The Four Horsemen Read online

  Well, the only alternative to discarding my cloak was to transform it from hindrance to help. And the same applied to the darkness, which seconds ago I had been yearning to emerge from. I ran down the broad street, heading towards the next turning left, which led towards the Square of the Little Lions; I knew I had little chance of reaching the square before they caught up with me, but I did think I could make it to the dark alley itself. And as I ran I loosened the cloak with one hand and with the other clutched at a corner of my tricorn hat. I could already hear the snorting breath of the first man, apparently inches behind me.

  I twisted left into the alley, and as I did so I flicked the cloak free from my shoulder with my left hand and with the right jerked off my hat, and then I thrust them both out to one side. I was relying on vague memories of bull-fights I had seen in Campo San Polo; the men were not bulls, but darkness and surprise might at least momentarily rob them of any human intelligence they might possess.

  The first man thudded into the alley and swung his cudgel down upon the black shapes of the hat and cloak. The blow was so vicious that my hat was jerked from my fingers. However, meeting an unexpected lack of solid resistance the man staggered forwards, tumbling on to the cloak. Letting go of it, I was able to jerk the cudgel from his hands as he fell, and as the second man loomed into the alley, I was already swinging it in as menacing an attitude as I could assume.

  But then the first man, from his sprawling position, grabbed my legs and I staggered, dropping the cudgel as I instinctively put my arms out to break my fall. I didn’t see what happened next, but I can only presume that the second man tripped over his colleague, or perhaps got entangled in my loose cloak, because a second later we were all three on the ground, the two men letting out a series of blasphemous imprecations. If they were bravi, they were not very good at it.

  Another voice made itself heard, one that I recognised. “Come on, give him what he deserves.” It was the slimy man I had been speaking to in the tavern, who was standing at the entrance to the alleyway, at a prudent distant from our floundering figures.

  I had managed to get hold of the cudgel I had dropped, which had rolled towards the side of the street, and was able to smash it down on the fingers of the man who was now clutching at my waist. At that point, however, a great blow came down on my shoulder, presumably from the second man, who had somehow got himself upright enough to wield his own cudgel forcefully. I lost hold of mine again and squirmed round to face him. He had struggled to his feet and was looming over me, ready to deliver another blow. I sensed he was still unsteady on his feet and with one hand I scrabbled at my tangled cloak, one corner of which he was standing on. I gave it a sudden jerk and he reeled backwards.

  I somehow managed to yank the cloak free from both of them and with a gait that was midway between a crawl and a stooping run I headed towards the hazy lights of the square at the other end of the alleyway. They were not far behind me, with the slimy man screaming furiously at his two inept henchmen. I emerged into the reassuring open space of the Square of the Little Lions, along the northern flank of the basilica of Saint Mark, and cast just one glance at the comforting red-marble figures of the little lions, their backs rendered shiny by three decades of contact with children’s bottoms, as I tore past.

  The great expanse of Saint Mark’s Square, lit by numerous lanterns, lay ahead of me. As usual the coffee houses were busy and there were still a number of people parading on the Liston, the area between the Merceria and the waterfront Piazzetta. I headed straight towards the great solid mass of the bell-tower, where there was always a cluster of arsenalotti on hand to quell any trouble.

  I was now yelling at the top of my voice, “Thieves! Murderers! Help!” I had definitely caught people’s attention, but it did not yet look as if anyone was going to come to my assistance; most people’s reaction seemed to be to shrink away. And I could hear the pounding footsteps of my pursuers getting closer.

  I was now among the people parading in their finest clothes on the Liston. Perhaps I should have added “Ragamuffins!” or “Scoundrels wearing clothes from last year!” to my list if I wanted a sharp reaction from this crowd.

  But then, just as a hefty hand grabbed my shoulder, I heard the reassuring pounding of urgent feet from the direction of the bell-tower and a clamour of gruff Castello accents.

  A few seconds later the two bravi and I were surrounded by thickset men, all carrying pikes and all looking even more menacing than the two henchmen. The strolling crowd of the Liston had all drawn back; most of them were in masks, but I could sense an air of disdainful curiosity as they gazed upon this intrusive episode of low-life rowdiness. The slimy man was nowhere to be seen.

  Things happened very swiftly after that. We were escorted briskly away from the Liston so as not to cause any further disruption. By the corner of the basilica’s treasury we were disarmed (well, I was frisked, and my volume of Pope’s Iliad was confiscated, presumably on the grounds that something had to be taken from me, given that the others had had their cudgels removed). Then we were forced to stand with our backs to the crowds and our hands behind our heads, staring at the four mysterious porphyry figures set into the corner of the treasury, while we waited for the sbirri to come.

  I wondered whether this was standard procedure with felons, with the notion that we would brood on the grim fate of the men depicted by those statues. Legend had it that these curiously conspiratorial figures, each with one hand on a sword and the other on the shoulder of a companion, were Saracens who had attempted to rob the treasury and had been transformed into stone for their pains. As the minutes passed and I felt the steady throbbing of my shoulder where the cudgel had hit me, I began to think that turning into stone wasn’t so bad a fate, though I doubted I would attain the dignity of porphyry. And then at last the sbirri arrived and the arsenalotti handed us and our belongings over to them. I recognised one of them, a thickset bearded man named Piero, who stubbornly refused to acknowledge me. Things are definitely bad when you find yourself being snubbed by a sbirro.

  About five minutes later I was in a cell, fortunately by myself. Despite my pleas my Iliad had not been returned to me, which meant I had nothing better to do than brood on my situation, rub my throbbing shoulder and prepare my story. The fact that I had clearly been running away from the two cudgel-bearing men ought to tell in my favour, I thought. But against this there was the fact that I had brought disruption into the most prestigious place in the city; I should have allowed myself to be discreetly cudgelled senseless in a side street rather than disturb the elegant pomp of the passeggiata on the Liston. The authorities would care little which of us was the aggressor and which the victim; quite simply none of us should have been there. The only spectacles allowed in the Piazza were celebratory ones.

  Much would also depend on how influential Sior Lucio Molin was. The very fact that his employee had decided that an insult should be instantly punished with violence suggested either that the slimy man had simply lost all sense of judgement or that he and his employer had little fear of any denunciation I might make. I rather suspected the latter was the case. If so, then the very least that would happen was that I would lose my licence as a cicerone.

  Would my role as confidential agent be of any help? Probably not; the very last thing the Missier Grande needed was agents who got involved in street brawls. I would not be able to remind the authorities of my former services to the city (minor things, like thwarting an assassination attempt on the Doge), since my role in that whole affair had never been officially recognised, due to the delicate game of power-balancing that was always being played out between the Missier Grande and the Council of Ten. The Missier Grande effectively ran the city’s sbirri and was responsible for all matters of common criminality; the Council of Ten – or more specifically the three Inquisitors, who were appointed by the Council – were responsible for all matters that involved the security of the state. The Missier Grande had to be very careful not to venture in
to such matters himself – or, at least, not to let it appear that he was doing so. In particular he had to be very wary about investigating any matters that involved noblemen, since the very fact of so doing could be thought of as a subversive activity, undermining the foundations on which the Venetian Republic was built. I knew, too, that he was reluctant to let the Inquisitors know that he had an English-educated agent on his payroll; it could suggest he was going beyond his area of competence and involving himself in foreign affairs.

  It did make me wonder sometimes whether I was worth all the trouble to the Missier Grande; for the last few months I had had little to do for him beyond drawing up reports on some of the gambling houses where foreigners were regularly fleeced (which was how I had come to know about Sior Molin). It had not been difficult work, and, until today, it had never seemed particularly dangerous either. My gloomy feeling now was that the moment my role as agent proved more problematic than useful, the Missier Grande would simply strike me off his books. That moment looked like being now. And with that I would also lose my licence as cicerone and any possibility of supporting myself in Venice.

  “Farewell, Lucia,” I said, when I came to this conclusion. I had not seen Lucia, daughter of Fabrizio Busetto, bookseller and friend, for some weeks now; our relations, formerly warm, had become somewhat strained ever since it had become clear that I was continuing to act as a confidential agent. It was not unreasonable on her part; everyone knew that agents played an important role in the way the city functioned, but nobody wanted to have much to do with them; the same, after all, was true of those who raked the shit from the city’s drained canals. The fact that I was only allowed to keep my licence as cicerone on condition that I also did some confidential reporting for the Missier Grande had clearly not proved a persuasive enough argument for Lucia.

  Until a few weeks ago I had continued to call in occasionally at the bookshop, hoping that my insouciance might help to make her forget the unsavoury side of my life, but although she was courteous enough a certain wariness in her eyes told me that she could never completely keep from wondering whether every word she said was going to end up in a confidential report to be read by inquisitive functionaries of the Missier Grande. And so in the end I had ceased to visit. I will not deny that I continued to foster the secret (and never consciously acknowledged) hope that my absence would stir a spirit of remorse in her; I even occasionally (and wildly) dreamed that I might wake up in the middle of the night to find her by my bed murmuring that she could no longer live without me.

  3

  There was a rattle of chains at the door, and then it scraped open. I gazed at the dark shapes, wondering for one wild moment whether the two bravi had been sent to join me so that we could make friends. Then the lamplight allowed me to distinguish two of the sbirri who had brought us to the prison, one of them being black-bearded Piero, who continued to refuse to acknowledge me.

  I stood up. “So now where—” I began.

  “Shut up,” said the sbirro who wasn’t Piero, “and come with us.” As with most sbirri his voice had the rising intonation of western Dorsoduro.

  I had had the experience before of being escorted along the labyrinthine corridors of the prison and the Doge’s palace, and as on the previous occasion I suspected that the bewildering route we followed was deliberately not the most direct. I realised at one point that we had crossed the Bridge of Sighs and were now inside the innermost parts of the palace, above and away from the splendid halls and chambers with their vast canvases by Veronese and Tintoretto. In fact, I suddenly recognised where we were going. “This is the Missier Grande’s office,” I said, as we issued into a narrow windowless room, lit by a single chandelier with four candles.

  “Shut up,” said the sbirro automatically.

  The Missier Grande’s principal offices were at the far end of Saint Mark’s Square; it was there I delivered my reports (usually to his secretary, Sior Massaro, rather than to the great man himself). However, as was only fitting, he also had this small space within the seat of government itself, so that he could be on hand to talk to his superiors in the Council of Ten. The familiarity of this place (I had been here on a couple of occasions) was slightly reassuring.

  Even more reassuring was the little figure who now scuttled into the room and took his place behind the desk, which was placed on the opposite side of the room. This was round-cheeked, bespectacled Sior Massaro himself.

  “Sior Massaro,” I said, “it’s very good to see you.”

  “Shut up,” said the sbirro.

  Sior Massaro waved a deprecatory hand at the sbirro but didn’t actually countermand his order. “We had better wait until the Missier Grande arrives before we start discussing the situation.” He sat down at the desk and began fussily to prepare his quill. Once he had done that he began to sort through various papers. He had the clerk’s skill of always appearing to be extremely busy, even when there is nothing to do.

  As usual the Missier Grande managed to make his arrival seem both non-emphatic and dramatic. He came in silently, his jet-black robe with white trimmings billowing out in the draught created by his own sweeping movements. He sat down without a glance at Sior Massaro and fixed me with his icy blue eyes.

  I knew better than to speak first. There was silence for about ten seconds, with just a nervous scratching of the quill by Sior Massaro. Then the Missier Grande spoke.

  “So you have been brawling.” As always his voice was quiet and almost totally uninflected.

  “I was the victim of an assault, Illustrissimo,” I said.

  “Which began after you had gratuitously insulted a citizen of the Republic.”

  “Illustrissimo, I would have thought that by now you know me better than that.”

  “I judge from the evidence before me.”

  “And this would be the statements of two cudgel-wielding bravi?” I said.

  “They are the personal servants of a certain Sior Marco Boldrin, who is in the employ of Citizen Lucio Molin. Sior Boldrin reports that you slandered the reputation of his employer in a public place and that he felt called upon to defend it.”

  “He sent his bravi to beat me up,” I said, “and all I had said was that I wouldn’t take my clients to his gambling house.”

  “He claims that you used extremely offensive language against his employer,” he said. His tone remained as flat as ever. It was impossible to know whether he believed what he was reporting or not.

  “Illustrissimo, again I ask you to remember my service to the Republic. Is it likely I would compromise myself in such a fashion?”

  “You had obviously been drinking,” he said. “Indeed, the effects are still obvious.”

  I did my best to enunciate my next sentence as clearly as possible. “I may have had a cup or two of malvasia, but I can assure you I was not drunk.” I had been about to add the usual “Illustrissimo” to this sentence but realised in time the perils of its polysyllabic complexity.

  “Indeed. An unusual occurrence, by all accounts.”

  “That is unfair, Illustrissimo,” I said, forgetting all caution in my indignation; even as I spoke the last word I was all too aware of the slushiness of its sibilants. I instantly felt my cheeks flaring with embarrassment. I hoped it would not add to the overall impression of vinous befuddlement.

  He said nothing for a few seconds but just continued to gaze at me. The iciness of his stare paradoxically seemed to kindle the fiery glow of my face. I decided my best strategy at this point was to maintain a long silence as well and hope that it would appear to be a dignified one. Finally he said, “I know who Citizen Molin is and I know what weight to give to anything said by those in his employ. However, I have made it clear to you and to all my confidential agents that your constant aim must be that of total inconspicuousness. This means you must resist all provocations and all temptations to indulge in absurd heroics or dramatic gestures. If you cannot do this, then your usefulness as an agent is severely compromised.”
/>   “I realise that, Illustrissimo, and I have never called attention to myself—”

  “Even if we overlook the altercation on the Liston this evening, there remains the matter of your habitual inebriation.”

  “Illustrissimo, I may have over-imbibed on the occasional evening, but I have never made a spectacle of myself,” I said. I felt it was true enough; the worst anyone could have said about me was that I might not have always walked as steadily away from the malvasia as I did towards it. I had certainly never broken into rowdy behaviour or raucous singing. I wondered who had been reporting on my drinking habits, and felt a touch resentful; I was supposed to spy on other people, not be spied upon. The instant this thought formed in my mind I realised its absurdity: nobody is ever unobserved in Venice.

  “You must cease to over-imbibe, however unspectacularly you do it.” He pronounced the adverb with just the faintest hint of irony.

  I felt vaguely encouraged by this. It was not only that it was the first time I had ever caught any inflection in his voice; there was also the fact that it seemed to indicate the chance of my continuing in the service. He was not likely to have given the advice out of concern for my health.

  “Of course, Illustrissimo,” I said, and felt proud that every consonant had come out with crystalline clarity.

  “This matter can be dealt with swiftly and discreetly.”

  “Are those bravi going to be punished? And Sior Boldrin?” I asked.

  I should have known better than to ask a direct question. Sior Massaro looked up from his papers and darted a slightly reproachful look at me.

  “That is not your concern,” said the Missier Grande.

  “Well, I was the one about to be cudgelled,” I persisted.

  The Missier Grande stared coldly at me for a few seconds and then, surprisingly, gave me a direct answer. “For the moment we consider it expedient to issue a simple warning. You can feel assured the two men will not threaten you again.”