The Prince's Order: Machiavelli's Secret (The Renaissance Origins, Book 2), page 1
Copyright © 2020 Taylor Buck
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Contents
Copyright
Epigraph
The Prince’s Order
PRELUDE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
EPILOGUE
About The Author
Books By This Author
ALSO BY TAYLOR BUCK
Renaissance Origins
The Medici Letters
The Island Project: A Thriller
"Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are."
Niccolò Machiavelli
The Prince’s Order
A novel
By Taylor Buck
PRELUDE
Jack wept.
The sensation was so harrowing he felt weak in the knees. A radiance began to spread throughout his body, starting in his chest, then moving out along his fingertips. For the first time, he realized the true fragility of consciousness—the delicate thread of the human psyche. Tears streamed down his cheeks as a torrent welled inside.
He had passed through.
Some kind of visceral awakening was taking place; an excruciating feeling of separation tore at him as he hovered between opposing states. His mind refused to believe what his eyes saw. Was this all real? He could find no words to describe the sight before him. A force swelled around him, a force so unwieldy and terrifying that it could be nothing other than divine. Jack realized now that this invisible partition existed for a reason and he suddenly wished that he hadn’t passed through. It was in this moment he came to accept his current state: somewhere between. But where? Dimensions? The physical world, the one he could understand, was now a mere transmission—wavelengths of light streaming from an endless tunnel. This place was a projected existence, definite but inexplicable.
He felt an overwhelming sense of power suddenly envelop the space around him—a radiating eminence. Terrifyingly immense. Then, as if his presence had been made known, everything around him went completely still.
“Now you see,” whispered a voice behind him.
Jack turned and saw a small flash, like an ember gathering strength. The ember quickly surged and became a fiery orb, suspended before him, blazing white.
Curious, Jack slowly reached out to the flame. To his surprise, he found no heat emanating from it. He pressed deeper until his hand was fully enveloped inside the orb. At first, he felt nothing. Then slowly, a warm glowing sensation enveloped his body. The feeling, which originated in his chest, now flowed through his body and concentrated in his fingertips. He slowly withdrew his hand and watched as the flame transferred to him. His open palm was no longer flesh and bone but a white, fiery torch. Still, he felt no pain and observed no damage to the skin on his hand.
Before Jack could process what was happening, his arm began to move involuntarily. His right hand swept in concise strokes. Lateral lines at first, then cross strokes. Each stroke left behind a flaming trail. Soon, a pattern, a symbol began to take shape, hovering before him. Then, as quickly as the compulsory movement began, it ended. With the flame gone, Jack’s hand fell to his side. He stood back and observed that which had been created.
“In this sign,” the voice again whispered, “you shall conquer.”
***
“Sir!”
Jack sat up, quickly emerging from his sleep. He was in a large tent. It was dark outside. Nighttime. A fire burned in a hearth beside him, flickering and bathing the inside of the canvas in an amber hue. He pushed aside the large fur cloak covering his body. He was damp with perspiration.
“Sir,” said the man standing beside Jack’s bed. “It’s time.”
The man was tall and built like an Olympian. He was battle-ready with armor and lorica plumata—the thin, strong mail resembling feathers. A crimson cape, a paludamentum, was neatly draped over his shoulder.
A name emerged like a distant memory in Jack’s mind. Justus. This man’s name is Justus.
“Sir?” the man said. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine, Justus.” Jack got up from his bed slowly, gathered himself, then peered hesitantly into a dark corner of the tent. There among vessels and personal bags was a small metal chest. “Bring it to me,” Jack demanded.
Justus retrieved the small chest and placed it at Jack’s feet. Carefully, Jack unhinged the lid. He gazed at the object within and seemed to ponder his next actions for several minutes.
“Gather the men,” he said finally. “I have an announcement.”
***
Dawn approached. The vast valley was still cool and shaded by the surrounding hills. Thousands of battle-ready legions lined the basin parallel to the Tiber River. In the distance stood the majestic Roman skyline. The Eternal City’s spires and curves reached to the heavens, feminine and seductive—a bride in waiting. Jack could hear her calling to him. Or was it otherwise? Was this bride instead an enchantress whispering spells from the depths?
This day would surely tell.
Between the shining legions in the valley below, thousands of opposing Roman legionaries lined the banks of the Tiber—fierce and loyal warriors who were ready to fight to the death. Jack knew his own men were outnumbered four-to-one, but he trusted their skill in battle. His faith in the ability of his men was known and in turn they trusted him with their lives. Today, however, was the truest test. The odds were stacked high against him. Would fortune prove favorable?
Atop a steed high above the valley, Jack readied his mind for war. He adjusted his armor, studying the minimal, woven shell for any weakness. Though thin, it was strong. He had no regard for excessive regalia, and he favored agility over protection. Unusual, especially for a general. Scanning the formations below, Jack spotted the bright vexilla banners attached to poles high above his troops. Fifty men attended the twenty proud and colorful banners. His vision had been explicit, and he had no interest in defying a divine directive.
In this, you shall conquer.
The words echoed. The symbol etched from fire was now bared across his banners. The vision—sent from God.
Today we conquer.
A growing chatter stirred among the men below as something drew their attention. At first, Jack supposed the men were simply growing restless, but then he realized it was something more.
“Look!” Justus shouted. “Above the horizon!”
Jack shielded his eyes and strained against the piercing morning sun. The shimmering star crowned the foothills to the west. The light cast was unusual and refracting: a shape, a symbol in silhouette… one all too familiar. Then a loud cry erupted as the legions below looked to the sky and roared with elation. Thousands of them lifted their shields, for upon them was a marking freshly painted—the very same symbol now reflected in the sky.
The divine symbol, Jack thought. It has appeared to us all.
Jack unsheathed his sword and lifted it above his head. “God is with us!” he roared and drove his heels into the steed.
At this signal, the entire cavalry released and tore across the valley. A thundering wave of flesh, steel, and sinew charged the enemy lines with incredible force. Opposing legions collided in a turbulent squall of flashing blades and crimson streaks. The lead cavalry penetrated the front lines but stopped thereafter, brought down by the archers positioned along the tree line. The subsequent wave proved more effective. Strong steeds charged like battering rams through the wreckage of human carcasses. Blistering arrows darkened the sky and rained down like thunderclouds.
“They’re opening up!” cried Justus, charging alongside Jack. “At the river!”
Jack peered through the wreckage and spotted the opposing legions retreating to the Tiber. Jack closed his eyes, visualized his next move. In some way, he had seen this through… experienced this before. Almost
“Forward!” Jack cried. “To the bridge!”
Jack’s men forced the opposing line back further. They trudged through gruesome terrain. Whatever was left of the front lines was now undistinguishable between flesh and earth. Bodies were used as shields, helmets as hammers. The men fought with a crazed, mystified determination. Truly, Jack had never seen men so charged. As he emerged through the tree line, Jack paused to take in the scene before him. His troops had gained control of the main bridge—the passage known as the Milvian crossing. The opposition was now retreating across the Tiber in utter desperation. Most drowned. Others used bodies of the dead to remain afloat. The few that survived employed whatever they could to make their way across: ropes, planks, makeshift bridges of tethered boats. Jack spotted a small bastion of men standing along the north bank, staunchly circling their shields in a defensive maneuver. In the center stood a man brandishing a longsword, stoically poised in defense. His armor was lavish and decorated—the colors and markings of prominence.
Maxentius.
Jack dug his heels into the steed’s flanks and charged along the bank. Justus followed closely behind. The two men tore up the main bridge and dismounted prior to the battle line. Jack drew his sword. Justus readied at his side. Both joined the charge.
Jack sidestepped a blow and slid his sword through a man’s stomach. Then, twisting it free, he parried another strike using the shield affixed to his left hand. The attacker descended with another strike and deflected Jack’s sword. Exposed, Jack repositioned the hold on his shield and thrust it under the man’s jaw. Justus shouted something from behind. Jack turned just in time to see a hammer swing inches from his face—the blow redirected just prior to impact. Justus lunged with his shield and deflected another strike, but the motion spun him off balance. He stumbled to the edge of the bridge, grasping for leverage. Jack thrust his foot through a man’s chest and grasped Justus’ cloak, jerking him to safety. The two men continued charging, blow-by-blow, gaining ground across the bridge. An invincible strength seemed to surge through Jack’s body. His arms were brass. His legs, iron. His mind, a weapon, striking furiously. Nothing could stop him.
The path to the north bank cleared and Jack came across a small circling of men—soaked and barely breathing as they dragged themselves to shore. Among them was Maxentius. His black hair, dripping wet, covered his battered face. He hunched over and coughed up mouthfuls of river water. As Jack neared, his men parted to make way.
“Behold, your emperor!” Jack shouted and kicked Maxentius, sending him sprawling into the mud. The legions around him erupted in cheers, shouting cries of death. Jack raised his sword to the sky, pointing to the fiery sun—readying the blade for a swift descent. The cries grew louder in anticipation. The men began chanting the name of their fearless leader, their newly appointed emperor… the man who conversed with gods. The name they shouted was ancient but familiar to Jack. For it was not his, but another’s. They shouted a name from history… a name of lore.
Jack lifted the blade higher, preparing his strike. Yet just as he was about to let fly his steel, pain shot through his torso. Looking down, he observed a red blade protruding from his abdomen. The frantic shouts immediately hushed. Jack dropped his sword and stared curiously at the object within him. Then he staggered forward weakly and fell to his knees, sliding his body free of the blade. From the ground, he slowly turned to see a man behind him sheathing his sword, but the sun was bright and blocked the man’s face. Jack focused his eyes, desperately trying to see… to identify his foe. Then, through waning vision, the man’s face finally fell into focus.
The face was his own. Jack was staring at a reflection of himself.
A horrific and strange sensation then suddenly took control of his body. A glow began to surge throughout his chest as a rush of virality grew. He felt an immense pressure at his temples... behind his eyes. It was excruciating. His eye sockets abruptly ruptured and streams of light poured out with a blinding force—an endless flood of white light. Jack fell face down and let out a blood-curdling roar that echoed off the towering walls nearby.
“Now you see,” bellowed a voice from above.
Hundreds of swords dropped to the ground as every legion fell, momentarily paralyzed. Jack continued writhing in the mud, crawling, screaming, pleading for the light to recede as hot, blistering pain coursed through his body. The pain was unbearable, and so his consciousness receded. He reached out to cover his eyes, only to realize that his hands were no longer there—turned to ash. The ensuing sense of dread dimmed as the flood of light was replaced by absolute darkness.
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, ENGLAND
JUNE 8
Analysis finished. Translation complete.
Nigel Brighton read the window prompt on his computer screen a second time, simply to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Translation complete? My god, it actually worked? He scanned the numbers to confirm that, not only had the translation succeeded, the program had actually managed to repair missing parts. He couldn’t believe it. This was not just a remarkable technological achievement but also a revolutionary step in human discovery. Like Einstein’s theory… or Turing’s computations. This was universal. It made him think of space travel—the moon landing. What had Neil Armstrong said? A giant leap? This was more like a human slingshot. He had just decoded a two thousand-year-old time capsule and deciphered it into modern-day English.
You’re a genius, Kat Cullen.
Nearby, a furnace kicked to life. It was only then he realized how cold it was inside the station. He rubbed his hands together, cursing the frigid temperature. Functional heating and state-of-the-art furnishings were not among the luxuries here. This back-alley hole-in-the-wall relied on London’s frantic labyrinth to conceal its covert affairs. Shoddy utilities and crude heating were unfortunately part of the cover.
Air finally sifted through the vent above Nigel’s desk. The warmth spread over his face and shoulders. The heat, though welcome, did nothing to ease his shaking hands—this was in no part due to the icy temperature.
View results? Yes No
Nigel took a deep breath and pressed the ENTER key. As he did so, text immediately poured onto the screen. The length was astonishing—over one thousand lines of code. He glanced at the file on his left monitor. The original page appeared on screen—a collage of miniature symbols and characters. Letters, hieroglyphics, cuneiform, all commingled like some extraterrestrial pattern. Yet somehow Kat Cullen’s translation program, TETRA, had been able to decode, assemble and transcribe all of it into modern-day English. It was revolutionary technology, still only tested on a few manuscripts, but the program was proving immensely effective, and the page Nigel recently came across had been the program’s biggest challenge. The OCR (Optical Character Recognition) test had identified it as inoperable. Yet TETRA had worked. It had bloody worked!
Six weeks had passed since Nigel began translating in secret. Of the small staff assembled to work on the project, only Nigel knew this particular page existed. It demanded a marathon of patience, and after six weeks of tried endurance, his time had come. The scan was complete. Nigel should have been overjoyed, and under different circumstances he would be. However, those circumstances were a distant reality—one in which a man stood in a hotel room across the street, holding a loaded revolver to his little sister’s temple.
Nigel began to tremble with rage as his thoughts drifted. He forced himself to take a deep breath and return to the task at hand. He recalled his directives: translate the page, deliver the file, and make sure it was untraceable. Nigel scanned the page over to ensure the results had properly translated to English. After all, complex transcriptions like this were nearly always troublesome, and not perfectly—
The first lines shook his focus.
