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Ashley sat perched on the edge of the roof of a shabby one horse carriage on a great hill south of the black river Arno. She was well past the town walls of Florence, though she could see them from her vantage, and being this far from a civilized world kept a pistol by her left hand. But what a single pistol, rendered useless the moment it fired its ball, could do against the roving bands of rogues now plaguing the country was not a thought she much wanted to think through. Nor did she wish to think on what the rogues would have probably done to her, a foreign woman not known to them, after they would have relieved her of all valuables. That her driver would be quite useless in a fight she knew. He was hired because his ankles looked good in a hose and he kept his tongue behind his teeth about her bed chamber habits. Faced with desperate fellows armed with knives, he was liable to throw her into their arms to distract and take off running. Another thought to chase off.

Ashley thereby filled the time admiring the city she now had called home for three years onwards. Florence. A glowing jewel, from a distant hill. From this high up, Ponte Vechio was a bustling market circumscribed by a bridge, with people coming and going and spending money. One had the luxury, from a hill, to not smell the desperation and hunger of the sellers, whose rented stalls now began to cost more than they are truly worth, for few people in town had coin enough to spend on the luxury wares on the bridge. And likewise, this high up, from distance, one did not see the thick layers of grime rendering the famous Florentine landmarks unrecognizable due to filth.

And the Jewish quarter looked majestic from the hill as well, for one did not have to take in the smells and sights of the ghetto now crammed with refugees, seeking to avoid the ravages of the war and the horrid displaced anger of their neighbors. The rich Tuscan tongue had given birth to a new strange and savage portmanteau to describe what had happened to the Jews: massesacch, from massacri e saccheggi, massacres and lootings.

But all those scarred and scared people from Ashley's rooftop perch could not be seen, and neither could one taste the hunger and fear of anyone from the town, Jewish or Catholic, for this high up. No, all looked orderly and serene from the beautiful hill.


"How did you manage to climb up there, my good lady?"

"With the same pluck I have shown in my finding of art, honorable ambassador."

Marco Augustus Franciotti, formerly one of many, many governors of Lucca, was recently appointed ambassador to Medicean Tuscany in Florence, replacing his cousin, who shared his name. The said cousin had been recently recalled and made a governor of Lucca, just to confuse things. And it was the same such cousin who suggested in strongest terms possible in a communication committed to writing (and thus vulnerable to hostile interception) that Marco meet with Ashley as soon as he could. And so it was that after he had presented himself to the Grand Duke at his magnificent palace south of Arno, did good Marco ride eastwards to this hill to present himself to the enchanting picture monger.

"So I have heard, my good lady. May I be so forward as to compliment you on your Lucchese dialect?"

"Thankee. And yes, you may, so long as I can point out the fine shape of your ankle in that hose."

"You are too good to notice."

There followed fifteen minutes of flirting so pedantic and common as to make you fall asleep, if you were not the two people talking that is, in which case a generously portioned woman with an ample bosom in a dress perhaps one size too small and a twinkle in eye conversing with a fellow not entirely unattractive and still retaining the juice of his youth in his later years might entice you. Or it may not. Ashley feigned interest. But Marco was drawn less far unscrupulously. He read one report too many filled with gossip about Ashley's bed habits and the possibility he might partake in what kept him up long past the hours he would devote to sleep, reading the accounts in as much detail as letters allowed... Marco was much intrigued. But soon flirting turned to something more serious. That is not to say we do not consider flirting not a serious matter worthy of commentary and copy, perish the thought, it is just the flirting now on display was quite subpar for our refined tastes, and yours.

"Tell me, my good ambassador..."

"Marco, please dearest lady."

"Then you must call me Ashley."

"Delighted to serve."

"Thankee. Marco, one hears the most curious rumors of Lucca. That by abstaining from the mire of wars now engulfing the Italies, it has retained at present most of its coin and its denizens spend it as freely as Florentines did before these conflicts descended upon us."

"You have heard true. We are a port town, and not being subject to war, our trade still flows well."

"So your good cousin claimed, but I wished to hear it from someone living there more recent."

"My good cousin spoke truth."

"Certes. And thankee."

"'Tis all?"

"It is a good start, for our future talks."

And with that Ashley hopped off the roof to the driver's seat, and in so doing, her dress flew more than slightly up revealing thick creamy thighs and enticing the now hopelessly ensnared Marco. Ashley then hopped off the driver's seat to the ground and spread her arms, for all the world as if an acrobat waiting coin and applause. Coin Marco did not bring to him to the meeting, but applause he did give. And for his efforts was given a wink and a bedroom smile. Then the enchanting creature disappeared into her carriage proper, gave a more lady like goodbye and was whisked off, leaving Marco covered in dust.

***


"Saint Helena?"

"Aye. A haven for pirates and other rascals, o fair maiden. We will steer well clear of her, lest the winds say otherwise and our stocks of food and water fall."

"Where shall we next make landfall then?"

"Some Portu'gee colony on the Africas, I should think. True Portu'gee I mean, not ones held by Spain."

Olympia nodded. Her companion shared the rail with her, his face now more weather beaten than when they first met. His body more taut. And his manner... his manner Olympia could neither easily describe, nor place. The man at her side answered Augustin, but that is almost all he shared with the man who got on the ship when it was docked in Genoa. Oh, to be sure, both had the same bed chamber tastes of being quite gentle. And both could speak nonsense for hours before an audience willing, or not, about trade winds, the need for good steering and the moons of Jupiter (always the moons). But many other things about Augustin had fallen and many more things suddenly were sewn on, from speech patterns to gait and even head movements. Yes, yes, head movements. Sir Augustin of St. Ives kept his head on a swivel, always ready to dart here and there, at first noise or a curio, but this Augustin moved his head with a... well, lofty was the first word that came to mind, though it did not meet with Olympia's satisfaction. As was his gait, that could be attributed to the motions of the sea (pardon - ocean). But even on dry land, Augustin now walked as if lord of the manor. Yet none of those things were as wince inducing as the manner of speech.

Augustin turned around and walked back to cabin, and Olympia snuck behind him and closed the door when both were inside.



"What is this 'maiden fair' nonsense?"

"Hmm?"

"You keep calling me 'maiden fair' or 'o fair maiden' or 'sweet maiden.' My sharing of bed with you was done more than once, and I wager you did not feel blood on your sex when we coupled?"

At this Augustin blushed. For he was in his heart of hearts still an Englishman, and though living among Italians had liberated him some, and his conversion to the Old Faith allowed him to view sin and sinful actions in a quite different manner than when he was Protestant born, bred and battered in school.

"I am no maiden, Ash. I am a grown woman."

"Pardon me then. I do not know where those words came. Well, that is not true. When I look at you, I see a maiden fair and true - warrior-maiden, that is, as if Joan of Arc of Italies, or mayhap a Hippolyte of Florence."

"Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake, after her own men betrayed her and locked the gate to the castle to which she was retreating. As for Hippolyte...! She was struck down by Hercules, while she stood as if an idiot gaping about, wondering why her Amazons were coming towards the boats of the Greeks clad in armor and holding weapons. And then her corpse was looted."

"Well, when you put it as that... I shan't use that phrase any longer. You shall be 'Olympia' to me. No more and no less."

"Thankee."

"It is just... Sir Augustin of St. Ives is dead. If he ever existed. Oh come now, Olympia, do not protest, you know as well as anyone I am no baronet, or even a knight, or... I am a bastard."

"Pray keep your voice low."

"It was my sister's idea to put on the airs. I do not even know where she had picked out 'St. Ives' and cannot begin to tell you in what part of England it is meant to be found. 'Sir Augustin of St. Ives' does not exist and never had. And I imitated him, badly. He was a strange skin into which I had to crawl to appease, uh, others. I am glad he is dead. He has never lived. He is not who I am."

"Who are you then?"

"Augustin. The name I chose for myself."

"Augustin and...?"

"Cannot one name suffice? Emperor Augustus did not require two."

"No, he required four: Caesar Divi Filius Augustus."

Augustin smiled warmly.

"What?"

"I love it so when you show me how deep lies your mind."

At this Olympia flummoxed. For warm compliments always confused her greatly and made her mistrust the person giving them, and yet she knew this compliment came from a good and sound place.

"Suppose I were to call myself 'Augustin of Australia?' Would that suffice?"

"Yes, for now."

"There, it is then settled, o fair mai..."

Olympia dove for him and he allowed himself to be dragged down and pinned, his smile impish. The smile soon ended up in Olympia's mouth and what followed next, everyone on the ship heard with envy.

***


"How do you find the new enclave for Jews upon the good hill?"

"I will feel better once walls are put up around it, my lord Cardinal-Inquisitor."

"Uh, yes, there were... troubles, I am told."

"497 are dead due to massesacch."

"Tragic. But do you not find they died, so that 8,000 may live?"

"His Excellency speaks in a Devil's arithmetic."

"Dear me, you go much too far. I think you forget you are servant here. A valued servant, but one mere nod and you are chained to a wall in a dungeon and I doubt anyone would ask what became of you, and if anyone did, they would be quite sad to learn we had forgotten to feed you and you starved to death in said dungeon."

"I apolo..."

"Please do not, good Allesandro. I like you angry and bitter. It gives you an edge. And I have no wish to humiliate, merely to remind you that I have much power here and have used it thus far to help, not to hurt. And I have done so, because even though we are here alone, what one man says to another alone, he may blurt out in the company of other fellows, and that would not be allowed, yes?"

"It is as his lordship says."

"Splendid. The water in the Old Ghetto?"

"Has become easier to find and less sickness permeates."

"Splendid. So then, one more gift I shall give and then I will ask for a favor. First, the gift. Each Carnivale, in our dear Rome, a baker's dozen of Jews are found in the ghetto and are made to run through the streets to amuse Christians living here, while they pelt them with rotted things..."

"... and rocks..."

"Yes. That. Come next Carnivale, there shall instead be a race of horses."

"Thankee."

"Splendid. Please sit closer. No, no, closer still. I shall whisper the favor. There, that's better. Before I ask it, I shall be very forward, possibly indecently so, but then again I ask of a murder, so perhaps one should not worry about wearing white gloves when digging through night-soil. Not that I have ever dug through... Dear me, I babble. First I take issue with your comments, and now I babble. The carriage of my mind is not... No, no, no, that shall be no excuse. I am of sound mind. Quite sound. It is just... As I was saying, I shall be forward. If your prey's death does not look like a natural cause, and you are discovered, I shall have to..."

"... kill me most cruel. And if I am successful, you shall me without any torture or pain."

"I am not...!"

"Your Excellency, I know who you want me to kill. Regardless of what happens, just by uttering the name of the target, I am condemned. You can ill afford to have me remain alive once the words leave your mouth."

"And?"

"And if what you have done stays. If the good you have done to the downtrodden of this town is not washed away by the next man who sits in this office on your side of the desk... it would have been worth it. If I fail, you can do as you wish. But if I succeed, may I ask you use the quickest poison?"

"I... I shall do as you ask."

"Then for formality's sake, name your quarry."

"My dearest uncle, His Holiness Pope Urban VIII. He must die."