The Rossetti Letter (v5) (35 page)

She cried out as the first of the long, wracking spasms struck her, shaking her with such intensity she felt as though she would break apart. Words tumbled unbidden from her lips. She heard herself moan, and closed her eyes.

“Look at me,” Antonio said, his voice low and hoarse. Alessandra opened her eyes and faced his frank stare as she trembled, out of control. A shadow crossed his face and his breath quickened, coming in ragged, rapid gasps. He pulled her against him so fiercely that he drove himself deeper, then deeper still. Alessandra felt herself responding with a gathering power, which would unleash again with renewed force.

Antonio’s head lifted off the bed and his body curved toward her, as if he’d been wound tight with an invisible spring. A great groan, from the depths of his soul, escaped from his lips. He ground his hips so tightly into hers that it left her breathless, and in that moment she felt him pulse inside her, followed by his warm release. He gave a strangled cry and fell back, bucking underneath her, reaching deeper and deeper inside, until she climaxed again in great, shattering waves.

She fell upon him, feeling his arms enfold her, their breath mingling, their hearts beating wildly. Antonio stroked her hair. “My love,” he murmured, “oh, my love.”

Across the room, the logs in the fireplace crumbled into ash and embers, and the shadows shifted and grew deeper. Too soon those shadows would disappear and it would be morning. Alessandra held Antonio tight and resolved to commit every detail to memory: the scent of his skin, the touch of his hands, the feel of his stubbled cheek against her face, the warm pressure of his lips. Even now, in the peacefulness that followed frenzy, she could sense the lion’s mouth waiting for them, its black chasm opened wide, yawning, cavernous, ready to engulf them both.

4 March 1618

S
EATED NEXT TO
her in the gondola, Alessandra felt Bianca shivering as they pressed slowly forward into the fog-shrouded canal. The weather had turned so gloomy that the
ancone
were already lit, though they were few and sputtered with damp. Vague shapes, unnatural and dreamlike, loomed in the murky distance, then gradually resolved into solid forms as they approached: a gnarled mooring pole, a boat’s curved prow, a grinning gargoyle, a stone bridge. Even Paolo, only a few feet behind her at the stern, looked eerie and indistinct, and the cadenced splash produced by his measured rowing was muffled.

“It’s too quiet,” Bianca whispered. “It’s still Carnival, for a few days. Why are people not celebrating?”

“It’s the fog,” Alessandra said. But it seemed odd to her, too, and for some reason she had answered Bianca in an identical whisper.

Nico and Antonio had gone on ahead, taking the larger of the two chests to her cousin’s vacant house in San Polo. There they could stay hidden until they had hired a barge to take them to Marghera.

She’d composed a letter to Giovanna that morning, which Nico could take to the post as soon as the trunks were upstairs. With luck, Giovanna would be there to meet them at Marghera the following night. It would not be well if she were late. As eager as they were to leave Venice, it wouldn’t do to wait at the
terraferma
village for long; they might be even more vulnerable there.

The other letter, the one she’d written to the Great Council, had been destroyed. Late last night Alessandra had awakened, stiff with cold. She turned and realized she was alone in the bed; Antonio was no longer there.

Moonlight shone in the windows and left diamond-shaped patterns of light on the floor. The entire room seemed transformed into strange configurations of metallic brightness and fathomless shadows. For a moment she wondered if she were dreaming, if Antonio himself had been a dream.

Then she saw him. He was sitting on a footstool in front of the hearth, his naked body bathed in the ruddy glow of the embers. She thought of calling to him, then she saw what he was doing. Silently she watched as he opened the letter she’d written to the council and read it through. When he was done, he held the corner of the paper to the embers until it caught fire. The light from the sudden burst of flame illuminated his face, his enigmatic expression. With the letter pinched between his thumb and forefinger, he let the fire devour it until he could hold it no longer, and threw the last flaming bit of it into the grate.

Then the morning arrived, and soon after it so had Nico, Bianca, and Paolo, and they’d had no time to speak of it. But why had Antonio burnt the letter? Who was he protecting? Could it be that he still served Bedmar and the duke? Alessandra resolved to question him as soon as they arrived at Giovanna’s house.

They turned into the Rio dei Frari. Through the mist Alessandra saw the dark shape of a fortified door open to the canal. She looked back at Paolo, then pointed ahead. “That house there.”

Paolo steered the boat through the archway. The gondola that Nico and Antonio had arrived in bobbed in the water next to the stone slab of the ground-level storerooms. Alessandra’s wooden chest was still in it.

Why had Nico and Antonio gone upstairs and left the chest behind? Alessandra felt a fleeting irritation. “Nico!” Bianca screamed, standing up and rocking the gondola wildly. As she bolted from the boat, Alessandra saw what had prompted her sudden outburst and scrambled out after her. Nico was slumped facedown on the stairs leading up to the house. They rushed over and knelt beside him. Alessandra saw the bloody gash on the back of his jerkin and turned him over. Bianca convulsed with tears as they saw the blood that covered his chest and the wound where the sword had entered and run him through. The trickle of red that ran down from the corner of his mouth was still wet, but Nico’s face was contorted in a silent, stilled agony. They were too late to save him.

“No!” Bianca sobbed and threw herself upon him. “No, not my Nico!”

Stunned and bewildered, Alessandra reached to comfort Bianca. She gasped as a strong hand gripped her shoulder and another grabbed her arm, lifting her to her feet. Paolo forcefully turned her away from her sobbing maidservant and pointed across the room.

“By the Virgin,” Alessandra exclaimed as she saw the dead
bravo
lying near a group of old wine barrels. Paolo pointed again and she saw a second man, floating facedown in the water. The gondolier pulled at her arm, and gestured toward the boat.

“It isn’t s-safe.”

“Bianca, we must go,” Alessandra said.

Tears streamed down Bianca’s cheeks as she turned to her mistress. “My lady, what has happened?”

“I don’t know, but I fear a trap. We must leave at once.”

They got back into the gondola and Paolo rowed them outside, into the canal.

“Signorina Rossetti.” A man’s voice came from out of the fog. A gondola blocked the canal; through the mist she saw that it was filled with the red-and-blue-liveried soldiers of the Missier Grande, the Council of Ten’s special police force. “Signorina Rossetti,” the voice said again, “you must come with us.”

His attire marked him as Venetian, but he was unlike any Venetian Antonio had ever seen. The man who faced him in the Crooked Alley of Secrets reminded him of the Mongol slaves he’d seen in Sicily—except for the blue eyes that peered out from his wide, angular face with an intensity that chilled Antonio’s soul. This man was no one’s menial, clearly, but a confident swordsman of his own age or thereabouts who advanced toward Antonio with a long, shining rapier pointed right at his heart.

At first Antonio had thought that the five men who’d set upon them at Giovanna’s house were thieves lured by the sumptuous chest they carried in their gondola. He’d killed two of them, but once Nico had fallen, he’d made his escape rather than face three alone. He had imagined that the thieves would stay there, to carry off the goods, and hoped that he would be able to find and warn Alessandra before she arrived at the house. He’d had the surprise of his life when they followed him instead.

He’d dispatched one quickly, and had given the slip to another, but this pale-eyed creature had dogged his steps all through the back alleys of San Polo. At the very moment Antonio had thought he’d finally lost him, the ruffian had dropped down right in front of him, as nimble as an acrobat, and as menacing as a snake.

“Antonio Perez,” he said, with a slight accent that gave a sinister edge to his voice. “I have long been desiring your acquaintance.”

“And who are you?” Antonio raised his sword.

“Batù Vratsa. I’ll be taking you to the Doge’s Prison.”

“You’ll have to kill me first.”

“If you insist.”

Antonio stepped back as Batù advanced, looking for a place that would give him more room to maneuver but finding none in the narrow passage. His opponent held his sword with confident grace. The air whistled as he slashed it back and forth, equal parts threat and opening sortie. Their gazes locked and Antonio saw the intention in Batù’s eyes a split second before he sprang forward, anticipating his attack with a rapid parry. The clanging sound of clashing steel echoed off the stone walls. Antonio lunged, aiming for Batù’s chest. His foe dodged the rapier easily, with a sudden twist and a leap to the left that brought the point of his sword even closer to Antonio.

What Antonio had seen of his challenger already, in his first attack at Giovanna’s house, had been impressive, but now he began to understand just who he was up against. Batù moved with a sure-footed skill and an extraordinary agility, unlike any sword fighter he’d ever seen. Antonio surpassed him in size, but he perceived that this wasn’t likely to help him much. This was no brawling, bludgeoning combatant—this was a man who could slip a sword into a man’s side with such lightning rapidity that he’d be dead without ever seeing the blade.

This time Batù made the first strike. Antonio realized how close he came to feeling the blow, barely shielding himself with the flat of his sword. Don Gaspar had taught him always to look into his opponent’s eyes, but with this one, he found himself also following the deadly blade as it flashed in the air around him. As his own rapier clashed with the other, he felt as though he were fending off two attackers instead of one.

They parried the length of the alley. Antonio went on the offensive, lunging with his weapon held high, and sliced in a downward curve. His blade connected with his adversary’s left shoulder, stripping away the sleeve and leaving a deep cut. It was a wound severe enough to make a man cry out and back away—but Batù seemed to feel it not at all. Instead, a smile flickered across his mouth and he countered the blow with a ferocious rally that pushed Antonio’s back against a wall.

He could not gain an advantage where he was, so rolled to his side and Batù’s sword came into contact with stone instead of flesh. The setback threw off his antagonist for only a second, but it was enough for Antonio to rebound with a powerful thrust that Batù evaded with only inches to spare.

“I see your reputation is justified, Viscount,” Batù said. “But mine will be greater when it is known that I am the man who brought you to your knees.”

“You speak precipitately. As you see, I am still on my feet.”

Batù came back at him with fury, repulsing Antonio’s next thrust and whipping his thin rapier in a figure-eight motion that suddenly and surprisingly left a red, horizontal slash along Antonio’s cheek. His eyes were instantly stinging and his face burned as though it were on fire. He could feel blood running down his cheek, as if the skin had been stripped away like a glove peeled from a hand. He clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to touch his face; he suspected the wound felt worse than it actually was. And anything that distracted his attention from the task before him would surely bring about his death. It would require all his skill and every faculty he possessed to best this monster.

They were both breathing heavily now, their chests heaving, their breath rising like steam, mingling with the foggy air. They circled each other slowly, looking for advantage. Batù’s blade flashed again, a furious, slashing razor. Antonio deflected his jabs and parries, but he couldn’t deny that his attacker was getting the better of him.

I cannot die, Antonio thought grimly, strengthening his resolve. If I die, who will protect Alessandra?

Batù attacked once more, pushing Antonio back along the alley. Then, with a running start, Batù launched himself, pulling his dagger from his waistband in midair, and flew at Antonio with a blade in each hand.

Antonio’s first impulse was to back away, but a sudden intuition told him that to do so would place him exactly in his attacker’s range, where the knives would find their intended mark. So he stepped forward instead, ramming his left shoulder into Batù’s chest. His foe’s dagger came down in a slashing motion that scraped Antonio all along his back, but the move had been effective in keeping him free of the rapier thrust, and the force with which he crashed into Batù sent him reeling back to land on the ground. But even this setback did not deter his deadly opponent. Without missing a beat, Batù threw his dagger straight at Antonio’s chest. With a slash of his sword, Antonio intercepted the flying blade; an equal motion to the left engaged Batù’s rapier and disarmed the prone swordsman. In one final, fluid move, Antonio thrust his sword into the vulnerable indentation at the base of Batù’s throat, running him through the neck until he felt the tip of his weapon connect with stony ground.

He stayed long enough to watch his adversary’s body buck in its death throes, to see those strange blue eyes open wide with a look of terror, and then, slowly, to see the light in them fade and go out.

Antonio glanced up and down the narrow alley. Which way had he come? Blast these Venetians and their tangled streets, he thought as he set off to find his way back to Giovanna’s house and Alessandra.