A Brood of Vipers

murmured. 'Skeletons I saw in England. Men killed by Roman soldiers or, at least, by Roman auxiliaries. The little holes in their skulls were like the wounds you inflicted on Lord Francesco and Preneste.' Enrico's eyes widened.
    'Now, isn't life strange, Inglese? Everything goes in full circle. You saw the skeletons of your ancestors killed by men from Italy. And now you, an Englishman, are going to be killed by me.'
    He turned sideways, adopting the classical pose of a duellist, dagger hand slightly up, blade pointed towards the ground. 'Inglese, goodbye!'
    He moved as lithely as a cat, sword tip jabbing at my chest, swinging round with his long dagger. I jumped backwards, moved forward, lunging at his throat. Enrico, using sword and dagger, beat off my attack, then we closed again. Our blades seemed like glittering arcs of light. I became desperate. He was so fast, so skilful, hardly moving. He would launch an attack at my chest then, suddenly, his sword was aiming at my throat, my groin or my leg. My arms flailed like a windmill and the sweat broke out on my body. He withdrew, breathing a little heavily, and then we began again. At first I panicked, but the slap of our feet against the floor, the rhythmic clashing of our blades, the deadly intent and the deep urge to survive calmed my mind. At the same time the skills my Portuguese duelling master had taught me made themselves felt. No longer did I retreat but, turning sideways, managed to parry his blows and, on one occasion, even nicked him slightly on the arm. He stepped back, shaking his sword arm and smiling. He returned, swift as a striking adder.
    'You are good, Inglese,' Enrico breathed. 'But do not grieve, you and your dwarf woman will soon be together again.'
    As God is my witness, I don't know whether it was his words or that awful smirk on his ugly face, but I broke all the rules of duelling. We drew apart, he was flexing his sword again and I played a trick learnt in the dingy alleyways of London. I changed sword and dagger from hand to hand. He moved a little further back in preparation for this but, instead of closing, I grabbed my dagger by the hilt and flung it full at his chest. It took him deep, just beneath the heart. Enrico stared in stupefaction, mouth gaping, his sword slipped from his hands. He took a step forward.
    I moved in and thrust my sword into his stomach beneath the rib cage.
    'Get you to hell!' I hissed. 'And tell the Lord Satan I sent you there!'
    I withdrew my sword and stepped back – a dying man could still be dangerous. Enrico had now dropped his dagger. His face contorted with pain as the blood flowed and bubbled out of his wounds. He looked up as if to say something, sighed and crumpled to the floor. I threw my sword and dagger to the ground and crouched, arms crossed, and gave full vent to the terrors seething within me. All I could do was stare at that evil man, watching the blood ooze around him. He was lying on his side. I went over and pulled my dagger out. There was an awful sucking sound. I threw it to the floor, staggered to my feet, went back to the table and drank a goblet of wine, faster than I had in many a day. I returned upstairs. Maria was lying on the bed, her little body covered. My master was beginning to stir. I was so exhausted, so terrified, that I just lay down beside him.
    (Never mind the sniggers of my chaplain. Unless a man is truly evil and his soul has died, when you finish any duel your body trembles with a variety of emotions. You retch and vomit, run to the nearest jakes, get drunk! Or lie on a bed, your arms folded, till the terrors go away.)
    Of course, I was not so fortunate as to lie long in peace. I must have lain for only a few minutes, watching the candle flame dance in the breeze coming through the open window, when I heard the sounds of horses and voices from the courtyard below. I just lay there. Whoever had come, well they were welcome to the nightmare I had been through. I heard fresh shouts and exclamations as the visitors discovered one corpse after another. Then there was the sound of feet pounding on the stairs, the door was flung open and Seraphino, the Master of the Eight, with his black-hooded police, swept into the room like some vision from hell. I groaned and swung my legs off the bed. The Master of the Eight waddled across. His soft face was wreathed in an air of concern, like some genial uncle who has discovered a favourite nephew in distress. He stood over me, hands