The Secrets of Casanova (34 page)

DOMINIQUE WEPT.
“When I stabbed his foot, drew first blood, I thought he would quit the fight,” Dominique confided. “I’d neither desire nor will to kill the Turk. The Lord sustained me.”

Jacques, lying on his propped elbow next to Dominique, felt his stomach tense while he wiped her tears. “I understand, Fragoletta. Tell me more, if you will." He stroked Dominique’s hand in hopes of quelling the pangs of her heart and the pain of her leg wound.

“Francesco taught me how to disable an opponent. During a duel, I saw him stick his sword point through a soldier’s foot. The soldier quit the fight straight away.”

“I’d no idea Francesco—”

“There’s much you didn’t know about him. I’ve told you that,
Jacques. As for me—I often defeated Francesco when we bouted.
Which, in turn, means I fence better than you, at least from what I’ve
seen.”

“You have not seen me at my finest. In fact—”

Dominique lifted a bit of Jacques’ hair from his face. “I was a skillful dancer, don’t forget. Early on, Francesco convinced me I could easily learn the footwork and arm work of swordplay.”

“Footwork and arm work are one thing. But from where did
your courage—”

“Frightened out of my skin, Jacques. But making the hard choice, I figured I’d have a better chance against the Turk than you. He
would discount me, a woman, as a fighter. Which would be a
benefit. Also, I knew the weapon the Turk was most likely familiar with was the scimitar. And the scimitar is mostly a
cutting
weapon. He would be used to cutting.” Faint moonlight illuminated Dominique’s arm as she slashed the night sky. “Francesco impressed upon me that a slash with a sword is slower to arrive to a target than a thrust with a sword point. I would have an advantage with the thrust, the
stoccata
, of my smallsword.”

“Your unique intelligence, your exceptional daring, impresses me more than you know, Fragoletta.”

Dominique’s voice lowered. “I’d no choice but to risk
everything. I did what I did—for us.”

Jacques found himself blinking rapidly. His breathing halted.

“The stars seem distant tonight,” whispered Dominique finally. “I didn’t want you to duel the Turk, Jacques. You’re not a fighter. You’re a lover.”

“You know what you name me, don’t you? In the classics, the seducer is always pictured as a jester.”

“Does that thought bother you?”

“Demeaning laughter brings me to my knees.” Jacques adjusted his forearm on the straw mattress. “Perhaps I’ve trifled away my precious time on earth chasing the rustle of soft silk. Perhaps I’m a jester,” he said. “Tonight, I’m regretful. Since I was a young man, I’ve chosen to live, really live. But I’ve not stopped to discover if vice
or virtue has lead me onward. And sometimes, late at night, a
distress gnaws at me.”

“Don’t you know you’re known throughout Europe as one of its
great gamesters, as the only man to escape I Piombi, as a lover of
repute, as—”

“Yes, I’ve been famously sweet with women.” Jacques could
hear
anguish in his voice, and he knew it would compel Dominique to answer.

“I sometimes feel your need to accomplish great things. I feel
your urges.” She pressed her hand against his cheek. “What drives you is the agitation, the turmoil lurking in your heart, Jacques. You may not realize it’s there, but I know it to be so. That’s a woman’s way.”

Jacques turned on his back. “I congratulate you on your
womanly talent.”

Dominique was momentarily dumbfounded. She spoke softly. “Your detachment doesn’t trouble me, Jacques. I was married to your brother. A phlegmatic temperament was my daily diet.”

She boosted herself up on her side as the bracing wind raked branches against the stone wall behind her. “I want to ask—in
Lisbon you said you wanted us to dream together. Do you carry a
special
dream in your heart?”

Keenly aware of his pounding temples, Jacques closed his eyes. “I do.”

A long pause followed.

Dominique smiled and slapped playfully at Jacques’ shoulder. “Would you care to reveal that dream?”

“Oh,” Jacques smirked, “would I care to
reveal
it?”

Dominique nodded.

“My dream is to return to Venice,” he said, opening his eyes.

“An admirable goal,” said Dominique too readily. “I also long to visit Venice. After all, isn’t it the home of the Casanova brothers?”

Jacques did not answer but saw the strain in Dominique’s smile.

“Have you thought that the city may not be the same one you remember from your boyhood?”

“Venice is ageless. She will always enthuse.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps she’s only a Venice of memory.”

“Memory? My closest friends, our pranks, my boyhood, the
beginning of manhood, the home where I dreamed my
first
dreams. And Venice herself. A city, a republic. Truly like no other. Long live La Serenissima, Venice.”

Dominique’s short sigh transformed into a cloudy mist, then dissolved. “I may be able to walk with a cane or crutch tomorrow, though my leg throbs mightily just now. Hold me, if you will.”

“A moment, please. Give me a moment.”

The moment stretched into minutes until Jacques, still not
having
honored Dominique’s appeal, could just make out in her soft
whispers—a prayer for their safety and salvation.

Soon afterward, he fell asleep.

***

Quentin Gray rose early and prepared coffee, which he gave to
each of his guests before training his eyes on the dawning sun.
“Phoebus in his triumphal chariot brings us another day.”

Jacques paced to the small fire to warm his hands. “Phoebus is a pagan god, not suited for a Christian tongue like yours.”

“Filtered through the alembic of so many brilliant Hellenic minds, somehow I cannot find the Greek gods pagan.”

Quentin maintained his matter-of-factness: Lisbon’s cathedrals would be packed with churchgoers, today being All Saints’ Day, when the church remembered the descent of the Holy Ghost to the
apostles. This, then, would be the ideal morning to explore the
deserted citadel on a promontory above Lisbon—to view the intaglios.

Although Dominique was in pain and felt that her wound would slow the expedition, Jacques insisted that, with the aid of the crutch that Quentin had fashioned, she would be fine to make the journey. Petrine would be there, if there was a need.

Dominique’s resistance to traveling fell on deaf ears. Contrary to the previous night’s sentiment, Jacques’ gruff manner began to sting.

When the sun edged above the horizon, Quentin—packed and eager to go—gathered the adventurers and led them from the Conde de Tarouca’s palace. After a long walk and a demanding climb, during which the mournful religious chants of the
saetas
sounded from below, the four arrived nearly atop the plateau.

“We’re not so high up as one would think, but this jutting terrain affords a remarkable vista, almost the whole of Lisbon,” Quentin said, glancing at Jacques.

He pointed out the River Tagus that led into the dazzling Oeiras Bay, then the opera house, the magnificent library, and the dozens of church spires and towers. “You all may recognize the pink marble of the Royal Palace this fair November morning.”

Jacques felt like a gull that, encircling the panorama, spied upon the great houses of the wealthy, the offices of the government, the merchants’ shops. He watched human figures sally across the Cais de Pedra, where Piccinio Rais had landed them, and soon his mind conjured up the sailors who transported Templar Crusaders—and their treasure—to a new home, hopefully Lisbon.

Jacques turned and looked at the substantial edifice just above, one that abutted into the steep hill behind it.

“The old citadel’s in decay,” Quentin said, “but, believe me, the tower itself has withstood time and will outlast me. The intaglios we
seek are at the top.” When he began to climb the rough stairs
upward, the trio followed.

Greeted at the base of the tower by the peal of church bells rising from the city, Quentin came to a stop in the stone yard and nestled himself against the rough parapet wall.

“And arising from fine Lisbon,” he said, “do you hear the music of
Gaudeamus omnes in Deo
?”

“The introit,” Dominique said. “Yes, I do.”

No sooner had the words left Dominique’s lips than a yawning rumble filled the air.

“Haaah!” exclaimed Dominique and Petrine.

Jacques looked below. Lisbon’s tall buildings began to sway like saplings in a wind.

He felt bewitched, his mind confounded. Insensate fear engulfed him as he watched the city’s stone structures ripple to-and-fro.

A rumbling, deafening roar tore his ears before a cry of terrible
surprise sliced a path to his throat. “Oh, my life!” As if cruelly
wounded, the stone yard shivered and the earth dropped from under Jacques, slamming him to his back. The others, like straw
dolls, were likewise flung to the yard.

Regaining his feet, Jacques spun about. Not far away,
Dominique strained to sit, struggling for her crutch. In the same direction sprawled Quentin and Petrine. All were moving, alive.

Jacques braced himself tightly against the parapet wall. The
clamor was of a hundred bombards blasting the town, but he dared a look at the grisly sight below. Stone missiles from massive belfries and cathedral spires hurtled downward, killing innocents by the drove.

Deadly crevices opened wide, swallowing slews of victims.

Dust began to choke the ruins. Human figures stumbled through the mess.

As the welter battered his ears, Jacques folded into the wall—every dram of spirit drained from his body.

Suddenly, his heart pumped a terrifying message to his brain: be strong. He turned to his friends and rushed toward them. The feral
groans of the earth ceased. He collapsed to his stomach beside
Dominique, who, lying face down, turned to meet his eyes.

“Stopped,” he said. “Stopped.”

With both hands, she clutched his arm.

“Are you hurt?”

Dominique shook her head frantically.

Jacques, glancing over his shoulder, watched Petrine and
Quentin stagger toward the parapet wall. Tears rolled freely down Quentin Gray’s cheeks. His lips mouthed unheard syllables.

“Let’s go to him, Dominique,” Jacques said, trying to steady his voice. He raised her by her arms, and together they labored across the wrecked yard to the wall, staring at the sight below.

A ravaged carcass of a town lay below them. The earthquake
had wrenched Lisbon from its foundations, shattering it.

In the mangled wreckage, fire began its vicious work. Ten
thousand
church candles, hearths from a thousand homes—flame in all its
malevolent patterns—were unleashed. Hell danced among the
rubble. Mothers threw themselves over the flaming bodies of their infants.
Men afire skeltered in hopeless circles till demon flames burnt the
life from them. Fiery animals bolted through the ruins, forming
unearthly images. The howling agonies of beasts, the hot whistles of the gross
inferno, the groans and dark cries of the maimed—all tortured the
air.

Jacques and Dominique panted in confusion. And watched.

Fire infused panic into the victims, impelling many to flee to the bay. Others stumbled back into the holocaust.

A fiercely hot wind advanced up the hillside, forcing Petrine and
Quentin together, seeking safety in each other’s arms. They
crouched—
hugging, weeping. Drawing abreast of them while clutching
Dominique, Jacques cried “Make haste, we—“

Another jolt tore the citadel’s courtyard wide, plunging
Dominique into a gaping hole, followed by Petrine and Quentin Gray.

“Dominique!” Jacques screamed.

The earth stilled. The tremor stopped.

Jacques edged to the pit. “Where are you?” he screamed.

Quentin, in the chaos, moaned fitfully.

Swirling dust stifled Jacques’ lungs, but not far below he spotted
Quentin’s arm. Bloodied and nearly dumb with fright, Quentin
clawed
furiously while Jacques tugged him up to what remained of the
stone surface.

“Dominique? Petrine?” Jacques screamed.

More coughing was the reply. Amid the veil of dust, Jacques caught sight of Petrine beginning an ascent from the rock-strewn abyss. “Climb, Petrine!”

Jacques, wresting the valet up to the ruptured courtyard, gently rolled him away from the edge before scrambling again on his side, scouring the chasm below. A raw, bitter taste rose in Jacques’ mouth; warm trickles of blood laced his cheek. Tears burned his eyes.

“Dominique!” he shouted. “Dominique! Where are you,
Dominique? Answer me.” Jacques twisted toward Petrine and the Jesuit.

“Rescue—impossible,” Quentin whimpered, “even if she’s
alive.”

Jacques swung his head back toward the hole, squeezing his fist to his temples as if to force his desperate mind to a decision. “Go! Both of you,” he cried to Quentin and Petrine. “Find safety.”

Quentin nodded and lent his hand to a bewildered Petrine.

Batting at the whirling dust, Jacques descended into the
crumbling abyss, his bare hands and feet searching for any handhold. “I come to you, Dominique,” he whispered.

His step sent a rock tumbling downward. “No,” he cried.

Jacques probed into the darkness, his stomach knotted. An eddy of dust swirled past, allowing his eyes a view. “Dominique!”

On her back she lay, blonde hair sprawling around her head like a crown of gold.

“Dominique.”

“Jacques,” came the weak reply.