Knowledge Aforethought, page 3
"Hello there!" The voice came from behind me. I turned and tripped on a rock, falling on the ground again. There were several people on horses that I hadn’t noticed before, because horses can apparently sneak up on people. They were dressed in some sort of strange clothing that reminded me of Prince Humperdinck in The Princess Bride movie. Tights, poofy shorts, matching tunic shirt things underneath leather armour plated with squares of metal. Two of the men had swords belted at their waist. The other carried a crossbow. They looked at me as though I were the cause of all of their problems. For all I knew, I was.
(It only occurred to me much, much later that I could not possibly be speaking English with these people. To be fair, I was severely distracted by the swords and the crossbow being pointed in my direction. I just hoped that this linguistic miracle was some byproduct of time travel and not my brain turning to mush.)
I lifted my hand and waved, trying to be friendly. I was a marketing agent. I knew how to get people to like me. Or at least buy into whatever I was selling, which was pretty much the same thing. “Hello there," I said, smiling and realising too late that I had perfect teeth in a time when dentistry was probably mostly pulling teeth out. "I seem to be lost."
"Oh, indeed you are,” the man with the crossbow said. "You are not from around here, are you? I would suggest you get off the land of my very wealthy employers and go find somewhere else to peddle your wares.”
“Peddle my what?”
The man on the left gestured with his sword to my clothing. It occurred to me that I was wearing things that didn't look exactly like they belonged in the late 15th century of Italy. In fact, given the glasses, my modern hair, my teeth, and the fact that I wasn’t malnourished or short, I figured I probably looked like a madman.
"I think there has been some sort of misunderstanding," I said, holding my hands up. It didn't even occur to me that people might not care what I was saying. I just talked and gave my best smile to make them feel non-threatened. Given that I was a fairly nonthreatening person, I figured that would go pretty well. Until they pointed weapons at me.
"I suggest you leave now, before we decide that being paid to defend Florence includes chasing off the likes of you,” the middle man spoke again. I nodded, considered my options, and took the most obvious course: I started running.
Now, as out of place as my modern and very stylish clothing was in this Italian countryside of a different time, I can tell you that my shoes were really, really out of place.
Some things you shouldn't run in, and patent leather Italian loafers—yes, I note the irony of wearing Italian loafers in Renaissance Italy—are one such example. I was soon tripping and trying very hard not to fall on my face, again, when I heard the unmistakable laughter and beat of horses hooves behind. They were running me down.
If you find yourself in similar circumstances as these, I can give you some advice: sheer desperation counts for a lot. I put on a burst of speed and managed to fall into a hidden gully surrounded by trees and bushes that had definitely not been there a few seconds before. Water surged past my ankles and I slipped, getting mud everywhere. I heard that laughter again behind me and glanced over my shoulder. The three men were pointing at me and laughing as if I was the funniest thing they'd seen in their lifetime. I decided I wasn't going to wait around to find out if they wanted to follow up on their part of this ridiculous charade, pulled myself to my feet and ran along the creek bed. My shoes squelched unpleasantly.
"Over here," a voice called from the other side of the low gully. Looking through the trees, I saw another man, dressed very similarly to the others minus the armour, which made him look far less threatening. I was all for less-threatening. He was maybe twenty-five, twenty-seven or so. He was wearing a long tunic, some sort of weird robe thing that went to the knees, a belt around his waist, stockings and soft leather shoes. His hair went to his chin and he had some sort of velvet cap. The colours were relatively wild, considering that the men on the horses had worn subdued leather and greys or browns. This man wore black with bright green trim and even yellow on his tunic. When in Rome, I thought.
I was definitely not in Rome, by the way. I think.
I clambered out of the gully to stand next to the man, breathing heavily and resting my hands on my knees as I did so. When I got the job with Death, circumstances had forced me to get more in shape, but there are very few things that prepare you for running and tripping through the hills while being chased by horses and men with weapons, then falling into a creek at the bottom of a shallow gully. It was just that sort of day.
“I think you should come with me,” the mysterious man said. “They should leave you alone once you’re in the city. And they wouldn’t dare hurt me.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked, wincing as my voice squeaked at the end of my question. I cleared my throat and straightened, trying to look as intimidating as possible. Not the easiest thing to do when your clothes are covered in mud and your bowtie is coming undone. “I have a feeling they’re not the sort to give up easily.”
“Mercenaries aren’t, usually. But they have far better things to do than run after a scrawny foreigner like you. It’s market day and they have to oversee the merchants coming in and out, checking for the French.”
"I have no idea what you're talking about, but as long as I'm not dead and you can get me to the city, I thank you very much," I said, holding out my hand. My new friend looked at it, looked at me, looked at my hand again. I lowered my hand and cursed silently. When was the handshake invented?
“You are very strange," the man said. "Where are you from?"
"A place very far away from here. You wouldn't have heard of it."
Though, to be fair, England was very much around in the fifteenth century. I decided it was better to just lie, in case anyone decided to ask me questions about my jolly homeland.
"I have learned all of the peoples and places in the known world," the man said proudly. I doubted that was the case, considering that America had only been discovered by Columbus a couple of years before. But weren’t the Dutch there first? And then there was Antartica, and Australia. I wished desperately for Google just then.
“I’m from…Norway,” I said, thinking of the first name that popped into my mind. Actually, I had briefly been in Norway the year before and found it a very pleasant place. Compared to Renaissance Italy, that is.
“Norway? Do you mean Scandinavia?”
I shrugged and tried to wipe some of the mud off my clothes. "Yep. Scandinavia.”
“See? I am familiar with the place. Now, follow me. Florence is this way." The man started walking. He then paused and turned back to me. "By the way, my name is Machiavelli. Niccolo Machiavelli."
I gave a high, very uncertain laugh. "Cal Thorpe," I said. Because my day couldn't really get any worse.
The first opportunity, I was going to give Time a piece of my very, very unhappy mind. And then I was going to take a vacation.
Time Marches On
I followed Machiavelli through the countryside towards what looked to be a walled city built by the finest hands history had seen. The buildings that were visible over the wall were both grand and terrible. Some were larger than life. Others were comparatively shoddy craftsmanship—but still better than any modern concrete building—from an earlier or poorer time. Machiavelli had told me that this was Florence. Some vague history lesson told me that this was the height of the Renaissance and possibly also the centre of it, too, but given my propensity for inaccurate guesses it was quite possible that things were not as I thought they were. I really hoped they were. If there was one thing I was going to get out of this whole situation, it was that DaVinci was alive at this point.
"You perhaps shouldn't have gotten involved with them," Machiavelli said as we approached the city. He looked back at me, casual as can be, as though he weren’t some horrid politician person who basically invented the cutthroat ideas behind the modern world. Though, he seemed a little young to have been a political mastermind. "They are not the nicest bunch."
"You know, I figured that out," I said. “It might have something to do with the fact that they tried to shoot at me with their crossbows. Or dismember me. That could have been it, too.”
"That would be because you messed up their hunt," Machiavelli said. "They're rather an entitled bunch, those mercenaries. Necessary, but entitled. And you are rather stupid for getting in their way."
“I didn’t intentionally get in their way,” I grumbled. I tripped over some loose gravel in the road and had to remind myself that I was in the fifteenth century before I started complaining about road repair. I mean, for goodness sakes, Machiavelli was escorting me. The Machiavelli. Not to mention I had stowed my glasses in my pocket, I was fairly certain that shoe laces hadn’t been invented yet and who knows what they would do with me if they found my phone, even powered down. Then, the city of Florence rose above me and I had to pause for a moment to take in what I was seeing.
I had been all over the magical realms of Elsewhere. I had seen Death’s manse, Life’s castle, the overly-extravagant and poorly decorated home of the vampires. I had seen magical beings that were larger than life and twice as beautiful (also, deadly, but still). What I hadn’t been prepared for was walking into the heart of Italy at the height of the Renaissance.
From the outside, Florence looked like a walled city made with stone. It was interesting, and the stones fit together quite well, but it was just a city. As we passed through the gates, things changed. I saw buildings that were shown on modern postcards that were still in prime condition. Stonework that was carved intricately and masterfully. Statues graced courtyards and public squares held fountains that were stunningly beautiful. The streets were cobbled, though still dirty. People walked about wearing clothes that looked to me like they came straight from paintings by DaVinci or Michaelangelo. Trade was bustling. People handed goods—things that we rarely ever saw in these qualities in the future—back in exchange for money. People talked and laughed and children ran around. People sat in the squares and exchanged news. It was a bustling city. One of life and art and wealth.
And here I was, being led by a figure known for his dangerous political thinking.
Great. Just great.
“I would say that intent had little to do with your situation,” Machiavelli said. He waved to a few people whenever we passed public squares. I didn’t know where we were going, but we obviously had a destination. Part of me wanted to explore. Then, I caught whiff of some of the people we passed and decided that I would much rather have modern conveniences like daily showers than explore fifteenth century Italy. “There are some who would happily hunt you down, simply because you are different than they. Especially now, with everyone on edge.”
“…On edge?” I asked. In my experience, on edge meant that my boss or his wife were somewhere nearby. Could it really be that easy? Could I find Life and Death and solve all my problems in less than a day? I mentally cursed myself for even thinking it. Things were never that easy.
Machiavelli turned and stared at me. “Do you not know? The invasion? King Charles VIII, of France, has foolishly decided that we are to be his next conquests. And there has been a resurgence of plague, though that is to be expected. It is the French that are more concerning.”
I looked around, half expecting to be arrested or killed by French soldiers just as soon as we turned the next corners. It would be just my luck to have survived facing down all sorts of nasties to be killed by humans in a time before the French press. There would be some sort of dramatic irony about the situation. Death would probably approve. Machiavelli just snorted and clapped me on the shoulder.
“There is no need to fear. You will not be caught by soldiers,” he said. “Florence has not yet been reached by the French. And, with some strategy and action, they may never reach here at all. That is why the mercenaries are here, despite their proclivities towards harassing people to assuage their boredom.”
I wished desperately for access to the Internet just then. Or, at the very least, a history book. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets and held onto my phone tightly. It, and my glasses, were the few reminders I had that this wasn’t a dream. Machiavelli looked at me with his head tilted.
“You are strange, to have not heard of such current events,” he said. “What far corners of the world have you been in Cal Thorpe, to be so out of touch? Surely you could not have come all the way from Scandinavia and still be so ignorant of the region’s machinations.”
I winced and looked around the square where we had finally stopped walking. “Oh, you know, here and there. Nowhere nearby. It’s…I have been out of touch for a while.”
Machiavelli nodded solemnly. “Yes. I can see that.” Then, he grinned and grabbed my arm, turning me towards one of the stone buildings. I heard laughter coming from within and there was a scent that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Come! We’ll get you a drink and something to eat and then you can tell me your tale!”
“Oh, ah, that’s very kind but…” I started, then trailed off. I had spotted something across the square from the little pub that was awfully familiar. Actually, it was a he and he was familiar because I was responsible for his death. Or, I would be in about five hundred years or so. Thaddeus, the vampire prince who had tried to drink my blood while I was unkillable—Death’s fault, not mine—and ended up poofed as a result. It had granted me permanent enmity from the vampire race, despite the fact that they desperately wanted me to work for them because I was in marketing.
It’s a long story.
Despite my blurry vision, I would have bet money on the figure being the vampire prince. Thaddeus was dressed as poorly, and as grandly, as I remembered. He wore some sort of long tunic in a deep fascia with blue sleeves, over hose of a garish green. Somehow, the colours did manage to work together, except for the fact that they clashed with his extraordinarily pale skin. He was being followed around by a servant—a hobgoblin, I believe—who carried a flat sort of parasol to keep off the sun. Thaddeus did not look happy and I did not want to get in his way. Besides, whatever a vampire prince was doing in Florence, I doubted it would be good.
I was a little surprised that people weren’t screaming and freaking out, considering a vampire and hobgoblin were walking through the square without a guise. At least, not one that I could see, though that didn’t mean a lot. I couldn’t see many things without my glasses. Who was to say a guise would be any different. Somehow, I doubted that it was my eyes that were the problem.
“Ah, them,” Machiavelli said with a casual shrug, noticing my staring. “I would not worry overmuch about the Medici. They are more benevolent than their reputations would suggest.”
“The who?!” I asked, my voice squeaking. This was one history lesson I didn’t actually need a refresher on. I knew full well who the Medici were. Like Machiavelli, they had survived the ravages of time and their names were remembered far too well in the future. They were the uber-powerful merchant family who basically ruled Florence, if not all of Italy, during the Renaissance. Them and the supremely dangerous Borgias. Basically, they were In Charge. And now I understood that they were vampires, too.
Actually, that explained a lot about history.
Machiavelli turned again towards the pub tavern thing and pushed on, ignoring Thaddeus completely. I decided upon the lesser of two evils and followed. Inside, the building was pretty much what I had come to expect from a pub in the Elsewhere. It was low-ceilinged, there were tables surrounded by people, a fireplace sat roaring in the corner—both for cooking and warmth, even on this spring day—and the noise was an uncomfortable level of yelling to be heard. Only, instead of being habited by denizens of Elsewhere, this one was populated by mostly human people. I say mostly, because there were a few glints of not-quite-human features here and there. I had a feeling that the supernatural creatures were wearing guises, which confirmed my theory about the vampiric Medici being too powerful to bother with. That, or Italy was a far more interesting place than I thought.
“Wine!” Machiavelli called. He strode across the room to sit with a few other people of about his age, wearing clothes of similar style and garish colouring. He was greeted boisterously and I was somehow pulled into the festivities. Names were passed around, but I didn’t recognise a single one and as a result, they flew in one ear and out the other. I tried to hold onto the names, but I had a hard enough time in my own time, not to mention with a bunch of dead guys.
“Cal Thorpe here is from Scandinavia. He has been travelling and does not seem to know what is going on in the world,” Machiavelli said as a summation of my story once the others’ names had been passed around. “I found him being chased by some Medici mercenaries intent on spearing him for their hunt.”
“Does not know what is going on in the world?” a man asked, short and with a wide, frog-mouthed grin. “I spent a holiday like that once. The woman was very pleased with me when I was done!”
I chuckled awkwardly, trying to remind myself why I was here. Everyone else laughed raucously and passed around another jug of wine. I really wanted some water, but after taking a sip of the wine, I decided it would suffice. Actually, it would more than suffice. It was exquisite.
I like to think of myself as a fairly decent wine connoisseur. In my years of marketing, I had wined and dined with a fair number of clients. It had gotten to the point where I could tell a good bottle from a bad. And I generally enjoyed the good. But sitting in that little late fifteenth century tavern, for lack of a better word, drinking fine Italian wine, that was an entirely different experience. I could tell that the wine was a little sour, perhaps not aged near as nicely as it could've been. And, by Florence standards, it was likely average. But to me, it just exploded in my mouth. I was suddenly looking a little bit more kindly towards Time for disposing of me in the fifteenth century. Perhaps this assignment wouldn't be quite so dismal after all.
