The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(20)

Ibarra hesitated. He looked as if he wished to protest but wisely, he didn’t.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I place you in charge of the interrogation, as a reward. But I order Maximilian and Aoibhe to observe the questioning. Stefan the physician will also be placed at your service, should you have need of him.”

“I am honored, my lord. Thank you.” Ibarra genuflected and returned to his seat.

“And Ibarra.”

The Basque paused before sitting, turning toward the throne once again. “Yes, my lord?”

“One of your predecessors thought it would be a good idea to involve a priest in an interrogation.” The Prince’s expression hardened. “Don’t make the same mistake.”

Chapter 13

The Prince was pleased with Ibarra and the capture of the remaining Venetian. Confident in the steps he’d taken to defend the principality, and in the information that continued to trickle in from spies placed in Venice and on the coast, the Prince decided it was time for him to emerge from hiding, at least for a few hours.

He wanted his citizens and the Venetians to continue to believe in his demise, but he was running out of time with respect to the Emersons. They were scheduled to check out of the Gallery Hotel Art the following morning. If he was to have his revenge on them it must be that evening.

Thus, the Prince decided he would venture out of the Palazzo Riccardi and into the streets of Florence, but only for a few hours and with the single purpose of torturing and killing Professor Emerson.

But he needed to visit an old friend first.

He used a secret network of passages that led from the Palazzo to his villa, which sat atop a hill overlooking the city. As the sun began its descent, he piloted his Triumph motorcycle from the garage and down the winding road that led to the Arno.

No doubt it would seem strange to the citizens of Florence’s underworld to see their prince taking such pleasure in riding a human machine. But he loved the sleekness of the body and the sound of the engine. He also loved the speed.

So it was that he drove like a demon across the Arno and over to Santa Maria Novella.

He was clad all in black, including a black helmet with an opaque shield, a pair of heavy, black motorcycle boots, and a black leather jacket that had been made in the 1950s. A piece of cloth, newly doused with a vintage from his cellar, was pinned inside his shirt.

Parking his roadster next to the church, he walked to the side entrance, still wearing his helmet. He was wary of being seen by one of his citizens and for more than one reason.

The second he stepped on holy ground, he developed a strong headache and his limbs began to feel weak. It was a harsh reminder he was no longer a servant of the Church.

His blood boiled with ancient anger.

Upon entering the church he removed his helmet, fighting the nausea that threatened from his stomach. He strode to the center, stopping below Giotto’s famous crucifix.

It was a thing of artistic beauty, to be sure. He took his time examining the Franciscan-inspired artwork, noting its colors. But he would not look at the face of the figure hanging on the cross.

He spat on the floor, blaspheming in Latin.

He turned on the heel of his boot and exited the church, moving across the grassy courtyard to the old chapter house. In the sixteenth century, it had been transformed into what became known as the Spanish Chapel. Andrea di Bonaiuto had painted the incredible frescoes that decorated the walls.

Now the Prince faced the person he’d come to see—a figure seated below the personifications of the seven virtues, wearing an expression of peace.

He made eye contact with the image, which appeared to stare back at him, and bowed very low, his body unaccustomed to the movement.

“Hail, Brother.” The Prince greeted him in Latin.

The figure remained silent.

“It’s been some time since I’ve visited. More than a century, if memory serves.” The Prince’s gaze flickered to the other less welcome images that flanked the favored one, before fixing on the personification of justice.

“Do you still believe in justice, now that you’ve seen behind the veil?”

He moved a step closer, regarding the crown and scepter that she carried, noting that the scepter was extended toward the figure he was addressing.

He turned away, shaking his head.

“Of course not. What am I saying? To question God in Paradise is to ensure expulsion.”

The Prince chuckled to himself and lifted his helmet. “Know that you have a home with me in hell, should you ever choose to fall.”

One more look at the image’s grave face and the Prince grew quiet, all amusement gone.

“Florence is under siege, or will be shortly. The Venetians are planning to attack. But that isn’t why I’m here.”

He began to pace, taking his eyes from the familiar figure and focusing on the movement of his boots.

“Would you believe I came here to make my confession? No? Would that you were still alive and I could speak to you in person. I think you would grant me an audience, no matter what the brothers say.”

He turned, avoiding the image as if he could feel its painted eyes burning on his body.

“Tonight, I am the agent of vengeance. Someone stole from me some time ago. I told you of this as you may recall. After many years my treasures have returned to the city and soon they will hang in my home once again. But tonight I will punish the man who stole them and in so doing, I will also exact revenge on his wife, who was complicit in the theft. But I won’t kill her.”