The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(18)

The Basque flew toward him and grabbed his clothes, tossing him to the ground.

The would-be assassin landed hard, a loud oath escaping his lips. But he did not drop his sword.

Ibarra stood over him, speaking in Basque-accented Italian. “Surrender and I shall be merciful.”

The Venetian looked around, measuring the distance to the street.

Ibarra took that opportunity to focus on his scent. “You haven’t fed in some time. You must be hungry. I will ensure you’re given food.”

The Venetian stumbled to his feet, waving his sword in front of Ibarra’s midsection. His eyes flickered from place to place, weighing his options.

“Our Prince is dead. You’re the only assassin who survived. The entire principality is hunting you and the others will kill you when they find you.”

The Venetian’s expression changed, but only momentarily. He hadn’t heard the assassination had been successful or that his entire team had been killed. And he didn’t appear to trust Ibarra’s word.

The Basque smiled.

“It’s clear you’re courageous, but don’t let your courage become folly. You’re friendless, alone, and far from home. I will see that you are fed and given shelter. Put down your sword.”

The Venetian lifted his weapon still higher.

Ibarra whistled softly, shaking his head.

“Why would Marcus send someone your age to assassinate an old one? Doesn’t he have other, better soldiers? Or does Venice intend to wage war against us with an army of younglings?”

The young Venetian’s eyes fixed on his.

Ibarra’s smile widened.

“Ah, so Marcus didn’t tell you our Prince was an old one.” He swung his sword with a flourish. “Still, you should have studied your history. Our Prince ruled Florence for centuries. Although I can’t swear to his exact age when he was killed, it’s clear he was one of the oldest in Italy.”

Something remarkably like surprise flashed across the Venetian’s face.

Ibarra’s smile faded. He moved a step closer.

“They say Marcus is a tyrant. Is he worth dying for?”

The Venetian gripped his sword with two hands, swinging it at Ibarra’s head.

Ibarra ducked, swiping his weapon at the Venetian’s feet and knocking him over.

The Venetian toppled to the ground, still clinging to his sword.

Ibarra stomped on his hand and the Venetian cried out in pain, releasing the weapon.

The Basque placed the tip of his sword underneath the Venetian’s chin, lifting it.

“I see that Venetians are loyal, but not intelligent.

“I’m older than you by at least a century, perhaps two. I’m stronger, faster, and more difficult to kill. You won’t best me in a swordfight, even if you weren’t weak from lack of food.”

Ibarra’s dark eyes twinkled like two black stars.

“It will be difficult to engage in a swordfight with me since you’ve just lost your weapon.” He scratched the Venetian’s neck, drawing blood.

“Help me flee the city and you’ll receive a king’s ransom.” The Venetian’s voice was low but defiant.

Ibarra’s brow crinkled. “What kind of ransom?”

“Gold. There are those who would pay a great deal for my safe return.”

Ibarra surveyed the captive’s clothes and appearance. “I doubt that.”

“You can come with me. Prince Marcus could use someone like you.”

“I’m sure he could. He probably hasn’t executed anyone in at least a few hours and is in need of a victim.” Ibarra kicked the Venetian in the side. “Get up.”

“I have powerful friends.” The Venetian stubbornly refused to move.

“I’d like to hear more about that. But first, we’re going to go for a walk. Now stand up.”

The Venetian stood on unsteady feet and Ibarra pushed him toward the mouth of the alley, pressing the tip of his sword into his back.

“You may not realize this, Venetian, but Fortune has smiled on you. Since I am the one who found you, you will live to see another day. The question is whether or not you’ll see the day after that.”

Chapter 12

“What news from Rome?” The Prince welcomed his lieutenant to the library of his private residence in the Palazzo Riccardi, gesturing to a nearby chair.

Lorenzo bowed and took his seat.

“The Roman was unavailable. I met with his lieutenant.”

The Prince seemed unsurprised by the revelation. “And?”

From beneath his robes, Lorenzo withdrew a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax that bore the imprint of the King of Italy. “This missive was given to me to confirm my conversation with the lieutenant. He informed me Rome won’t interfere if war ensues between Venice and Florence, unless the conflict attracts undue attention.”

The Prince broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, reading the Latin words quickly. “Attention from whom? Humans or the Curia?”

Lorenzo shifted in his seat. “The lieutenant was not specific.”

“Probably because one leads to the other.”

The Prince paused as he saw something of interest in the missive that was not related to the present discussion.

Lorenzo noted his reaction, staring at him with inquisitive eyes.