Free The Malice of Fortune by Michael Ennis Page B

hesitate. “My lordships’ most devout hope is that this treaty is never signed—they pray to that end three times every day, at lauds, terce, and vespers.”
    I noted his mocking tone. “You do not believe these prayers will be heard.”
    “I fear this treaty is all but signed and sealed.”
    We came to the mill canal. It raced along, nearly as musical as a brook, although the banks were lined with snow; I was forced to clutchMesser Niccolò more closely than I would have wished as we crossed the icy planks.
    By this time Leonardo’s party had reached the wooden bridge over the Santerno River, which in this season resembled a turbid lake more than a hundred braccia wide. Yet the bridge was a temporary construction that seemed entirely made of toothpicks, despite its enormous size. The thought of crossing it gave me a shudder.
    “I will tell you, Messer Niccolò, why I determined to follow you, in the same fashion you are following Maestro Leonardo.” I gave him a moment to say something smart, but he did not. “As I told you, I have come from Rome. On an errand for Pope Alexander. His Holiness has instructed me to examine the murder of this woman who was cut into four pieces and scattered about the countryside.”
    “Five. If you consider her head, five pieces.”
    I had expected to startle him, but his quick reply gave me a shudder. “Yes, the head,” I said. “Which remains absent, when it might identify the unfortunate woman, as well as inform us of her associations.”
    Here he did observe a careful silence, though I could not say whether I had assumed too much or if he regretted revealing his interest in the matter.
    Moments later we reached the Santerno bridge. Leonardo’s party not only had crossed already; they had left the road, marching down a slight slope onto the river’s opposite bank, which was covered with snow-clotted reeds. As we began to cross, I could hardly keep my feet; these planks were glazed with compacted snow and so carelessly fitted that I could see the muddy water rushing along beneath them. The entire structure swayed before me like a bough in the wind—and there was no railing of any sort.
    No doubt I mouthed the Ave Maria a thousand times before we reached the other side. Here Messer Niccolò halted and looked out over the right bank, where we could see Leonardo’s pewter head bobbing through the tall reeds, more than a hundred braccia beyond us.
    “There are gravel pits and quicksand down there,” Messer Niccolò said, evidently believing that this would dissuade me from accompanying him farther.
    “Yet here you are, Messer,” I replied, “all too eager to follow the duke’s military engineer into a frozen swamp.” I did not bother with much of a pause before I added: “Why is your government so concerned with Maestro Leonardo’s excursion into the countryside?”
    He stared out over the reeds, searching for his vanishing quarry. All at once he crossed himself like a comic mime, as if making a satire of the perils ahead. “If you are going to come along, we had better go at once.”

    We had not gone twenty steps through the reeds when I plunged into a soup of icy water, halfway to my knees. Yet I stiffened my resolve and ventured on, the gravel always shifting beneath my feet and often threatening to suck me down, the water sometimes to my thighs. I could see nothing ahead save the slender back of Messer Niccolò Machiavelli, secretary to the Ten of War. Now and then he peered back at me; I could not say if he was anticipating my rescue, or merely hoped to find me gone.
    Just when I feared I had lost sight of Messer Niccolò, I nearly stepped on him, as he crouched in the reeds. He signaled me to keep quiet, though I could hardly help snorting like a horse after the palio , I was so breathless. Someone was speaking just ahead, a strident tenor: “Start clearing the snow. It is buried somewhere in this vicinity.”
    I exchanged looks with Messer Niccolò, who pointed