to this man to watch his last sacrifice. I shall not look away; I shall not blink.
Larry Mazzare fired, cursed himself, fired again, heard a groan up the staircase, winced when a pistol discharged down in his general direction. The balls chipped the stone less than two feet from where he’d positioned himself, kneeling half-covered at the doorway, with a firing angle all the way up to the bend in the staircase.
He couldn’t see the bend, but he had a pretty good estimate of where it was. Like many priests and pastors in Appalachia, Larry was an experienced hunter-and his case, an excellent one, especially with a shotgun. Hunting pheasant, quail and turkey to put meat on impoverished tables and charity dinners in his parish had given him a passing acquaintance with aiming by sound as much as sight.
The assassins had tried rushing down twice now, and he’d sent up two rounds each time, ready to fire more-but that had broken their spirit. However, his ability to drive them back was now reduced to one round in the pepperbox, which had only five chambers. He turned to Antonio, who was, in a ghastly juxtaposition of activities, rifling through George’s pockets as the pope was gently sliding the big man’s eyes closed with his palm.
Trying not to sound impatient, Larry asked, “What have you found, Antonio?”
“Eh…eh, not much. Maybe most of them are under him. But it would take two of us to roll him over so-”
“Antonio. What have you found?”
Cardinal Antonio Barberini held up two shotgun shells, one in either hand. “These.”
Sherrilyn was already running for the kitchen door before Rolf had blasted down the last of the assassins who had rushed them, firing from a range of less than two feet.
Hobbling desperately, Sherrilyn pressed the magazine release, heard the empty box clatter down even as she had the other out, up, and into the grip in one smooth motion. She cocked the action, thanked the powers above for seventeen-round magazines, and staggered forward.
She found herself in a veritable obstacle course of enemy bodies: many motionless, many more writhing or crawling off in some deluded hope of escape. However, at least half a dozen live ones were preparing to carve up the last poor defender, who- Good god, that’s Hastings! She brought up the Glock and started squeezing off rounds, aiming as best she could, praying she wouldn’t hit the lieutenant, but knowing-knowing-that if she wasted one split second, he’d be dead anyway.
The bodies fell faster than she fired-and she became aware that one of the Hibernians had arrived alongside her, adding to her fusillade.
When the last of them fell, she saw Hastings on the ground. Oh god, please no: please don’t let me have been the one who killed him But Hastings raised up on one elbow, clutching a leg wound with one hand, pointing toward the cellar with the other. “Down there,” he gasped, “the pope-”
Larry got the two shotgun shells in the breech just as he heard the thunder of feet coming around the corner above him. There was a determination to the sound that he hadn’t heard before; they had decided it was do or die, evidently.
Larry had come to the same decision long ago; he raised the shotgun, realized he’d never have the time to use the last round in the pepperbox, idiotically had a pang of regret for leaving any ammunition unexpended, and saw the first clear sign of movement in the dimness above him. He fired: screams, a man fell down the stairs, clutching his face and sobbing out his last breaths.
But they kept coming, Larry fired again, and this time, one actually staggered out of the darkness, still mobile enough to take a weak swing at him with a falchion before he collapsed. Larry jumped back, the pope and others clustered behind him.
More bodies came out of the dark rectangle that was the secret passage. Larry raised the shotgun one- handed, like a club; Vitelleschi moved to stand beside him, short sword out. Wadding was crying-evidently to God-“Help us; help us now!”
The assassins loomed out of the darkness — and Larry was startled by God’s own thunder roaring over his shoulder and sweeping his enemies before him. Dumbstruck, he wondered: Good grief, can Wadding actually call down God’s wrath? But then, a sideways glance showed him the visage worn by divine vengeance this day: it was the powder smeared, high-cheekboned face of Sherrilyn Maddox, whose pistol maintained its steady thunder of death and damnation upon the would-be assassins of God’s own Pope. The last few of them turned and fled back up into the darkness.
Larry staggered forward as two of the Hibernians pushed past Sherrilyn and began edging up the staircase cautiously. Then he heard-very faintly from above-Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz addressing the last few cutthroats who apparently encountered him when reentering the hall of the northern wing. The Catalan’s merry tone raised the small hairs on the back of Larry’s neck: “Ah,” he said, “do not leave yet. Tarry awhile.” Then Larry heard the scuffling begin and the first body hit the floor.
Larry, oblivious to the Hibernians now charging up the narrow stairs to help Ruy, looked at his watch, wondering how many hours it had been since the first rattle of musketry had startled Vitelleschi to silence in the Garden Room.
He discovered that, all told, it had not quite been five minutes.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Frank and Don Vincente were still staring at each other, one in hope, the other in amazement when Harry Lefferts came pounding down the stairs and poked his head in the room. “What the hell are you still doing here? Evacuation is via the roof. So let’s get going.” He looked at Castro y Papas. “You too, if you’re coming.” And then he was gone.
Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas looked thunderstruck, probably not so much by the offer, but by the casualness with which it had been tendered-and by a man who had been sent to kill him, no less. He looked over at Frank and asked both the up-timer and himself aloud: “Should I? Come with you?”
Frank shrugged. “Why not?”
Don Vincente opened his mouth-and realized that he had no good answer to that very simple question.
Walking toward the south end of the main roof, North heard more outbound rifle fire-black powder lever- actions-from the second floor. As predicted, the Spanish were now trying to turn around the guns in the embrasures of the ravelins to fire at the castle door. Which meant they would destroy the raised drawbridge in the process. Not exactly an optimal strategy for reentering the fort, reflected Thomas, but he suspected they were now being driven by a frustrating need to Do Something, rather than by calm military logic. Just as well: it gave them something to do, and kept their attention off the sky, from which a dirigible would soon be descending.
“This half, all clear,” called Anthony Grogan from the fortified walkway that marked the north end of the main roof. North signaled his acknowledgement; so far, only a few survivors had been found, and they were so badly wounded and semi-conscious that the only options were to leave them or dispatch them. North had decided that whatever dubious god there might be to smile, frown, or chortle over man’s self-important follies should be the
