The Four Horsemen Page 30

  “I was,” I said. “And by the way, if you were listening, I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “Oh, I knew that,” he said.

  I felt rather annoyed at this – and then, just seconds later, perturbed. Why should I ever want to be taken for a killer? I tried to reassure myself that my annoyance derived only from the blow to my self-esteem as a skilful improviser.

  “And neither had I,” he went on, “until just now.”

  “So what you said about the non-violence of the Four Horsemen was true.”

  “I don’t know about the original organisation,” he said. “There are ballads about some of their deeds which suggest they could carry out some cruel actions when necessary. But we’re talking about wilder times.”

  “So you didn’t inherit your position in the Four Horsemen from your father or an uncle?” I asked.

  “Good heavens, no,” he said. “I came across references to them in manuscripts in a monastery in the Morea, while I was looking for old ballads. And in the same monastery I met Father Giorgos and persuaded him that they might be revived. He persuaded two young novice monks to join us, Dimitris and Alexis, who hadn’t yet taken their vows. You are probably aware that the Venetians are as unpopular as the Turks in parts of the Morea, so it wasn’t so difficult to persuade them. And so we came to Venice to reclaim what was ours. That’s the full history of the new Four Horsemen.”

  “And Sanudo and his cronies?”

  “Find out for yourself,” he said. “I’ve had enough of the whole story.”

  “What were you going to do with that?” I said, indicating Bepi’s perch.

  “Restore our pride,” he said simply.

  “And now?”

  “Find a way to recover my own pride,” he said. “Back home.”

  “Phanar?”

  He didn’t answer. Presumably he was thinking of my role as agent.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m not going to inform on you. My only concern was to recover the treasures of San Marco.”

  “The treasures of Constantinople,” he corrected me.

  “Let’s not argue about that,” I said. “They’re no use to you now.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “But one day . . .”

  “You’ll be back for them. And for the horses too. Well, good luck – wherever you’re going.”

  “Roumeli,” he said after a short pause.

  “That’s a big area. I won’t ask any further questions.”

  He bowed. “Farewell, Signor Marangon. Congratulations on accomplishing your mission. Do what you like to our mutual acquaintance. I have no wish to know any more about her.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “You can tell your Missier Grande that you fought me bravely and I used some underhand oriental trick to escape your clutches. Otherwise you would have consigned me to the prison I undoubtedly deserve.” He turned to Bepi. “Goodbye, Signor Bepi.”

  “Goodbye,” said Bepi.

  He gave one last wave of his hand and then made a cloak-swirling turn. He did it much better than Sanudo. He strode off towards the tumbledown house. Seconds later he had rounded the jagged wall and disappeared.

  31

  “He took his time in going,” said Bepi.

  “He’s a performer,” I said. “That last bow is always the most difficult. Well, I hope he gets away.” To his new life as a kleft, I thought to myself. Well, it would add authenticity to his poems.

  “He’ll be heading for the mainland, I suppose,” said Bepi.

  “Yes. I think he’s done this before. I imagine they’ve used this island as a place to stow booty before it makes its way eastwards.”

  “Then we’d better take these things back to the city,” he said, patting the wooden chest beneath him. “Before someone comes to call for them.”

  “Yes. Can you row?”

  “I’ll have to,” he said. “But I’ll probably need to rest occasionally.”

  “We’ll hire someone at Torcello or Burano,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “We’ve certainly got the means to pay for it.” And he tapped the chest beneath him again.

  “I hope they’ll ask a more reasonable price than that,” I said.

  “Not when they hear we’re Venetian,” he said gloomily.

  It was, in fact, not easy or cheap to find someone ready to row us across the lagoon at that time of night, but eventually we were able to intercept a fisherman on Burano who was preparing his boat to go out before dawn and said he had a brother who would do it for a ducat. It was an outrageous sum, but we had little bargaining power, and I felt it was important to get back to Venice as soon as possible.

  The brother was roused. He was a small but sturdy man with the impressive black moustaches of a true Buranello; these details, at least to my rather befuddled mind at that hour, inspired confidence. He did his very best to make it clear just how inconvenient this trip was for him and how much he wished he were still in bed – until Bepi growled that he was not sure he really wanted to entrust his oar to someone only half awake. At this the man became immediately invigorated and displayed an almost revolting liveliness; even his moustaches seemed to perk up.

  “Don’t watch him,” was my advice to Bepi, knowing that having to leave his precious boat in the hands of a stranger was torture to him. As it turned out the pain of his ankle induced him to take a seat inside the felze, and thus the Buranello was able to row undisturbed by Bepi’s severely judgemental gaze; Bepi limited himself to the occasional wince and intake of breath whenever the gondola pitched an extra unwarranted inch to the left or right.

  The chest was wedged between myself and Bepi, giving us very little legroom. There was certainly not enough space to open it to inspect its contents, as we would both have liked to do. And we didn’t want to do it outside the cabin, under the eyes of the oarsman. We remained silent for the most part; I was trying to keep my mind focused on the exquisite beauty of what I knew was inside the trunk, in order to blot out the horrific images that would otherwise fill my mind. I cannot say that I was very successful, and so I was not surprised when Bepi broke the silence with a simple question: “Why an axe?”

  “I think it was just practical reasons,” I said. “He knew he would have to conceal the bodies and they would fit into a smaller hole if suitably chopped up.”

  Bepi emitted a sharp wincing noise, and I was left to wonder whether it was caused by the image I had evoked, a sudden stab of pain in his ankle, or a perceived error of oarsmanship. Eventually he said, “He could just have dumped them on Sant’Ariano.”

  “Then he would have had to flay them first.”

  Bepi fell silent again. A little while later he asked, “Where do we go now?”

  “Campo Sant’Agnese,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s where the Missier Grande has his family home. That’s where he is now, since being pushed out of office. He’s the only person we can trust with this thing.” I tapped the chest.

  Our Buranello oarsman, being unfamiliar with Venice, needed advice on the best way to Sant’Agnese. We directed him down the Rio di Santa Giustina, returning along the way we had come hours earlier. By this time it was beginning to grow light and there was even a slight thinning of the fog. When we emerged from the Rio dei Greci the church of the Salute was hazily visible, and there was even the faintest hint of a daub of sunlight towards the top of the dome. I told him to steer to the left of the Customs House and follow the line of the Zattere.

  Ten minutes later we had reached the church of the Gesuati and I told him to moor there. We could, of course, have turned into the Rio Sant’Agnese itself, but instinctive caution warned me against that. It was always possible that the Missier Grande’s house was being observed.

  I told Bepi to wait in the gondola with our Buranello friend while I went to find the Missier Grande’s house. I stepped out, hoping that Bepi would not now embark on a litany of his colleague’s errors, and made m
y way underneath the sottoportego that led into the square. It was a quiet place, flanked on its north side by the church of Sant’Agnese, on the west side by the canal of the same name, and by fine palazzi on the other two sides. In the centre was an ornate hexagonal well. At that early hour there was just a boy aged about twelve or thirteen sitting on the edge of the well and playing with a bucket. I guessed that he was hired by the local residents to bring them water.

  I went over to him and asked how much he would charge for a single beaker of water. He eyed me for a couple of seconds, making a quick estimate of my probable wealth and intelligence. His assessment was more flattering to the former than the latter, since he demanded two soldi. I did not demur but fished in my pocket for the coins. Before handing them over I said, “Do you happen to know where Sior Carraro lives?” It was perhaps the first time I had ever uttered the Missier Grande’s surname, and I felt a tingle of daring even as I did so.

  He didn’t hesitate but pointed immediately to the street that led out of the square at the south-eastern corner. “Down there, under the sottoportego at the end by the canal, first door on the left.”

  I handed him the two coins and he gave me the water, which I drank gratefully. It made me realise that I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for many hours now. Well, soon I would reward myself with a large meal at the nearest tavern. I walked along the street and found the archway he had mentioned. I was a little surprised at the shabbiness of the entrance door, which was actually underneath the archway itself; I had imagined the Missier Grande in a light-filled palazzo looking on to Campo Sant’Agnese on one side and the Giudecca Canal on the other; that at least would be some compensation for having had to move from Saint Mark’s Square. However, in Venice it isn’t uncommon for unimposing entrances to lead into splendid interiors, so I pushed open the door, which was slightly ajar, without worrying too much about it. I was extremely tired and just anxious for the whole thing to be over.

  I found myself in a dingy, clutter-filled room, with no sign of a staircase leading to the upper floors. I took a few paces into the room, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The only light came from a small grilled window high up on the opposite wall. I realised that this was a storeroom probably used by a number of local residents; there were old pieces of furniture (a tilting wardrobe, some broken chairs, an upended table), old picture-frames, piles of wooden boxes and a general smell of mustiness. I guessed that the boy had given me the wrong directions and turned to go out.

  Even as I was turning I heard the door click shut. I then made out the dark shape of a figure by the door, someone who had presumably been standing quietly in the shadows close by.

  “Good morning, Sior Alvise.” I instantly recognised Isabella Venier’s quiet tones.

  She was dressed in dark clothes, a long black cloak covering her from head to foot. Her golden hair was concealed by a grey shawl. There was just the silvery voice to recall her customary coruscating presence.

  “Good morning,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible while my mind raced in an attempt to understand what was happening.

  “This is a little less embarrassing than our last meeting,” she said, “although no less difficult.”

  “We are both dressed at least,” I said. Before she could answer that I said, “So the Missier Grande does not live here.”

  “No. But I see the boy was convincing.”

  “There’s also the fact that I haven’t slept all night,” I said. “So my mind is not at its sharpest. How did you know I would come here?”

  “I didn’t know for certain. But last night after I saw you set off from the Piazzetta with your gondolier friend I thought it might be a possibility. The old Missier Grande is, after all, the only person who still believes in you. And I imagined that you would probably not know the exact house where he lives. He isn’t the sort of person to give out his address to all and sundry.”

  “I see,” I said. “So you thought you would intercept me.”

  “It was worth trying. This door to this place was not locked, so it seemed a good place to wait. And I found that helpful boy by the well and paid him to direct you here.”

  Her guess had been a shrewd one. In Venice, unless you have actually been to someone’s house, you rarely know any address more precise than the nearest campo; you then have to rely on local people to point you to a specific house. Given the quietness of Campo Sant’Agnese she could be fairly sure I would turn to the boy, who by the nature of his job would be bound to know all the local residents.

  “So you were on the Liston last night,” I said.

  “Of course. Did you think I would fail to oversee events while my Greek friends were risking their lives in their attempt to recover their dignity?”

  “Siora, are you aware of what happened to your Greek friends, as you call them, on your island?”

  “I am now, because my husband has told me. But you must believe me when I say that I had no idea what he had planned for them.”

  “They were hacked to pieces by a hired killer with an axe.”

  She gave a slight gasp.

  “I saw their mutilated bodies,” I went on. “I saw the blood.”

  “Please,” she said, “please stop. I had no idea. My husband just told me he had arranged for them to be – to be silenced.”

  “All except Komnenos,” I said.

  “He’s alive?” There was a sudden note of excitement in her voice. I began to think she might be sincere.

  “Yes,” I said. “And he killed the killer.”

  “I’m glad,” she said with a sudden fierce intensity.

  “Because it will save your husband having to pay him?”

  “That is cruel.”

  “Nothing like as cruel as what your husband did, with your assistance.”

  “Not with my assistance,” she said. “Please. You must believe that.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to argue over this. It really doesn’t matter whether you knew or not. The fact is that a number of people have been killed to fuel your greed. Or your husband’s greed. Or both. We’ll have to leave it to the Inquisitors to find out the full truth now.”

  “No,” she said. “That does not need to happen. Please, Sior Alvise. For the sake of what has been between us . . .”

  And I realised she was moving towards me, her face lifted in supplication, those Aegean-blue eyes gazing tenderly up at me. She pushed back the shawl so that a few strands of golden hair caught the light.

  “Siora,” I said, “it’s over.”

  “I’m not trying to seduce you,” she said, ceasing to move forward. “I know that would be a mistake. I know you have your own lover. And if necessary I can explain to her that she is mistaken in believing there was ever anything between us.”

  “Unfortunately she isn’t mistaken. That can’t be undone.”

  “She can be made to realise that one small slip in fidelity does not mean you don’t love her. Especially when you explain that I had all the powers of Venus on my side.” She attempted a smile here, providing another momentary hint of incandescence amid the dinginess.

  “Siora, what are you suggesting that I do?” I was genuinely curious.

  “If you have managed to save those treasures, then you can return them to the Procurators, explaining that you were able to pursue the thieves because you had been investigating the Four Horsemen. That will restore you to favour. But you don’t need to bring me or my husband into it. And I will make sure that he leaves Venice, never to return. For someone like my husband who loves this city that will be a real punishment.”

  “Are you aware of just how many people have been killed on his orders?”

  “It’s terrible – but they were all in their own way criminals themselves.”

  “Paolo Padoan? Just a poor retired schoolteacher?”

  “Oh, him. That was unfortunate. I had no idea at the time. But he was meddling in things that did not concern him. And he misus
ed his relationship with my maidservant shamefully. As did you.”

  “I’m sure you know now that I had no amorous relations with her.”

  She let out a light laugh. “That was embarrassing. But I soon discovered that you had been asking about the painting I had been foolish enough to give her. It was then that I began to realise you were something more than just a naively amorous busybody. My husband discovered you were a known agent of the Missier Grande. As that man Padoan had been. And my husband told me that Padoan, after being shown that particular painting of Ariadne’s, had realised it was one of a number that had disappeared from various churches and other places.”

  “The Scuola dei Calegheri, in that particular case,” I said.

  “I see you must be a very good cicerone,” she said.

  “What was the agreement you and your husband had with the Greeks?”

  “With Komnenos, not with the Greeks as a whole,” she said. “And I arranged that.”

  “I had guessed that,” I said.

  She smiled. “He was a very attractive man. And a very good lover. Quite as good as you, if not so charmingly eager.”

  “Siora, I told you that it is no good trying to seduce me.”

  “No, but there is no harm in reminiscing. And I’m glad to know I can still reminisce about dear Constantine without having to mourn him.”

  “I very much doubt he will ever forgive you.”

  “I can imagine that too,” she said. “It is a pity, but . . .” She sighed. “Well, you can’t have everything.”

  “So what was the agreement?”

  “He came here to Venice, he attended my salotto, he came to my bed, we talked. I found out about his dreams of restoring the dignity of the Eastern Roman Empire. And I offered to help him. He had this plan of re-appropriating stolen works of art, as he termed them. I believe he had a friend in the Morea who had promised to store them until such time as they could be openly displayed. But obviously it would not be easy. I said that with the help of my husband, who was a collector and knew some of the best dealers in artworks in Venice, we could finance his operations. If he and his team would give us just one out of every four of the works they stole, we would make sure they had all the logistical assistance necessary. A certain Sior Visentin, who has a shop in Campo Santa Maria Formosa, knows a number of people who specialise in transporting art clandestinely when necessary. And I was able to offer my family’s small island in the northern lagoon as a very safe storage place for items that had to be taken out of the lagoon.”