Yet he knew almost nothing of the friar's past. Don Ramon had hired him to write some letters the day after reaching Italy, and that timing made it very hard to see Bartolo as a spy planted on the Company, because the Company had not even existed. He evaded his oaths of poverty and chastity by insisting that his wages be paid to his mistress and their rapidly increasing family, and a man who could bend his sworn word like that was not perfectly honest.
Who was? Certainly not Arnaud Villars, with his enormous black beard, his ferocious dark scowl, his well-checkered past. The first time Toby had met him, he had been running a profitable smuggling operation between Aquitaine and Navarre. After war had ruined business, they had run into each other in Barcelona — apparently by chance — and Toby had hired him on the spot. Without doubt Arnaud skimmed something off the payroll, so he had no reason to steal openly. Furthermore, it had been he who reported the loss. As quartermaster, he was astute enough to stay level with the Florentine suppliers, as paymaster he ran a personal army of clerks to keep track of what every man was owed in wages or what he still had to repay on his equipment if the Company had provided it, to assign fodder for his horse and record whose horse it was — and on and on. Toby got headaches even thinking about it. He had known Arnaud longer than anyone in the Company except Hamish. They had fought shoulder to shoulder in Navarre.
But? But why was the leopard curled up on the hearth-rug? Men of action rarely transformed themselves so willingly into quill-pushers. Maybe the old scoundrel was just starting to feel his age.
Diaz? The captain was a true professional, a soft-spoken imperturbable Catalan with a face carved from well-seasoned oak. It was he who had turned the Company into a fighting machine as fine as any in Italy. He recruited, outfitted, drilled, disciplined, and never complained or argued or displayed any facial expression whatsoever. He was a devout man, deeply troubled by the spiritual dangers of his chosen career. The Don Ramon Company would collapse without him. As far as trust went, he ranked right after Hamish Campbell.
Men were never simple. The don, who would die rather than blemish his precious honor, would lie like a horse trader to seduce a pretty girl, promising anything. Maestro Fischart's hatred for the Fiend knew no bounds whatsoever, but he spent his days and nights in the company of demons; he had been enthralled once and might be trapped again. Even Hamish, honest as the hills, was usually either aching from a broken heart or so starry-eyed in love that he blundered into doorposts.
Toby was shocked to realize that the shadows were growing longer already. An arrow took only seconds to flash across a field and end a man's life, but if you counted the year or longer needed to make the bow and the many years required to train the archer, then an arrow was a slow death. Similarly, a war might be settled in a single hard battle. It was preparing for war that took the time.
The don's appointment had become known in the city, and volunteers were reported at the gates. Diaz sent word that they should wait, even knowing that most would turn out to be runaway apprentices lacking even a horse.
They had run out of names at last. Toby arranged the letters in heaps — the good, the bad, the possible, the last resorts. He pulled out four. "Desjardins, if he is still available." According to yesterday's rumors, he had signed on with Naples. "Simonetta, D'Amboise, and della Sizeranne. We need those four."
Three heads nodded.
All four condottieri had wintered near Naples. The fastest mail was the service run by the Marradi Bank, which was efficient — so efficient that a copy of any letter he sent would undoubtedly arrive on the Magnificent's desk before the original left Florence — but message and response would still require at least ten days. If the offers were refused, that meant ten more days lost. A demon ride would be faster, but that option was not available to Toby himself, and he would not call for volunteers. What sort of man would risk his soul for a handful of gold? What sort of man would ask him? The Marradi mail it would have to be.
He threw the letters on the table and sat down to reach for the quill standing in its silver inkwell. "Let's send these ones on their way as soon as possible. Who's next?" Biting his tongue, he began penning his signature…
"There is one position you have not mentioned," Diaz said.
Toby looked up sharply, but the marshal's face was as scrutable as mud.
"Who?"
"Il comandante in capo."
"Ah!" He went back to signing the letters.
They were all waiting to tell him he was the logical choice for the supreme command, but that was just loyalty — they would say so if he had a crossbow bolt embedded in his forehead. Was he? Of the thousands of soldiers in Italy, many must know the country better than he did, although he had spent most of the last two years in the saddle, exploring it from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Adriatic. Almost all would speak the language better, and most would have more experience. Who was he to take the fate of the peninsula on his shoulders? He should not try to judge his own abilities, because no man could be totally impartial about himself. All he knew for certain was that he wanted the job more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Wasn't that the best possible reason not to get it?
He replaced the pen and looked around the three faces. "Not me. No, it's impossible, never mind why. I accept your support — it's very flattering, and I'm truly touched, but forget me. Who's the next best man for the job? Florence will want to have a candidate, and the captain-general's opinion should carry weight. Who's our man?"
He was a lousy liar. Their surprise turned at once to disbelief. Inevitably the treasurer and the friar looked to the soldier to answer the question.
"There isn't one," Diaz said heavily. "Mezzo's good, but Rome won't ever accept a Neapolitan. Venice can't trust Milan. And so on. If it isn't Florence, it'll have to be an outsider — Girolami of Pisa? Or Barrafranca? The Chevalier?"
After a moment's mutual repugnance, massive subterranean chuckles began to shake Brother Bartolo's soft bulk.
"What's amusing you?" Toby demanded.
The fat man shrugged doughy shoulders. "Last fall I asked messer Campbell why you were moving the Company to winter quarters at Fiesole instead of somewhere warmer. He would not admit that you hoped to succeed the late messer Vespucci as Captain-General of Florence, but he did not quite deny it either, so one night I introduced him to our excellent Chianti wines. Sometime after midnight, we agreed that Nevil must come from the north, so either Milan or Venice will be the first to feel his spite, but those two cities are ancient rivals, and neither will ever trust a capo whose first loyalty lies with the other. Temporary deafness when the cry for help went out would be just too much of a temptation!"
Arnaud was leering through the black thatch on his face. Even Diaz looked close to smiling. What matter if they thought it had been Hamish who devised that strategy?
"Furthermore, the admirable Campbell agreed that Milan and Venice can never trust Rome or Naples, because they're too far away and might not get here in time. Florence, though, is right in the middle and is too small to be a threat to any of the other four." The fat man beamed. "Sir Tobias, you do want the golden apple!"
"Of course he does," Arnaud growled. "And he earned it at Trent. He's a foreigner, so he has no local loyalties. He fights in ways the old generals don't understand. And he's the best anyway."