The Four Horsemen Page 7

  “It is his sister’s special wish,” I said, firmly squashing the inner voice of my conscience. I knew that he was not likely to suggest she came in person to talk to him, since women were probably not allowed to enter the monastery. “It would greatly help her in her grief.”

  He frowned. “And what is your relationship to his sister?”

  “I’m just a neighbour and a friend.”

  “I see.” He stood a moment in contemplation and then said, “Have you visited the shrine of our saint?”

  “No,” I said.

  He led the way into the richly decorated side chapel. Over the altar stood a splendid polyptych, with saints against a gold background. Underneath the altar-table lay a chest with two gratings, through which a gleam of gold could be discerned.

  “Brought from Constantinople in the thirteenth century,” said the monk. “The body was transported in that chest.” He pointed to another large chest, alongside the altar, which bore painted images of four saints. I recognised Saint Mark and Saint Helena.

  I said hesitantly, “I remember reading that the church of Aracoeli in Rome also claims to have the body of Saint Helena.”

  He gave a contemptuous wave of his hand. “And Hautvillers in France, and Verona too. It’s possible they have a finger or a toe, but only we have the body. When the ship bearing the chest came into the lagoon, they were intending to take it into the city itself, but the ship was unable to sail past this island, making it clear that this was where the saint wished her relics to remain.”

  I nodded with pious acceptance of the tale. I may have grown up in sceptical Protestant England, but my mother had been fervently (if intermittently) Catholic.

  “And Sior Padoan felt a special bond with Saint Helena,” I said. I studied the predella of the polyptych. There were five small scenes, which I thought I could identify as stories of the discovery of the True Cross.

  “Yes,” he said. “He always said a prayer in the chapel both when he arrived and before leaving. He was also devoted to Saint Helena’s son, Constantine. Or Saint Constantine, as our brothers of the Orthodox Church call him.”

  “Did Sior Padoan consider him a saint?”

  “I think so,” he said, after a pause. “He certainly considered Constantinople a holy city.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard him say that.”

  He darted a shrewd glance at me. “So you have spoken to him on these subjects?”

  I hoped my blushing was not visible in the flickering candlelight of the chapel. “Not long conversations. He was not a great talker.”

  “No,” he said. “From the few remarks I heard I understood that he was interested in the strong ties between our city and Constantinople. He seemed to feel that these ties were somehow – well, again the word is redemptive.”

  “Redemptive? For whom?”

  “For Venice.”

  I stood in silence, gazing at the intricate depictions of the mother of the ruler of the greatest empire on earth engaged in the task of excavating planks of ancient wood from the earth.

  “As I understood it,” said the monk, “Sior Padoan worked for the government of our city but was not entirely happy with some of the things he had to do. He wanted to believe in a nobler and holier city than the one he saw every day. Venice should be the new Constantinople.”

  “Should be,” I said, not sure whether I was asking a question or expressing scepticism.

  “That is how he wished he could see the city,” said the monk. “After 1453 it was our duty to take on the mantle of the new holy city of Europe.”

  “After Constantinople fell to the Ottomans,” I said, not so much because I wanted him to see that I knew my history but rather because I was reflecting on this desire for a divinely approved geopolitical role for our city – and, as a consequence, for himself.

  “Exactly,” said the monk.

  This was not getting me any closer to the diary. “Do you remember him writing in a diary?” I said. “Or doing any writing at all while here?”

  “He may have done so in the library,” he said. “I never observed him there.”

  “Could I ask someone who might have done?”

  “You could ask, but you won’t get an answer,” he said.

  “Oh, and why’s that?”

  “We have a vow of silence outside our hours of prayer. As abbot I am allowed to break it in order to talk to outsiders such as yourself. But my brothers must remain silent during the day.”

  “So the only person Padoan can have talked to is you,” I said.

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, Father Abbot, would you allow me to see the library in any case?”

  “That seems a reasonable request,” he said. “Do you wish to spend a few moments in contemplation first?”

  I realised that yes was the only possible answer to this and knelt down before the shrine. I said a brief prayer; if anyone could help me find this missing object, surely it must be the saint who had found the True Cross buried deep underneath a pagan temple. As I knelt there I allowed my eyes to wander around the chapel. There were fine carved choir-stalls around the apse, more devotional paintings on the side walls and a small bookcase in one corner containing what were presumably hymn-books and devotional readings. Next to it was a wooden board where people had affixed individual prayers and ex-voto paintings with crude but touching depictions of Saint Helena leaning from Heaven to help a child in a bed, a fisherman who had fallen from his boat, a ship grounded on rocks . . . They did not inspire confidence in Venetian seamanship.

  After a suitable lapse of time I got to my feet and followed the abbot, who led the way out of the chapel. He locked the door of the chapel after we had left it. “You may have heard of some of the recent thefts in churches,” he said. “It seems nothing is considered sacred now.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very worrying.” Over the last few months there had been a spate of thefts of precious objects from churches and guilds. The items reported stolen were all, as far as I could remember, of Greek or Eastern origin, which perhaps explained the abbot’s concern for the relics of Saint Helena.

  He now led the way to a door on the opposite side of the church. This opened straight into a cloister, with a well in the middle. We walked around two sides of the cloister, entered the monastery and climbed to the first floor. The library was relatively small, with windows looking out on to the lagoon. My secular eyes were drawn to that view rather than to the books. All that could be seen was the drifting grey fog, but I knew that across the water lay the green expanse of the Lido. It must be quite a distracting view in clear weather, with the many-masted sailing ships, the simple fishing boats and the barges of the Republic making their way to and from the open gap that leads into the Adriatic. I thought I could discern the ghost of a three-masted vessel proceeding cautiously towards the city.

  I looked around the room. Bookcases lined all the walls, with imposing volumes bound in dark leather. Three desks were set out one behind the other; there was just one monk sitting at one of them, and I had the impression that, rather like Sior Massaro, he had given a guilty start as we opened the door and immediately devoted himself with fierce concentration to his work; the scraping of his quill was the only sound.

  “Can I look around?” I said, feeling a little daunted by the sheer number of volumes surrounding me.

  “If you really think it will be of benefit. You will excuse me, but I have other duties to attend to.”

  I was very glad to see him go but expressed my understanding in rather more courteous terms. The other monk continued to scribble. Although I could not see his face as he bent industriously over his work, I could sense his annoyance, possibly at having to keep up the pretence of unstinting labour. I did my best to reassure him by immediately turning to the bookcases and focusing all my attention on them.

  I perused them shelf by shelf, looking for any object that appeared out of place, scarcely taking in the titles as I did so. I was conscio
us of the quill continuing to scrape and scratch behind me; it was possibly only my imagination, but I had the distinct impression that if I were to swivel suddenly I would catch the writer glaring hostilely at me, while his quill executed meaningless doodles on the paper. I resisted the temptation to do so, and after a while I forgot all about him.

  My eyes grew accustomed to the dim gold writing on the spines as my eyes ran over shelf after shelf, and my body alternately strained upwards, crouched downwards and leaned sideways according to the shelves I was scrutinising. Lives of saints, devotional tracts, collections of sermons, histories of the Church, in Italian, Latin and occasionally Greek. Nothing that I felt tempted to pull out and read. And no modern intruders.

  I had completed my inspection of one entire wall when I heard footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. I turned towards the door. My companion did not look up.

  The door opened and the abbot stood there with another man, dressed in sober dark clothes, wearing a neat powdered wig and holding a silver-topped cane. I recognised him. It was Marino Basso, a trusted confidente of the three Inquisitors. He was not tall, but somehow, by lifting his sharply pointed chin, he managed to give the impression that he was looking down on the world. He prided himself, I knew, on his polished manners, confidential agents of the Inquisitors being a cut above the riff-raff that worked for the Missier Grande. He gazed at me disapprovingly.

  “May I ask what you are doing here?” he said, in his smooth Tuscan Italian.

  I knew I still had to be very careful not to mention the Missier Grande, even though Basso knew that I worked for him. “I’m here entirely for private personal reasons,” I said. “My gondolier friend Bepi was a close neighbour of Padoan, the man who—”

  “I know that Padoan worked for the Missier Grande,” said Basso. “And that you do too.”

  I heard the quill pen behind me halt for the first time. This had clearly caught everyone’s attention. The abbot was gazing coldly at me too.

  “Yes, but that has nothing to do with it,” I said. “This is purely a private matter. I’m trying to find something important for Padoan’s sister.”

  “You are referring, I presume, to the man’s diary,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. There was clearly no point in denying it.

  “Well, you may stop doing so. The Inquisitors wish to take possession of it.”

  There was nothing I could say to this. “Very well,” I said anyway. “Would you like me to help you look for it?”

  “Are you deliberately trying to be impertinent?”

  “No, just helpful.” I pointed to the wall behind me. “I’ve searched that bookcase. There’s nothing there. You might as well start with that one.” I gestured to the opposite wall.

  “Thank you. I don’t think we need any advice.” He didn’t add “from a crony of the sbirri”, but the implication was clear enough from his tone.

  I gave a shrug. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I said. “Try not to disturb this poor fellow at his writing. I’ve been very discreet.”

  “As I said, I require no advice from you. Oh, before you go, do me the courtesy of showing your pockets to me.”

  This was decidedly beyond the bounds of his authority, and I toyed for a moment with the thought of refusing. But it struck me that I would not be helping the Missier Grande by allowing the Inquisitors to think that he might have obtained the diary. So I allowed him to inspect my person, limiting my reaction to an expression of haughty disapproval as he patted my jacket and cloak.

  “Very well,” he said. “You may go.”

  “Very kind of you,” I said in my coldest manner.

  “Father Abbot,” said Basso, “I would ask you to conduct this person to his boat. I will continue my search here by myself.”

  “Very well,” said the abbot.

  “You may inform the Missier Grande,” said Basso, “that the diary will be perfectly safe under our protection. He need not trouble himself further with it.”

  “I’ll say nothing at all,” I said, “since the Missier Grande has expressed no interest in it.”

  He merely sniffed and then turned to the nearest bookcase, a smugly triumphant expression on his face; I was reminded of little Pierino after he had got his mother to pick him up.

  The walk back down the staircase and through the cloisters was an uncomfortable one, the abbot emanating disapproval and disappointment in his every step and sniff. As we reached the door into the church I said, “Father Abbot, will you forgive me if I take a moment to pray again to Saint Helena? My boatman hasn’t arrived yet, in any case.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “If working for the Missier Grande means what I imagine it means, then perhaps I can understand why Sior Padoan felt the need for redemption.”

  “Father Abbot,” I said, “it probably does mean what you are imagining. But not everyone is drawn into this work for base reasons.”

  He gave a sigh. “The road to hell . . . I need not continue. But I can certainly understand why you might wish to say another prayer.” He gestured towards the chapel of Saint Helena. “Go. But please understand if I ask you not to return to this island.”

  “I do understand, Father Abbot.”

  The abbot unlocked the chapel door and returned to the nave of the main church.

  I went straight towards the little bookcase I had seen. A few words spoken by Sior Basso had given me a sudden idea. Under our protection . . .

  All that I had heard of Sior Padoan suggested his strong desire for protection, for himself and for his words. So if he had written something and wanted it to be preserved, he would presumably have left it as close as possible to the saint he had elected as his protector. Ideally he might have wanted to slip the diary into the casket with the body itself, but that would have been problematic; it seemed likely, however, that he would have chosen to conceal it somewhere in the chapel dedicated to her. And the abbot had told me that he always visited the chapel both when he arrived and before he left the island.

  I ran my eyes over the books lined up in the little case. As I had supposed earlier they consisted of hymn-books and devotional readings; they were a little more battered than the almost pristine volumes in the library, but they still did not suggest any regularity of use. I ran my eyes and my fingers over them – and then I spotted a black leather wallet-like object, less firm and less bulky than the other books, in a corner of the lowest shelf. I pulled it out and flipped it open. It contained hand-written pages. I gave it just one glance and then thrust it into the inner pocket of my jacket and went to the altar and knelt down for a few seconds, whispering words of suitable gratitude to Saint Helena.

  Now if only I could leave the island straight away. Unfortunately when I stepped out of the church, giving a courteous bow to the abbot, who stood at the entrance door and returned it with equal courtesy but considerably more coldness, there was no sign of my boatman. A gondola was moored at the landing stage, and the gondolier was walking up and down by the water’s edge, presumably to keep warm. I was tempted to try to bribe him to take me over to the city but realised it would create more trouble than it was worth.

  So there was nothing to do but wait for my man to return. I did not dare to take out the package from my pocket, lest the gondolier should see it and mention it to his passenger. I had the distinct impression that it was swelling inside my jacket to monstrous proportions, and I pulled my cloak more firmly around myself to conceal the bulge.

  I strolled towards the gondolier in as casual a fashion as possible.

  “Good morning,” I greeted him.

  He looked suspiciously at me. He was a thickset man with an impressive moustache and eyebrows. He gave a grunt which might have been a clearing of the throat prior to expectoration, but as he didn’t actually expectorate I chose to interpret it as a response.

  “Are you Sior Basso’s private gondolier?” I asked. It was unlikely that a mere agent could afford his own gondolier, but I
thought it worth asking, if only to torment myself with the discrepancy in pay between myself and him.

  “No,” he said after a pause, as if wondering whether answering this question would be in any way self-incriminating. Gondoliers are generally wary about volunteering information about their working circumstances. It’s probably something inculcated into them from their earliest lessons, discretion having always featured highly among their required skills.

  “Hired for the day?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason,” I said, giving an airy wave of the hand. I realised I was not going to get any information from this man, so after a few desultory remarks about the fog I moved away from him.

  It was a painful wait. I was longing to inspect the package and at the same time I was dreading the sound of footsteps coming from the church. I doubted that Basso would order another search of my person, but I now had the distinct impression that the package was visibly throbbing under my jacket to the beat of my heart.

  Eventually, however, I discerned the boat appearing through the mist. Biasio and the gondolier exchanged a couple of salutatory grunts, I boarded, and we set off towards the city. With my back to Biasio I drew out the notebook and carefully opened it.

  It was written in Greek.

  I flipped all the way through it. There was no break in the neat angular script.

  “Pretentious poser,” I said to myself. I could make out a few repeated names here and there: Sanudo, Querini, something that looked like Phanariot, whatever that might be. Constantinople appeared here and there and Hagia Helena a couple of times; I also thought I saw a reference to the Komnenos dynasty of emperors. Perhaps he had just been scribbling notes on the history of the Eastern Roman Empire.

  So how was I going to get an idea of what was written here? Well, the Missier Grande would undoubtedly know how to find an interpreter, but he had been quite explicit about this investigation’s being my business; he might not welcome my running straight to him before I had concluded my inquiries.