Tom recalled that it had a lower parapet on the river side. If the Spaniards hadn't troubled to get around to that side, there might be an easier way over there. They were just reaching the door of that tower when he heard the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting, the clangs and screams of men close enough to smell each other locked in a struggle with edged weapons. Somewhere, someone was using grenades. The fizzing crack of the little iron pots of black powder seemed to be coming from the other side of the wall, so maybe that meant the defense was holding well somewhere. Other hand, they've got grenades too.
Twice in the time it took to get to the tower door, men fell from the parapet, and Tom couldn't help feeling glad he'd never been in this kind of fight. The sight of the oncoming Swabians at Suhl dying in dozen lots still woke him at night with the cold sweats. The last screams of wounded men falling thirty feet onto paving stones wasn't going to leave him any time soon either. Ruy was behind him, bringing the pope along.
Once inside the tower, the noise was if anything worse. "They're on the tower, Ruy," Tom said, guessing from the sounds he was hearing from above. "Do we fight our way through or look for another route?"
"I may have been optimistic," Ruy said, "but this is the quickest way to the top of the wall now. Senor Simpson, ensure your gun is fully charged."
"Right," Tom said. He worked the slide, checked that the magazine was full, and checked the safety. "Ready," he said. This was, if anything, going to be the easy part. Without even trying too hard he could get a shot off every second or so, and at these ranges even his notoriously poor marksmanship would be no handicap. And the guys coming over the wall were coming over with swords and knives and pikes. So long as he didn't let any of them in range, he was fine. Rate of fire, he murmured to himself, trying not to think about what actually happened to men who took a blast of heavy shot at close range. Especially when he'd have to be at close range to see it happen.
Another body fell from the wall, this time right opposite where Tom was standing waiting to go in to the tower. He had his back to the grain-store that was built under the wall here, side-on to the door ready to dash through it, gun at the ready. He had no idea whether that was the right way to do it, but he'd seen cops doing something like it on TV. In the absence of any actual training, it was all he had to go on. His own troops had been hot as you could wish for on standing up and taking it like men in a firing-line. This SWAT stuff was pretty much beyond them. Or they grew up in cities and were used to casual violence at close quarters.
"In your own time, Senor Simpson," Ruy said, "I have His Holiness behind me."
"Okay," Tom said, and took a deep breath. "Let's go."
He made the turn into the door look a lot more casual than he felt and moved quickly but without running across to the stairs. There wasn't much to see down here. On the way in, there had been guys sitting around waiting their turn on watch or catching some shut-eye. Now, it was empty with the remains of a meal and drinks spilled off the table in the middle of the floor. Up the stairs, one step at a time. The sounds of combat got louder, and Tom flinched as he heard another grenade go off. "Where are they getting all those grenades?" he asked. "I thought those things were rare?"
"There are armories here and at Ostia," the pope said. "They have had ample time to fill them." Tom realized the old man-it was possible to think of him as an old man in a way it wasn't of the not-much-younger Sanchez-had spoken English. Quite good English, as well. So it was true about him being a whiz with languages. He realized he'd stopped to woolgather, and took a look up the stairs before continuing.
"What is it, Senor Simpson?" Ruy asked. "Is there a problem?"
"No, just a pause for thought."
"This may be the voice of instinct," Ruy said. "Do you counsel finding another route?"
There was a flurry of screams and curses among the clashes of metal above, and a sudden crack and a puff of smoke in through one of the arrow slits. "Not yet," he said. "I think that means they're still holding up there." He began to walk forward and up the stairs.
"I find one must trust instinct in these matters, you know," Ruy said, almost casually, as he followed Tom. "To place faith in reason when battle is joined is to submit to rank superstition. No man can think fast enough."
"True," Tom said. "Although all the battles I've been in have been a mite more formal." He held up a hand to signal a halt. The door onto the lower level of the tower's fighting platform was right ahead. "Let me check if they're still friendly."
He leaned his head out of the door and saw that the platform was elbow-to-elbow with Swiss guards, or at least the part he could see was. He had no idea what was going on up at the top. Two of them had grenades and were lighting fuses, while another dozen or so were gathered around the tops of two ladders with their halberds at the ready, the closer ones jabbing at whoever was trying his luck. Tom decided to establish their bona fides the best way he could, and stepped smartly over to the nearest ladder, shotgun at the ready. The guy on the ladder looked at Tom, away from the halberd he was trying to get past one-handed for a critical moment and squawked as the back-spike of the thing laid open one side of his face. He clutched at the wound with the hand that still held his sword and lost his footing. Trying to hold his face and his grip on the ladder with nothing but his hands proved too much and he fell. Fifteen feet, at least. Tom winced.
He worked the slide, and without letting himself pause to see what was happening, walked the shots down the ladder. Screams and cries and a round of cheers were the result he got. That, and a bunch of shots from below. He stepped back hurriedly as near-misses flung up chips of stone from the wall he'd been leaning over.
Ruy joined him. "His Holiness is waiting in the tower," he said, "I think we should try elsewhere, yes?"
"Maybe," Tom said. There were Spanish soldiers all around the bottom of the tower, some trying to aim arquebuses in the press and others waiting their turn at the ladders. In the firelight from the bonfires atop the outer defenses they seemed like a lot of demons, jostling for a chance at the condemned sinners. The shadows under their helmets made them seem faceless and sinister, and the forest of bright-whetted weapons they were carrying reflected the firelight so that they swam in a sea of flames. The view along the riverside wall was little better. Some of the soldiers had spilled around and were in the shadows along that wall, but there seemed to be a nice long section of wall with no attackers. Tom couldn't see anyone coming over the bridge, but the other side was a hundred yards away, easily, and there was no real light over there to see what was going on.
More shots spanged from the breastwork, and a guardsman staggered back clutching his face, blood starting between his fingers. Tom was about to go to the man's aid, dithering briefly between that and reloading his shotgun, when something landed on the parapet next to him. Something small and round and black and shiny, with a fizzing fuse.
He was halfway back to the doorway before he yelled "Grenade!" and Ruy was ahead of him. Naturally faster reflexes and less mass to get moving. It's going to go off any second, Tom thought-and then his back and legs were on fire and he was pressed up against the opposite wall of the stairwell he'd come up and there was a flashing somewhere in front of his eyes and darkness to either side and he could hear a strange noise. He felt, suddenly, very tired.
"-Senor Simpson? Now is not the time to-" Ruy was shaking his shoulder, gently but firmly. "Ah, you are awake, I see."