The Four Horsemen Page 25

  “Why not? People have been killed for less. So I entered the house myself. Now I wish I hadn’t.”

  So did I. But that, of course, was the last thing I must say. The only way out at this point was a complete change of subject.

  “I’m extremely grateful to you for your solicitude,” I said, not completely untruthfully. “But there are other urgent matters to talk about. I heard a very significant conversation between Noblewoman Venier and Komnenos. And it suggests to me that something important is going to happen soon. Perhaps even this very night.” I started walking in the direction of the square.

  “Are you sure you want to talk to me about this?” she said.

  “Siora Lucia, I have no one else I can turn to. No one.”

  “Dear me,” she said with utter simplicity. “You are in a wretched situation.”

  “I know it,” I said. “But I will be eternally grateful for your help.” She was silent for a few seconds before saying, “Then come with me.”

  That surprised me. It sounded as if she was taking the initiative. “Where?”

  “To your gondola.”

  “To my what?”

  “Well, your friend’s gondola. Bepi. He’s waiting in Rio San Luca.”

  “Why?”

  “I just thought it might be prudent. I didn’t know what was going to happen after your meeting with Ariadne, but I thought transport would always be useful. You might have had to escape to the mainland, and you would obviously need a friend to help you to do that. So I went and spoke to Bepi, and he agreed at once.”

  “Siora Lucia,” I said, “I don’t deserve your friendship.” And that was the whole truth.

  “Maybe not,” she said. “But that’s not the point right now. Let’s go. Oh, and my father is waiting with Bepi.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes. The moment I mentioned my plan I couldn’t stop him. If nothing else I have to be grateful to you for that: you’ve got him out of the shop twice today.”

  “Well, I’m glad to have been helpful in that at least,” I said.

  We were now walking along the Calle de la Mandola, which leads towards the Rio San Luca. There were a couple of taverns from which light, laughter and cooking smells emerged enticingly. I felt a sudden yearning for a carefree social life, where one could sit down in a tavern without checking it first for killers or sbirri . . .

  We did not speak again until we reached the bridge over the canal, which leads into the narrow Campo San Paternian. To the left of the bridge I saw the dark shape of the gondola, with a single lantern at its prow. Bepi and Fabrizio were both sitting at the front of the boat, outside the felze, their cloaks wrapped tightly around themselves, playing dice on a small board which was balanced on Bepi’s knees.

  “Sior Bepi,” called Lucia, “I trust you are not leading my father into bad ways.”

  Bepi looked up at her and smiled. He had always been fond of Lucia and had difficulty in understanding the seeming lack of development in my relations with her. (He expressed it a little more simply than that.)

  “Siora,” he said, “it was your father who wanted to try.”

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh, “I can believe it.”

  Fabrizio was still gazing intensely at the two dice on the board; he now looked up with a slightly abstracted expression. “I’m intrigued by the infinite permutations of chance that these tiny objects represent. And yet my friend Bepi seems to have some system that allows him to foretell the odds.”

  Bepi shrugged. “It’s not a system,” he said. “It’s just my nose.”

  “I would never have thought that I could become so interested in so seemingly insignificant an object,” Fabrizio mused on. “I begin to understand the reason so many people become fascinated by games of chance.”

  “Bepi,” I said, “how much have you taken from him?”

  “We’ve only been playing for bagattini,” he said. “Just to introduce him to it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Alvise,” said Fabrizio. “My new pastime has made me forget my manners.” He rose to his feet, setting the gondola rocking, and made a welcoming gesture towards me. “Has all gone well, my dear?” he said to Lucia.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Sior Alvise will tell us.”

  Bepi helped Lucia to climb aboard, and I followed her. At this point we had to enter the cabin, since there was not enough room outside. Lucia and Fabrizio passed through the door, while I remained outside for the moment. Bepi unmoored the boat and scrambled around the outside of the cabin to take up his post at the stern. “Where to?” he called to me. “Are we heading for the mainland?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Perhaps the Fontego again . . . but stay on the opposite side of the canal.”

  “All right,” he said. He did not sound fully convinced of the wisdom of this destination but pushed off none the less.

  I bent down and passed into the cabin. Lucia and Fabrizio were sitting side by side on the two chairs opposite me. She had clearly been saying something quietly to him, and his face, in the dim light from the lantern, looked rather perturbed. But he turned to me and said with forced lightness, “Well, then? Have you found your thread?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I do know that I could use some help. As I’ve already told Siora Lucia, I overheard fragments of a conversation between Noblewoman Venier and Komnenos and I’ve been trying to make sense of it. The fundamental point is that Komnenos works as interpreter between the Turks and the city’s authorities. And it seems that he has managed to work out some kind of immediate reparation to the ambassador, but one that must remain secret on both sides. And it will serve also as reparation to the ambassador’s wife and daughter.” I paused.

  “That’s not enough information,” Lucia said.

  “No,” I said, “I know. But it’s all we have to go on.”

  Fabrizio said, “What did Ariadne show you? I thought that was supposed to be the point of your visit.”

  “Ah yes,” I said. “She showed me a very fine Greek icon of Constantine, which used to be in the Scuola dei Calegheri in Campo San Toma.”

  “What? Did she tell you that?”

  “No, I recognised it. It’s one of a number of such things that have been stolen over the last few months. You may have heard about it. All religious items. Nearly all Greek or Eastern in origin.”

  “And you think Ariadne has been doing this?” Fabrizio said, sounding very doubtful.

  “No, of course not. It’s almost certainly been Komnenos and his cronies. With, I think, the assistance of Isabella Venier.”

  “Why?” said Lucia.

  “Komnenos more or less boasted of it the other evening. He’s a bandit. Or, at least, he sings bandit songs.”

  “Against the Turks, as I understand it,” said Fabrizio.

  “Well, not only,” I said. “And in fact if the Four Horsemen mean anything—”

  “I thought Sanudo and his band were the Four Horsemen,” said Lucia.

  “Yes, so did I. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe they thought they were too.”

  “This is making no sense to me,” Lucia said.

  “Nor is it to me,” I admitted. “At least not entirely. However, if the Four Horsemen are connected with the four horses of the basilica, then from the Greek point of view the real thieves are not the Turks but the Venetians.”

  “I see,” said Fabrizio. “You are referring to the Fourth Crusade.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “The never-forgiven crime of the sack of Constantinople.”

  “This is not making things any clearer to me,” Lucia said.

  “Come, my dear,” said Fabrizio. “You’ve heard of the Fourth Crusade.”

  “Well, yes,” she said, “I’ve heard of it. Was it a crime?”

  “Well,” Fabrizio said, “that entirely depends from which point of view you consider it. From the Venetian point of view it’s always been considered one of the high points of our history. It was then that the Doge declared himself l
ord of a quarter and a half-quarter of Romania – which is to say the Eastern Roman Empire.” He paused and added reflectively, “So very mathematically precise. You can tell we have always been merchants at heart.”

  “But the Greeks have always considered it a crime,” I said.

  “That is so,” Fabrizio said. “From conversations I’ve had with Greek scholars, the year 1204 for them is no less grim a date than 1453. They have really never forgiven the West for what it did on that occasion. A chronicler of the city described the Crusaders as ‘heralds of the Anti-Christ’ who tore out the jewels from chalices and used them as drinking cups, hurled sacred relics into the latrines, raped maidens and nuns, and set up a harlot on the Patriarch’s chair in Santa Sophia . . . And, of course, the leading force in that assault on the city was Venice itself. Essentially we made ourselves the new Constantinople from that date on. And even when a new dynasty of Greek emperors, the Palaiologos family, returned to Constantinople in 1261, ousting the Crusader intruders, they never regained their former glory.”

  “Nor all the booty,” I said. “Including the four horses.”

  “Indeed not,” said Fabrizio. “You know, I did do a little research after our conversation about these mysterious horsemen. I couldn’t find any definite data, but there are rumours of a mysterious society that took that name. Something that arose in the aftermath of the Fourth Crusade, probably in the territories that fell under Latin rule.”

  “Latin rule?” asked Lucia.

  “That was how the crusading powers from the West were known,” Fabrizio explained. “They were called either Franks or Latins. I believe that even today the Greeks and the Turks often refer to western Europeans as Franks.”

  “But this secret society,” I said, “who were they?”

  “Well, it’s very difficult to find any definite documents, but it seems there was a close-knit group of Greeks who were determined to avenge the crimes of the Fourth Crusade. And they took the name, as you surmised, from the most significant item of plunder on that sad occasion. I presume they also liked the hint of apocalyptic doom that the name gave them.”

  “This is rather different from what Isabella Venier said to me,” I said. “She talked about the Horsemen as having adopted a name that was symbolic of Venetian power, something that could comfort those under the Ottoman yoke.”

  “When did she tell you that?” asked Lucia.

  “Oh, the other evening,” I said awkwardly, hoping the sudden flare in my cheeks was not visible in the lantern-light. I attempted to deflect the subject. “Of course, the horses now are a symbol of Venetian power – and a clear political statement.”

  “Yes,” Lucia said meditatively, “it’s difficult to see any religious significance in them.”

  “Indeed not,” said Fabrizio. “In fact, they were originally set up in front of the Arsenale. Fine horses like that were nearly always symbols of Roman triumphalism. And so by setting them up on the front of our most important church we were essentially declaring that we were now the new Rome. I can well imagine that it might offend the sensibility of some Greeks from the old Eastern Roman Empire.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And I think Komnenos is one such Greek.”

  “So,” said Fabrizio, “this society, devoted to avenging crimes committed against the Greeks, has either survived down through the centuries since 1204 or has been revived, perhaps under the leadership of Komnenos.”

  “Well, he doesn’t exactly make any mystery of his feelings about the crimes of the West,” I said.

  “Not such a very secret society, then,” said Lucia ironically.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m beginning to suspect it’s all part of his strategy. And quite a successful one.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, in Venice we always lay the emphasis on secrecy. Our whole system of government is based on it. Secret councils, secret sessions, secret denunciations placed in lions’ mouths . . . the Three, the Ten, the Forty . . . No names, just the mysterious numbers.”

  “I suspect it’s all a little exaggerated,” said Fabrizio. “I know it impresses foreigners.”

  “It impresses many Venetians too,” I said. “We love to think that our rulers move in mysterious ways. And then we’re always looking for secrets ourselves.”

  “Some of us,” said Lucia, a little sharply.

  “Yes, I know that I’m talking about myself as much as anyone. And about the work I do for the Missier Grande – work that I have to keep secret. But the point is that when someone comes along and openly talks about his anger at the Venetians for their crimes against his people, and openly professes his admiration for bandits, we naturally suspect nothing. His very openness disarms us. He even manages somehow to work as an intermediary between the Turks and the Venetians without arousing any suspicion. Perhaps precisely because he is so open about his allegiance to the Greeks. We assume he can’t be up to anything bad because he apparently isn’t trying to hide anything.”

  “I wish I had met him,” said Lucia. “You make him sound intriguing.”

  “You would find him completely charming, I’m sure,” I said. “He has clearly charmed Noblewoman Venier.”

  “Is that very difficult?” she said.

  “Perhaps not,” I said. “She is always looking out for distractions.”

  “And that is why you think she has been helping him to steal these valuable items?” said Fabrizio. I wasn’t sure whether he was aware of a slight tension as Lucia and I talked of Isabella Venier, but I was certainly grateful for his intervention. It also helped to redirect the conversation to the essential point.

  “It’s the only explanation I can find,” I said. “She is a wealthy woman, married to an elderly and rather tedious nobleman, whom she clearly doesn’t love . . .”

  “You’ve found out a good deal about this woman,” said Lucia.

  “I’ve surmised a good deal,” I said. “But I think it’s accurate.”

  “Oh, I trust your judgement on her,” she said. She was looking steadily out of the window as she made these remarks, refusing to catch my eye. “We’re in the Grand Canal. Where are we heading?”

  “To the Fontego dei Turchi,” I said. “Purely on the basis of those fragments of conversation I heard.”

  “An act of reparation for the ambassador,” said Fabrizio thoughtfully.

  “Yes. And one that must remain secret.” I laughed.

  “What’s the joke?” Lucia said.

  “I think Komnenos has understood how to make the Venetian love of secrecy work for him in every possible way. I’m suspecting that he has devised something that neither the Turks nor the Venetian authorities have completely understood but which is going to serve his purposes.”

  “And those purposes are . . . ?”

  “Well, I suppose what he’s been doing all along. Stealing items of Greek art in order, presumably, to restore them to his people.” Another fragment from the conversation returned to me. “There’s something else. At a certain point Siora Venier laughed and said something like ‘What else do they expect Turkish women to be interested in?’”

  Lucia repeated the words to herself. She said thoughtfully, “I imagine the idea is that we just think of Turkish women as being locked up in harems, with nothing to think about but their fine clothes and their jewellery.”

  “Fine clothes and jewellery,” I repeated thoughtfully.

  Fabrizio coughed. “This may seem absurd, but if we’re talking about precious items of Greek workmanship, there is one obvious place where a great many such things can be found.”

  I said slowly, “The treasury of Saint Mark’s.”

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  “Well, unless he’s planning to steal the four horses themselves, I can’t see a more obvious target,” said Fabrizio. “Many of the finest pieces in the treasury are loot from the Fourth Crusade, just like the four horses.”

  “And I should have thought they would be equally difficult to steal,” said Lucia.<
br />
  “Yes, and so they would be in normal circumstances,” I said. “But Komnenos has managed to create some exceptional circumstances.” Another part of the conversation came to me. It only needs one, and that’s already done. He obtains the . . . (inaudible) from the other two. They don’t all have to be there. In this case we have specifically asked for as small a delegation as possible.

  “Usually a visit to the treasury is a very public occasion,” I said. “Distinguished visitors are granted access, and they are surrounded by all sorts of officials. In particular, there have to be three Procurators because the treasury has three locks and the keys are held by three separate Procurators. However, it is possible for one Procurator to obtain the keys from the other two, and this is quite often done. The important thing is that all three Procurators must have agreed to grant access.”

  “Goodness,” said Lucia, “how do you know all this?”

  “From my work as cicerone,” I said. “Although I have to admit I’ve hardly ever managed to obtain access for any of my clients. I don’t know any Procurators. Komnenos, it seems, does. More important, he has managed to persuade the authorities to grant the ambassador a private visit with his wife and daughter . . .”

  “Because of course there’s nothing women love so much as looking at shiny objects,” said Lucia drily.

  “Well, certainly that will have sounded convincing to the authorities. And they will be desperate to do anything to mollify the Turks at this point. So what better than to offer them an exclusive private visit to the great treasures of our basilica? And, specifically, it must be private. No word is supposed to have got out about the crime committed against those poor women and so the fewer people present on this occasion the better. Therefore, presumably, it will be a night-time visit, with as few authorities and guides as possible. Probably just one Procurator with all three keys. And the Turks themselves won’t want to advertise their wish to see a collection of infidel treasures just to satisfy the cravings of a couple of women, so my guess is that there will just be the ambassador, his wife and daughter, and perhaps one or two guards.”

  “And then?” said Lucia.