The Four Horsemen Read online

  Now I saw Lucio weaving along beside Lucia, his bright red Castello cap flickering in and out of the bustling crowd.

  I got up from my seat and said, “It’s started.”

  “Ah.” Fabrizio put down his Virgil and gazed vaguely at the market. “I can’t see . . .”

  “Just wait here,” I said. I set off after the intermittent flickers of Lucia’s bright shawl and Lucio’s cap.

  The two of them had halted, and so I presumed had their quarry. I made my way to the right, close to the Grand Canal, and saw they were both gazing at a small woman in a dark dress with a grey veil over her head. She had a large shopping basket on one arm and was standing by a fruit stall, pointing with a determined finger at a mound of pears. The vendor, clearly used to her miming mode, made no attempt to speak to her. I saw a certain amount of haggling going on, all in mime, with upraised fingers and shaking of heads, until a deal was reached to the satisfaction of both; this, it seemed, was all part of a well-established routine. The process was repeated for grapes, oranges and apples, and eventually, with a final wave of her hand, she turned away.

  At that point Lucio darted forward and grabbed at her basket, giving it a determined yank. The woman shrieked and released it, and Lucio immediately ran off, leaving a trail of scattered fruit as he did so. I loomed up before him, yelling, “No you don’t!”

  I grabbed him by the arm as he attempted (at least apparently) to swerve past me. He dropped the basket and bent his head and bit my restraining hand. We had rehearsed this the previous afternoon, but it was clear that the actual performance brought out a greater sense of realism in him, and I let out a yelp that was entirely unfeigned. I let go of him at once (I couldn’t risk anyone else’s grabbing hold of him), and he disappeared into the crowd, flashing a quick apologetic smile at me. I picked up the basket and made my way towards Lucia and Ariadne. The latter was leaning against the stall and panting, while Lucia comforted her, together with a crowd of other shoppers and vendors.

  I held up the basket reassuringly, and people congratulated me; I ruefully exhibited the deep-set imprints of Lucio’s teeth on my wrist and received sympathetic expressions of commiseration. Lucia put her arm round Ariadne’s shoulder and led her towards the taverns that lined the side of the square, making soothing noises. I could tell that Lucia was not at all happy with this part of our stratagem, but as I had pointed out to her it would have been very difficult to find another way to persuade her to sit down and talk to an unknown man.

  I could hear Lucia saying “My father, my father” as Ariadne let forth a seemingly endless stream of frantic Greek, interspersed with sobs.

  Fabrizio stood up as they approached and said something reassuring. Ariadne looked a little wary but was eventually persuaded to sit down at the same table. I came up and put the basket of fruit down by her side, and she looked at me and said breathily, “Efcharistò, efcharistò.” Lucia sat down next to her father and held Ariadne’s hand.

  Fabrizio began to speak to Ariadne in slow and careful classical Greek. After a moment’s puzzlement she responded with a few short words. Fabrizio talked on. It was not clear how much she was understanding, but his voice is always very calming. It’s possible he was simply reciting selected passages from Euripides, but in any case she appeared to be happy to hear him. She was persuaded by Lucia to take a glass of malvasia.

  I hovered nearby without sitting down. I thought it best that my role in the whole business should be relegated to the background; there was always the possibility that she might recollect having seen me at the Palazzo Querini at some point, or that the story of our little scuffle might reach the ear of a sbirro, in which case it would be best if I were not the first person to be spotted.

  Eventually I saw that Ariadne was actually smiling in answer to something Fabrizio had said. He looked suitably gratified. She gained confidence and began to talk. As she chattered away rapidly I saw Fabrizio gently indicate that she should slow down. She nodded and started up at a slightly slower pace, but after a few seconds was already cantering and clearly heading towards a full gallop again. It took Fabrizio a minute or so to get her to appreciate that the only chance she had of being understood was if she spoke to him in ponderous fashion, word by slow word. After a while she seemed to enjoy doing this, treating Fabrizio as if he were a slow- witted child, and he played along, clearly with equal enjoyment. Lucia looked on, her expression of anxiety gradually fading as she saw that Ariadne had recovered from her moment of shock.

  At a certain point I saw Fabrizio lean forward and point to something hanging round her neck, presumably a medallion or a crucifix or some such ornament. This led to further animated conversation, during which she clearly talked with some enthusiasm about the thing, touching it with affectionate pride. At a certain point Fabrizio glanced towards me with an enigmatic smile, which I interpreted as meaning that something useful had emerged from their talk. I gave him an appreciative nod and stepped away, looking warily around the market square. Nobody was paying any attention to us any more, fortunately, and the market was its usual noisy, bustling self.

  I glanced back and saw that Fabrizio had risen to his feet. He was gesturing to Ariadne and telling her to stay where she was. Lucia put a restraining hand on her arm as she began to rise, and she sat back down again.

  Fabrizio came towards me. He was looking quite pleased with himself.

  “It took me a while to get used to the vowel sounds,” he said, “and there were quite a few words that got past me completely, but I think I followed most of what she had to say.”

  “And is it helpful?”

  “I think it may be. But you had better be the judge. It was very fortunate that I spotted the medallion of Constantine XI she was wearing. That provided the perfect cue for what I really wanted to ask.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I can imagine it might have been useful.”

  “I told her that I had had a friend who was a great admirer of Constantine XI, a former schoolteacher called Paolo Padoan, and she immediately told me that she knew him. She seemed quite excited. It turned out that Padoan had asked her about her devotion to Constantine, and she had become very fond of him. He spoke Greek, even if it was the same antiquated version as mine (she was really quite indulgent with me), and he admired Constantine. Two ways to her heart. In fact, she had become so fond of him that she had offered to show him something special. And at that point she suddenly seemed to think she had gone too far, and she stopped. I said I had a friend who was very interested in Constantine and I expect he would like to hear about it too. That’s you, by the way.”

  “I see,” I said. “And I just happen to be here in the market as well. The person who saved her basket of fruit.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “She is not naturally suspicious. I suppose if our young friend who made off with her basket were to turn up as well she might become a little wary, but so long as we’re all warm-hearted people who love Constantine I don’t think you need worry.”

  I allowed him to lead me back to the table, where she recognised me as her fruit-saviour and again expressed her gratitude profusely and incomprehensibly, while I simpered modestly. Then Fabrizio drew my attention to the little medallion she had round her neck; it was a charmingly stylised portrait of the emperor, shown with crown and halo, and holding a bejewelled cross. I murmured suitable appreciative remarks, and she beamed. She then evidently made up her mind and leaned forward and said something in a low voice to Fabrizio.

  I turned to him inquisitively. He translated: “She says that she can show you an even better image of the emperor. But you must promise to tell no one.”

  I immediately made elaborate gestures promising total discretion, and she smiled. She spoke quietly again, and Fabrizio translated: “Come to Campo Sant’Angelo this afternoon after the Marangona and she will meet you.”

  Given the meeting place, it seemed she was going to show me something in Isabella Venier’s casino. I nodded. The tessera
e were beginning to come together, but I didn’t like the overall picture that was being created. None the less, I nodded and agreed to meet her there.

  She finished her wine, bowed and thanked us all again profusely, picked up her basket and set off through the crowds.

  “I hope she’s got over the shock,” said Lucia. “It was a shameful trick.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but how else could we have done it?”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but even so . . .”

  Fabrizio said, “It is remarkable that after just one meeting she’s prepared to reveal to you something that is obviously so secret.”

  “It’s not so remarkable,” said Lucia.

  “Because of my irresistible charm?” I said.

  Lucia gave me a dutiful but commiserating smile. “Because she is clearly a very lonely woman.”

  “Ah yes,” I said. “I suppose so.”

  “It’s obvious. She probably never gets a chance to speak to anyone except her mistress day in, day out. So when she is able to speak to people who understand her, who have helped her in a moment of crisis, and who share her own religious devotion – or claim to share it—”

  “Siora Lucia,” I said, “you understand I’m not doing this just for the fun of it.”

  “I know, Sior Alvise, I know. I just wish there were some other way.”

  “So do I,” I said. “But I can’t think of one.”

  “Well, in any case,” said Fabrizio, “it’s fortunate I spotted that icon. I had been thinking of other ways to engage her in conversation. I had wondered about talking about Cerigo, and its devotion to Venus, but then I thought she might take that the wrong way.”

  “Yes, Father, I’m glad you didn’t do that.”

  “Because of course you know the Venier family claim to have a link to Venus, because of the name,” he went on chattily.

  He was looking at me as he said this, so I replied, “Really? No, I didn’t know that.” I could hear the hollow sound of my voice even as I spoke.

  “Yes,” he said. “I remember reading somewhere that they even put up a little temple to Venus on an island they own in the lagoon.”

  “Oh really?” I said again, looking as uninterested as was compatible with good manners. I had the feeling that Lucia glanced at me rather oddly, but I did not dare to look. Fortunately at that moment a diversion occurred.

  “Alvise,” said Fabrizio, “I think you had better leave now. I think I see sbirri on the other side of square.”

  I turned to stare in the direction he was looking. There were familiar oafish figures with thick beards and suspicious expressions making their way through the crowd; no one was making any effort to offer their goods to them. It was possible that someone had reported the little fracas. I bade a hasty farewell to my friends and set off in the direction of Campo San Cassiano.

  23

  I had plenty of time to kill between now and the appointment with Ariadne. I found my feet taking me in the direction of the Fontego dei Turchi. I certainly had no definite plan in mind; I just had a vague inkling that I might find something there. Perhaps if all else failed I could ask the Turks to take me in.

  I made my way through the narrow streets and small squares of the Santa Croce district. I paused on the bridge that leads towards Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini to admire the splendid view of the curving side of Ca’ Pesaro, its white wall gleaming phantom-like in the mist to the right. There was something suitably melancholy and mysterious in the dematerialisation of its massive marble essence.

  This is, after all, a city where even in clear weather it makes no sense to talk of being down to earth or having one’s feet on the ground; how much more evanescent are all one’s certainties in vaporous weather like this? Perhaps if the mist never did clear up I’d find myself growing convinced that I must have killed Boldrin myself. How could I be sure I hadn’t? How could I be sure of anything? Two days ago I’d been convinced I loved no one but Lucia . . .

  As I continued on my way through the small but charming square of Santa Maria Mater Domini I realised that this conviction at least had not really changed. And I would do well to keep it firmly in mind – and in heart. That way I’d have at least one clear point of reference.

  The accompanying guilt was just something I would have to find a way to deal with.

  I began to wonder whether it really was a good idea to be heading towards the site of a serious crime, given the fact that I was being sought as the committer of a serious crime myself. But I assured myself that it was unlikely that there would still be investigators or sbirri hanging around. The Turks themselves would not appreciate the attention.

  I made my way down the broad road that led to the side entrance to the Fontego. As I approached the end, where the street gave on to the Grand Canal, I saw two young men in Turkish robes standing near the entrance; they were clearly there as guards or watchmen. I could not recall ever having seen such figures before. They eyed me curiously as I approached. I did my best to avoid looking at them, without, I hoped, appearing to do so too obviously.

  As the road ended in the Grand Canal, I either had to hail a gondola or stand and admire the view for a few seconds, pretending like all people who have walked down the wrong street that that was precisely what I had come to do, and then return the way I had come. I decided on the second option; I could not afford to leave traces, and you cannot enter a gondola without being duly noted and, sometimes, interrogated (in the most friendly fashion, of course).

  So I feigned an interest in the hazy view of the unfinished facade of the church of San Marcuola on the opposite side of the canal and then turned to make my way back, with the nonchalant air of one who has taken a wrong turning but has no regrets, having enjoyed a splendid view I would otherwise have missed. At that moment the door of the Fontego opened and a man stepped out into the street. He was dressed in black, and as I stared at him he pushed back his glossy black hair in a gesture I recognised, before positioning a tricorn hat. It was Kostantinos Komnenos.

  My instinct was to step back and turn away, but it was too late. His teeth flashed white in his dark-complexioned face, and he raised his hand to me. I acknowledged his greeting and would have proceeded on my way, but he was already striding towards me. Did he know about the murder I was suspected of?

  It seemed not. He said, “So you’ve discovered my little secret.”

  “What’s that?” I said in some confusion.

  He turned and gestured towards the Fontego. “I imagine you did not expect to see me coming out of there.”

  “Well, no,” I said.

  “And yet you knew I was a Phanariot. I remember you saying so during our little walk the other evening.”

  “I understood you had worked for the Ottomans but had given it up for your poetry.”

  “Would that it were so,” he said with a light smile. “I’m afraid singing about banditry is not quite so remunerative as actual banditry. So I still take on occasional jobs as translator and interpreter for my former employers. It seems there has been something of a diplomatic crisis in the last couple of days, and I was asked to lend a hand. Which way are you going?”

  “Um, back to – well, in this direction,” I said, gesturing along the broad street. “You’re not taking a gondola?”

  “No. Even with occasional work like this I still find it more advantageous to use my own legs. As you appear to be doing yourself. Shall we walk together?”

  It was impossible to refuse, and we began to stroll down the street. He seemed to be in no hurry, so I accommodated my gait to his.

  “And what is the crisis?” I asked.

  He glanced sidelong at me. “Do you really not know? I thought the networks of Venetian gossip were all-extensive.”

  “Well,” I said, “yes, I do know something about it. But I thought it would be good to hear it from the Turkish point of view.”

  He gave a sharp intake of breath. “Are you being deliberately provocative?”

  “I
thought you could tell me what the Turks are saying about it,” I explained, in as bland a voice as possible.

  “I see. Well, first, what do you know? Because in theory I am bound to silence on the subject.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “As we all are.” I took a swift decision and decided I would have to forgo the pleasure of bashfully revealing my role in the affair; if he were to grow curious about it, he might extend his enquiries and discover the later story I was involved in. As a general rule there is no point in arousing unnecessary curiosity. “I heard something about an outrage against two Turkish women. And I heard our friend Sanudo may have been involved.”

  “Ah,” he said. “So that has got out, has it?”

  “I don’t know how widely it’s known,” I said. “Just something I heard from a gondolier.”

  “Ah, the gondoliers. I understand that they once recited verses from Tasso. Now it seems they confine themselves to local gossip.”

  “Not all gondoliers,” I said. “Some can be remarkably reticent. But is it true about Sanudo?”

  “Your gondolier was well informed,” he said. “I believe the family has already found urgent business for the young man in Corfu. I’m sure it will be very beneficial for him. Not so sure about the Corfioti.”

  “I wonder how Noblewoman Isabella Venier will take it,” I said casually.

  “I hardly think she will be devastated,” he said. “But I would advise you not to build too many hopes on that assumption.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I have no aspirations in that direction.”

  He looked at me again; I think he was trying to see how seriously I meant that.