The Papacy - An Alternative History

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Whas This?!

Mortlock looked down, then rolled his eyes. "Wallace! Will you kindly close your legs!"

5 seconds after Mortlock says this


"Ach? Wha? Wha's wrong, eh?" Bill looked at all the ladies around him, and looked pensive. He wondered what this Mortlock was talking about. Didna he know that this was the way to sit with a kilt on? Wha? Was he supposed to sit like some dandy, cross his legs? Nah, not Bill. He stood up, and was met with gasps from some of the ladies, a few of which fainted. he went to the bar, and motioned for the tavernkeeper. He looked left and right, and in a conspiratorial tone, asked:

"Do ya have any hagus?"

To which the tavernkeeper shrugged, shook his head, and tried to move away. Bill grabbed the tavernkeeper, bringing him closer so they were eye to eye. The tavernkeeper trembled a little, and listened, as Bill asked again, luder this time:

"Do ya have any hagus?!"

The tavernkeeper shook his head. Bill sighed, and moved to go behind the bar. The tavernkeeper tried to stop Bill, but failed. Bill looked around, and saw a serving girl. One who hadn't fainted when he stood up. He motioned for her, and nodded when she pointed to herself questioningly.

"Yes? You wanta something?"

Bill smiled, and pulled some coin from a pouch he had hanging off one side:

"Here lass. Take this, get me these things..."

And Bill gave a detailed list of the ingredients needed for hagus. The serving girl nodded as she memorized everything, and smiled as Bill gave her the pouch. She went off to gather the ingredients, as Bill turned to the tavernkeeper:

"Ach, now yew'll taste some true food. Not this crrrrrap that yew serve."

At the table, Mortlock heard Bill speaking, and rolled his eyes:

"Ah damn, I think we should have left Bill back in Palermo"

 

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July 14. The Vatican...

Praise to Him to Whom All Reverence Is Due

Today I listened for hours to the Frenchman. Sparafucile interrogated him while I listened behind the courtain of the alcove.

The Frenchman is dangerous. But he is a danger to the Free Company as much as he is a danger to me and to himself. I have glimpsed an abyss in his soul that Sparafucile cannot see and that the Frenchman himself may be unaware of.

No. Not an abyss: a vulcano.

The Frenchman had told about his hatred for the Free Company. He told about the first time he saw the black banner, on the second day of the Dordogne, when the French had already lost many men to the cunning trap laid by the Free Company. They had outnumbered the Company almost 10:1, and the Company, unperturbed, had hidden part of its number and let the Frenchmen come. They had done so again on the second day, and it must have been that accursed Captain Bloomfield who had judged that odds of 1:3 in favor of the French were about fair. And he was right. They had been crushed. Hounded by devillish cannon fire, frustrated by disciplined pikemen who wouldn't break ranks. He could not understand how the trained and battle-proven French troops had failed to push the Company back by sheer weight. And then, when it seemed that the Company could not stand the onslaught any longer, they had fallen back, led the French on, and then crushed them. It was the end. It was their destruction. Bordeaux fell because the Company held the bridge and were devasted. The French pride and morale crushed, my Frenchman's hatred kindled.

And then, the Frenchman continued, there was Roncesvalles. It was worse. A relentless meatgrinder. "It was not possible that they stand! It was not possible!" The Frenchman kept stammering, a chant to sustain him in his longing for revenge, for blood.



I record this account of the Frenchman to preserve my impression of the man whom I will employ to crush the Company. Sparafucile is ruthless, but not ruthless enough to be trusted with my true intentions. And I will need more than one murderer to bring the whole stinking whorehouse, this cesspool of degradation down. I must point the Frenchman in the right direction, then let him spin out of control.

A long time I have waivered. But now I am sure. Moral certainty ripens slowly, whatever Paul's account of Ephesus may be. And like him I must turn on my past, on my friends, on the organization that has nurtured me like my mother.

This mother is the whore of Babylon. Pope Clemens is head of the Beast. The Church must be brought down, the Earth purged of its filth and corruption. Only in the flames of this rotten and reeking empire can the True Realm arise.

And first I must crush the Free Company: kick the crutch from the grasp of the cursed Roman whore. Then the Pope in all his bigotted vanity soon will fall.

salva me
salva me
domine
salva me

 

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Re: July 14. The Vatican...

Originally posted by Card. Tenaglie
I must turn on my past, on my friends, on the organization that has neutered me like my mother.

How sad! How shocking!! I'm sure I'd also have wanted to turn on the group that had done the same to me.

 

[Barkdreg]

A low kick followed by three punches to the chin.
A spin and a knee in the nuts. 4 quick slaps to the side of the head.
2 fingers in the solar plexus.

The 4 muggers lay on the ground. Their little ambush was a failure.
How was it possible, defeated by a single unarmed man. If only they knew who it was. The man turned and stepped out the alley wistling a happy tune.

********

A fine fight indeed. Felipe felt satisfied. He really believed that if you don't fight regularly you'd loose your skill. And nothing beats a good training followed by a nice jug of wine.

He walked over to a wine merchant and ordered his best wine.
The bottle was quickly emptied. Not bad, a nice red wine, not too sweat and with a little flavour reminding Felipe of pears.
Yet if this was the best wine the merchant had. He really had to talk to his dad, Rome would be the perfect place to sell the wines from
'Chateau Barkdegue'. And maybe there would be some demand for black roses. Continuing his happy tune Felipe walked back to the tavern.

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

July 14, at night.

Jess and Felipe ran down to the pub as soon as they were billeted in Vezze, two day's march from Rome. The bar was crowded, people standing at the bar. But there was a table with two empty seat. Felipe waved Jess to follow him. They looked inquiringly at the man sitting at the table already, and he motioned them to sit down. Jess called for a pint of brandy and two glasses.

"Listen, Felipe," he said excitedly, "we've got to plan something for Rome. The devil thing was pretty funny, but no one in the Company really noticed. We have to do something for our friends. Maybe we could get Rictus drunk and tar and feather him the night before our papal parade. That would be funny. I have some stuff from a apothecary that really gives you the runs. But how can we get old Mortlock to eat it? That's the problem..."

"Yeah," replied Felipe, "we have to do something really wild and get in a fight with the Germans. I could use a brawl. What if we stole Sabine and filled the barrel with soap?"

"Nya, you don't mess with a soldier's weapons. That's what father always says. Wonder what the old devil is doing..."

"That's right!" said a gruff voice in English, "you don't mess with a soldier's weapons."

Jess and Felipe turned to look in astonishment at the man who shared their table. They hadn't expected anyone to speak English. The man looked like he was somewhere between youth and middle age. His clothes were weather-stained and worn. He didn't look shabby, though, he looked rough, like an old campaigner. A well made but much used pistol protruded from his belt and the simple unadorned sword hilt looked like it had been fashioned by hand and carefully finished, like the handle of a much-used tool.

The man chuckled. "Ainsley, Ned Ainsley's the name. You didn't expect to find an Englishman here, did you? Much less Ned Ainsley from Warwickshire, I'll daresay. But neither did I, neither did I. Have been up and down the bloody world, in Sweden, Germany, Flanders, Milano, even Transylvania. Where the fightin' is bad, that's where'll you find ol' Ned."

"So you're a mercenary?" asked Felipe.

"So I am. A soldier of fortune. Only I didn't exactly make a fortune, bailing out this king or that, did I now?"

Jess motioned for another glass. "Have a drink, Ned. I am Jess--that's short for Guiseppe, you now---and this here is Felipe. We've never been to England. We're also... But you said you're always where the fighting is? There's no battle here!"

"Well," replied Ned accepting the brandy gratefully, "you never know when you're fightin' and when you're not. And am feelin' that I'd like to slow down. I still want to fight, mind you, it's the only thing I know how to do, but I am tired of being trampled on by some jumped-up bastard with rich daddy and a stick up his arse. I heard a story once, at a camp near Hermannstadt, of a company of mercenaries that fight like honorable men, and get a steady subsidy. They had real barracks and trained and they were good fighters. The best. And they fought for money, but not for every bastard with money. Probably just a bloody myth, a company like that. The stupid bastard who told me said they were called the "Free Company". Bloody frigging fairy tale. But here I am, tired of being kicked around by Prince this-or-that."

He took a deep swig of brandy, lost in thought for a moment. Jess and Felipe looked at one another and grinned.

* * *

In Palermo, Captain Elliot T. Bloomfield tossed and turned. He could not get to sleep. His leg was hurting again, and he was troubled. Restless.

I shouldn't have sent Susanna home, he thought. That would give him something to do now. Susanna was the best tart in Parlermo, but also the most expensive one and he hadn't wanted to pay for the whole night.

But it wasn't that, really. He didn't like the reports he had heard from some of his neighbors here that someone had been asking about the Company. A monk with a Roman accent. If he wanted to know about the Company, why hadn't he come to him, Bloomfield? There were no secrets surrounding the Free Company. And why this strange snooping now, that his men were on their way to Rome?

Bloomfield tossed again. He was glad that Rictus and Mortlock had gone with the men. They had some sense. That young Doctor, too. But he wished De La Croix were here to talk to: De La Croix has his head screwed on right.

Bloomfield chuckled as he remembered the many poker games with De La Croix before a battle. Then he turned and closed his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep. There was nothing he could do.

 

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Re: Re: July 14. The Vatican...

Originally posted by Lionheart

[Originally posted by Card. Tenaglie
I must turn on my past, on my friends, on the organization that has neutered me like my mother.

How sad! How shocking!! I'm sure I'd also have wanted to turn on the group that had done the same to me.

Hey! I may have forgotten the "r" but you put that "e" in there!

 

[Rictus]

Early Next Morning

OOC: Ok, OK! I know Stronager went to Rome, but I need to bother him for the purposes of this. It wont be for long and you can have him back afterwards, but without him, the jokes pretty stupid (even with him, its not that good.)



Rictus awoke with a start, which was unusual for him, as he usually woke quite gently.
He got up and changed quickly, putting on a semi-casaul outift-cum-uniform, groggily, he made his way down to the kitcheen-canteen area, to find Stronager moodily eating his breakfast alone, which, again, wasn't unusual, but this time he was unaccompanied by any books.

Rictus sat down beside him and tucked into his meal - a simple affair that involved mostly toast and something that he hoped was a black pudding, but he knew no Italian would ever cook one of those, so he hoped for the best - after a few moments of stony silence, Rictus spoke.

"Still smarting from that fight with Gi-inlucky chap, eh?"

"No" He snapped. "And anyway, its Gianluca."

"The swellings have gone down" Rictus said and smiled at the old man, who ignored him. "So...what you been up to?" He resisted the urge to add 'aside from being beaten up?'

"I've actually been thinking of a new book" the German replied, "I'm thinking of calling it 'Effects of hydro-aquatic mammalian cultures and species on a non-sodium-chlorofonic climate with respect to its proper habitat on reptile and other native species in pictures' and it promises to be quite a read!"

"I'll bet it does" Rictus answered, lightly. He was saved from more mind-boggling banter by a pair of sergeants dragging themselves down the stairs in an effort to avoid the morning breakfast rush. "Hildare, Goyle, I want to move the men out after breakfast, so tell them to keep it light and no drinking till we're on the move. Anyway who gets drunk has their pay docked. Tell the others" The pair nodded and moved to head back upstairs, but RIctus stopped them. "You might as well have breakfast first." The two men smiled gratefully and moved to the canteen.

"When do you expect to get to Rome?" Stronager asked,

"Tomorrow evening at the earliest, but I doubt we'll be that quick. By my reckoning, we should be get their about the morning of the day after. Wednesday, I believe." Stronager nodded. "Speaking of Rome, how did you get back so quickly...and what are you doing back here anyway?"

"I had to see a friend of a friend that I didn't have a chance to see on my way past. Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair by lunchtime."

"Don't worry about it, but how'd you get here so quickly?"

"I used a really, really fast horse."

 

[Deaghaidh]

Totally OOC and OT:

Bloomfield, who is the poem in your sig by? Its terribly somber- do you need a hug?

If y'all want to keep using Ristard as the 'straight man' for Willie, go ahead, as I'm short on ideas at the moment. I'm still working on a way to make him say "Grease me up woman!" and "There's narry a creature alive that can outrun a greased Scotsman!"

Oh, and for those interested, my Ireland AAR has been updated with a rather big segment.

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

poem

Deaghaidh: I just changed my sig to something a little lighter. I am signature-restless these days. The poem is a sonnet by Shakespeare, one of my favorite ones, number 66. It's somber, true, but the imagery is incredibly powerful: "Strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority... simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill." To me the poem is about society and its institutions that are necessary for the community's survival and yet at the same time remove us further from some purer state, from some space to breathe that is lost among rules, forms, school, beaurocracy and politics. And it is interesting that while the writer seems to be suicidal, he is not really so. He has the strength and passion to accuse the world around him. And then there is the redeeming virtue of love...

Maybe I should put it back in my sig. Thanks for noticing, D.

Here it is one more time.

LXVI.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

 

[Storey]

Originally posted by Rictus
Early Next Morning

"I've actually been thinking of a new book" the German replied, "I'm thinking of calling it 'Effects of hydro-aquatic mammalian cultures and species on a non-sodium-chlorofonic climate with respect to its proper habitat on reptile and other native species in pictures' and it promises to be quite a read!"

(OOC)Gosh, Stroneger keeps impressing me. I never knew he was going to turn out this smart.

Stronger sat there talking to Rictus.

"There is however a minor problem with this project. Hardly worth commenting on except that I can't seem to get around the fact that I can't draw which presents a problem with the picture aspect of the book. Know anyone with the flare neccessary to draw Hydro-aquatic mammalian cultures?"

 

[Lord Durham]

Storey posted:
Know anyone with the flare neccessary to draw Hydro-aquatic mammalian cultures?"

HEY!!!! There will be absolutely no references to Jar Jar Binks on this thread, no matter how well you try to obscure it in a fancy book title! Henceforth, the guilty party's character will have to spend the night with a well-greased 'Wee Willie Wallace'! Consider this your only warning!!

 

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July 14, 3 bells. The tavern's kitchen...

Originally posted by Lord Durham

HEY!!!! There will be absolutely no references to Jar Jar Binks on this thread, no matter how well you try to obscure it in a fancy book title! Henceforth, the guilty party's character will have to spend the night with a well-greased 'Wee Willie Wallace'! Consider this your only warning!!

[OOC: Hey, wha did Bill do? He is simply Bill being Bill. Aye, and perhaps "Willie" will have to be greased up sooner than thought. You'll see...]

Bill had received the ingredients he needed for his special brand of hagus, and as was his wont, he talked to himself as he cooked it:

"I dinna get this job because of my looks. No! I got it because I'm firm . Firm but fair . Now laddie, we'll see whah we ken do about this hagus."

Bill continued talking to himself, when one of the serving girls, perhaps a daughter of the tavernkeeper came down. She had heard Bill talking to himself, and had wondered what was going on. Bill saw the young lass, and smiled to himself. He wondered if these Italians ever spoke to themselves? Maybe. Maybe not.

"Lass, yew'll catcher death uv cold, dressed like that."

The serving girl looked down, and saw all she was wearing was a nigt gown(and not a very heavy one at that), and made to cover herself up. But Bill waved away her modesty:

"Lass, thar's never a need to be ashamed of what ye have ta offer. Why, ya'll na'er be a fine Scottish lass, but yew'll make some man happy."

The serving girl looked at Bill quizzically, and then they both heard the noise. A crash! followed by a loud bit of cursing outside the tavern. Both Bill and the serving girl went to check and see what was making all the noise. And they were amazed at what they had seen. Seems that someone had been keeping some hogs as pets, or for some strange, unknown purpose. These hogs had escaped, and now a strange dressed man ran after them as the hogs ran all over the street. Bill remembered his times as a hog handler, a long time back. He looked to the serving girl, and with a fluid motion, ripped off his shirt, to reveal bulging muscles. He was impressed when the serving girl dinna faint.

"Grease me up woman!"

And so, the serving girl got some hog fat, and greased up Bill. He then ran out, and tried to capture the hogs. As he did, he called out into the night:

"There's narry a creature alive that can outrun a greased Scotsman!"

And the chase was on. A Scot chasing freed hogs through the streets of Rome. Hmm...

**************************************************

[OOC: well, how's that? As an avid Simpson's fan, I have a tonne of clips. Like:

"I'll save ya boy!" And "Ach, I'm no good at this!"

"Dinna read my mind between 4 and 5 pm. Thas Willie's time!"

(Can you tell I have recently seen the Simpson's episodes? Is it that obvious?)

I also have some more grease related bits(well, one for sure)

"Wha?! Tha's my retirement grease!"

Well, if someone wants to join in the fun, please, feel free. A greased Scotsman is a fearsome sight. And just wait until there is a battle. I am certain anyone familiar with SCTV will notice the battle cry that Bill uses]

 

[Storey]

Stroneger was still sitting in bed writing in his diary when he heard a crash. Moving quickly to the window of his room on the second floor of the tavern he leaned out and saw a sight that bewildered and confounded him. There was William the Scot half naked chasing or being chased by a dozen hogs. First he would corner one of the hogs and it would squeal and dash by while William would jump on it only to have it slip out of his grasp. Stroneger looked closer and swore to himself.

"By God it looks like he's covered in grease! What fool would cover himself in grease and then try to catch a pig?"

He then called down to the Scot.

"Maybe you should have greased the hogs to make it a fair contest!"

William glared up and shook a fist at Stroneger and then continued his strange dance with the hogs.

 

[Lord Durham]

July 14 - Evening

5 seconds after Wallace went to the bar

"Oh Christ! There he goes getting indignant and puffing his chest out again. Hey Bill..."

"Let him go Ristard," Mortlock grabbed the Irishman's arm and pulled him back down. "Say, did that girl over there faint?"

Otto stood up and went over to the group of girls. He watched for a moment then returned to the table. "Naw. She didn't faint. She's rolled over in laughter."

"Why's that?"

"Well Lieutenant, you didn't see the Scot from the angle I did, and I would not be amiss if we were to call him 'Wee Willie Wallace' from now on."

Ristard sprayed his beer across the table. Wallace half turned from the bar and cocked an eyebrow, then went back to his conversation.

Mortlock slapped the Irishman on the back a couple of times. "You OK?"

"Aye. A lot better than ye think."

"Good." Mortlock leaned forward, his face a mask of seriousness. "Otto, Spiros, what's up."

Otto said, "My Greek friend here has a friend in the city that caters to parties."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, it seems there's a rather lavish dinner coming up on the 17th hosted by one Cardinal Vincenzo Alleghri."

"That's nice. What's it mean to us?"

"Well Lieutenant, one of the guests is the Ambassador of France, a... how do I put this politely? A fat pig that keeps the company of young boys when he's not stuffing his rather obese body."

Mortlock was interested. "I see. The French and the Cardinals. Politics in motion, gentlemen. The Spanish have held a preponderance of influence in the Vatican for years. It seems to me a power struggle is in the works."

Otto and Spiros exchanged looks. They were simple soldiers. Ristard belched. "If you say so, Lieutenant."

He nodded. "I say so..." There was a sudden flurry of motion as a familiar figure bolted past. "Hey! Wasn't that Stroneger that just went running out the door?"

Ristard belched again. "Looks like he was in a hurry. Want me to follow?"

"Naw. He's freelance. I can't stop him from coming and going. Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah. The party. It would be to our advantage if we could listen in..."

Otto smiled, a wide toothy grin. "Already taken care of sir."

Spiros said, "My friend Yannis has agreed to let some of our men pose as servers."

Mortlock's jaw dropped. "Great work. Ristard! Buy these men a beer!"

"Huh?"

Mortlock drifted into thought. "Yes... Yes indeed. And I know just the people to send in." He stood up. "First I have to talk to the propriator of this fine establishment. I think a party for the Company is in order when they arrive two days from now."

Just then Wallace's voice carried from the bar in a deep bass. "Ach, now yew'll taste some true food. Not this crrrrrap that yew serve."

At the table, Mortlock rolled his eyes: "Ah damn, I think we should have left Bill back in Palermo"

Ristard looked up from his beer, a lop-sided grin splayed across his face. "Not a chance, sir."

* * *

Minutes later a racket from outside brought the men to the tavern entrance.

The street was filled with pigs, scampering wildly in different directions.

Suddenly an all too familiar voice boomed, "Grease me up woman!"

Otto said, "Don't tell me.."

A minute later the Scot barreled past them and onto the street.

Mortlock shook his head and walked back to the table. The others began to bet on the pigs.

 

[Storey]

The noise was still too much for Stroneger to go to sleep. Willie was hooting and hollering for all he was worth. Stroneger put on his clothes and went down stairs. He grabed a drink and went out into the street passing some of the company men still drinking in the tavern. When he got outside he watched the mad Scotsman still scrambling after the hogs. He took another drink of wine and started shouting encouragement to Willie.

"Half a foot, half a foot,
Half a step onward.
All in the street full of Hogs
Rode Wee Willie the Scotsman.
Forward, Wee Willie!
Charge for the swine! he said:
Into the street full of Hogs
Rode Wee Wille the Scotsman.

Tuskers to the right of him,
Porkers to the left of him,
Oinkers in front of him,
Squealed and farted;
Storem'd at with snout and smell
Boldy he rode them well,
Into the jaws of Hogs,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode Wee Willie the Scotsman."



(OOC)

LD, LMAO on the Wee Willie joke. I didn't even see it coming.

Edited to try to fit in better with your post.

 

[Lord Durham]

After watching the antics for a while the men decided that drinking beer would be more fun. At one point Stroneger came storming down the stairs and disappeared out the door.

Ristard looked up from his beer, and half-cocked his head. "Listen! I hear singing!"

Otto nodded. "Yeah, and it's a decent bass baritone, at that"

The men scrambled from the table and rushed outside. Stroneger was chanting his song as a frustrated Wee Willie scampered after the hogs.

"I've got the 'alto'," Otto said.

"I'll take bass," piped in Spiros.

Mortlock waved his hands, "No! No, not me..."

Finally Junior said, "Oh, all right. I'll take soprano."

Ristard counted the beat, then the men jumped into the song, joining Stroneger in a perfect four-part harmony.

Ristard, bottle waggling in one hand, began an Irish jig.

"Half a foot, half a foot,
Half a step onward.
All in the street full of Hogs
Rode Wee Willie the Scotsman.
Forward, Wee Willie!
Charge for the swine! he said:
Into the street full of Hogs
Rode Wee Wille the Scotsman.

Tuskers to the right of him,
Porkers to the left of him,
Oinkers in front of him,
Squealed and farted;
Storem'd at with snout and smell
Boldy he rode them well,
Into the jaws of Hogs,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode Wee Willie the Scotsman."

And so it went on...

------------------

Storey: I've been sitting on that a while. I was looking for the proper moment. Glad you liked

 

[Lord Durham]

July 14 - Still Evening

As Wee Willie chased hogs around the street, and Ristard danced a jig to the bellicose tune which the Company men belted out, a crowd of the curious and down right disgusted gathered to watch.

On the fringes of the spectacle a coach clattered past, until a shout from the man within brought it ot a screeching halt. A thick meaty hand waving a handkerchief rested on the edge of the coach door, and a voice said in French, "Oh look! Entertainment! Court jesters in Rome. How quaint. I wonder if the Cardinals would appreciate it if I hired them for the dinner. Ah, probably not; the stiff collared bunch. Ah well, perhaps I can throw my own party and hire them. Driver! What is the name of yon tavern?"

"The 'Seventh Legion', my Lord."

"'Seventh Legion', is it? I must remember that. Ah well, can't tarry, I have a leg of lamb waiting for me back at my suite. Tut-tut man, allez! Allez! Maintenant!"

The coach clattered away, leaving the crowd behind.

 

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Vatican, July 15th...

The voice was soft, but the bass resounded in the small room.

"They will be here before the Party," Sparafucile was saying, bowing his head slightly.

"Good. Reply that the Cardinal Vittore Ceasere Maria Tenaglie will be delighted to attend."

Tenaglie sat up and looked closely at Sparafucile.

"You understand the plan?"

Sparafucile nodded, professional pride showing on his face.

"Excellent. Let me see the knife!"

Sparfucile handed a dagger in its dull leather sheath to Tenaglie. The Cardinal drew the dagger, examining the blackened blade. The hiltguard was intricately worked in the shape of a flowing pentangle, the last point of which extended up and curved, joining the knob, forming the guard. The knob itself was in the shape of a goatshead, with wide blazing eyes.

A small twitch played on Tenaglie's face. "Now, Sparafucile, we need to know which Cardinal his Holiness the Pope relies on most. Who is his right hand, indispensible? Perhaps we should also know who is responsible for the Papacy's foreign policy?"

It might be Almeida, thought Tenaglie, but dismissed the thought again. Almeida was old school, dogmatic inquisition and probably pretty much irrelevant in the secular and policy-driven Vatican run by Clemens VII.

Sparafucile had turned to leave, but Tenaglie called him back. "Oh, Sparafucile," he said, "what about our little helper?"

Sparafucile turned and paused for a second. Then he said, "they have taken the bait. Now they must swallow it."

 

[unmerged(2540)]

[All OOC: Well, well, well, seems that Bill has become the brunt of jokes. Don't people know that the cold cold air causes shrinkage? Yeah, that's it, shrinkage! As fer the hogs, I would bet on Willie. He's a stubborn one, he is.
And that is possibly the best song i ever read. Damn, now Willie has his own anthem. Oh well. Back to the pigs, eh?]

 

[Rictus]

Rictus was at the head of the small Company infantry column, and he was bored. There was no fun in marching, though he was sure Jess and Felipe cold think of something. But, he consoled himself, at least it should soon be over and, whats more they were making good time, and would probably be entering Rome half a day earlier than expected.

Rictus knew the others were having all the fun