The Vault of Bones (43 page)

I did not wish to do this; but now, I found, I had no choice. I turned to Letice, but she was staring at Facio, her face tight, revealing nothing. Every eye in the room was fixed upon the man before me save those of Mother Zaneta. It was I whom she watched curiously, expectantly. Then I knew. I no longer had the stomach for revenge, and if we had been alone I would have let him go. But now Facio was a dead man whether I killed him or not. His life had brought him here to this room, with this audience, and no way out. And I had arrived at the same place. I would not leave here alive if I did not kill this man. Vengeance and justice were but a dream. There was nothing left for me but survival.

I closed my eyes, trying to gore myself with the pain of memory. But all I saw was Anna running away from me, skipping up on to the stepping-stone over the kennel of Cheapside, hair flying. She turned back to me and smiled.

'Goodbye, Anna,' I said. I wrenched Facio's head back, and cut open his throat before he had time to make a sound.

Chapter Thirty-Two

W

hen he was dead, when his legs had ceased to scrape and thrash upon the floor, I stepped back. The faces of our audience - or my audience, for Facio had departed and left but one mummer upon this stage - had come back to life, and suddenly everyone was busy, straightening their clothes, staring in bemusement at the blood-caked implements in their hands. I turned to Letice, and she lowered her eyes. On the floor, Righi had stopped shaking, though he had pissed himself. In his eyes, the artifice of bravery battled with overwhelming fear.

'Not you, boy’ I said, and my voice sounded strange to me. I found Thorn's scabbard on the floor and, wiping her upon my tunic, put her away. My hands were shaking so hard that I had to trap them beneath my arms, yet even as I hugged myself I shook. Facio's blood had soaked me from my navel to my feet. I had better have someone wash them, I thought, and then I was sitting on the bottom step and staring at the soles of the dead man's shoes, swallowing back the bile that had risen, scalding, in my throat. Mother Zaneta leaned over and spat loudly and neatly on Facio's chest. Then she clapped her hands.

'Gather this filth up and take it to the storeroom. Take this child and lock him in there as well. Now, are any of my dear customers hurt?'

I was led to the bath-house, for of course there was one, a somewhat dank and cavernous room at the back of the house that smelled of mildew, sweat and rose-oil; stripped naked and helped into the hot water by three girls, who scrubbed Facio's blood from me and left me there. I sat amongst the curls of steam, and my teeth chattered. My blood is cold, I thought. How strange: the doctors are right about that. Nothing else seemed real. I had stepped into a different life, and I was not who I had been. Perhaps this was survival.

I did not notice when Letice came into the bath-house, only when she swung her leg over the edge of the tub and stepped in. She slid beneath the water and came up with her hair plastered to her head. Pale hair; pale, naked skin; glistening water: she glimmered like a fish, like quicksilver. I did not look at her, for she seemed hardly there at all: perhaps just a vision conjured by my frozen blood. But she straddled me and wrapped her arms about me, and at her touch my body began to remember what it was to be warm, and then all of a sudden I was Petroc again. I took her head in my hands and felt the hard vault of her skull and all the thoughts, all the life inside it. We said nothing, but rocked together until life returned, and heat, and sweat; and until I did not care whether or not she saw my tears.

My clothes were declared ruined - but by some lucky fate the letters hidden within them were only a little stained - and more were found for me from among the great store left by careless or insensible customers. I couldn't have cared less, so the choice was made by the girls: a short tunic with long flared sleeves in a maroon and chestnut striped silk damask, dark-blue hose, and a cycladibus of black, arm-holes, hem and collar scalloped and trimmed with dark red ribbon. I let them dress me like a mannequin while I stared at the blackened heap of my old clothes, my gift from Anna. The whores were chattering, debating the relative merits of this costume - how I would blend in just enough, but not too much, how rich it made me look, how manly. At last, Mother Zaneta appeared in the doorway.

‘I must have words with you’ she said.

It was a command, and I obeyed. She led me through the girls and serving boys who were scrubbing the floor with lye. The bodies had already vanished. We went upstairs to a finely appointed chamber and she called for wine, which I sipped at, then gulped. When the cup was empty she took it from me and set it down out of reach.

You have killed an important man’ she said. I opened my mouth to speak, though what I would have said in my defence, or perhaps in self-condemnation I did not know then, nor do I know now.

‘It was well done’ she went on, before I could say anything at all. ‘It was necessary, and you did well. He came into my house with his bravoes, and that could not be tolerated. Do you know who he was?' I nodded, glumly.

'The capo of Nicholas Querini’s company’ she went on. 'The coming man in this quarter. Many friends, and many more enemies, as such a man must have. What do you know of Venice, young man?'

What I have heard is that the water in its streets is no match for the fire of its people’ I said, half-remembering some words of my friend Zianni. She wrinkled her eyes at me, questing.

‘I know what you are thinking’ she said at last. You fear for yourself, for what will befall you as a consequence of what you have done. And you fear for
this!
She leaned forward quickly and placed her hand flat against my breast, over my heart.

You are young, and you have seen and done much’ she went on. It is cut into your face. And you hold yourself well, for which I have reason to be grateful. So I will tell you this. The first of your concerns is nothing. Do you think that you have spilled the first blood that has ever stained my floors? Do you understand what manner of place this is, what manner of city? We kill each other for taking the wrong side when crossing a bridge. Men die here, and my girls die, and if an explanation is sought I give one, but I tell you that I do not often need to do it. Signor Facio was a man of standing, but as such a man stands taller than those around him, so will he be cut down, sooner or later’

'But Querini..’

Will find another Facio. It is business for him, for me, and what I must tell you, Englishman, is that what you have just done was a fine piece of business for yourself and many others. Querini will not thank you if he ever finds out, but others will, and Messer Nicholas, I am certain, will not take it personally. He is a great man, but when the whores of San Cassiano are angry, even great men's balls shrivel in fear.

And as for this ..’ and she patted her own heart, 'if you had not slain that man I would have, and then I would have slain you too, for bringing trouble to my door. If you thought you had a choice, you chose well, and if you knew you did not, you are wise. I thank you for what you did, and for bringing Letitia back to me. Now you must go. The girl will stay here, for I can hide her but not you. Go to the mainland. Letitia told me that your master is in Ravenna - go and find him. You can do no more alone’

'And the boy?' I asked, fearing what the answer would be.

'Righi?' she said with something like a chuckle. ‘I know his mother. He is a good lad, but a fool. We will terrify him, then give him wine and a girl, and send him back to his master, where he will tell such tales of the fearful Englishman that Messer Nicholas, and all the quarter of San Polo, will wish to be your friend.'

'Is that so?' I said, bitterly.

'Perhaps,' she shrugged. 'Now. There is a stunned man upstairs. We will send him home today, with Facio and his two dead friends - the man on the stairs, his neck was snapped.' And she rose. I followed her out of the room, but she paused in the doorway, and raised the silver tip of her cane so that it hung in the air between us.

'Letitia is safe here,' she said. You do not know, O dealer in treasures, what a marvel you have brought back. Such a thing that not even the storerooms of the Palazzo Centranico have ever seen.'

'But how ...' I began.

'And you may give my compliments to Messer de Montalhac,' she said. 'The quarter of San Polo is small, and full of secrets, but every secret, like a strand of spider-silk, ends here.' The cane tapped the floor between her feet. 'I tell you that as my gift of thanks. Now go.'

I had four things to my name in this world: the pope's letter and that of Brother Andrew, a purse of gold and silver, and my knife. A strange and powerful burden, to be sure, but now, I knew, quite useless save for the gold and, alas, the knife. I hid the letters inside my tunic and buckled on Thorn and purse. I wondered where Letice could be - or had Mother Zaneta meant me to go at once, with no leavetak-ing? Perhaps so, for one of the younger girls hurried over to me and held out a travelling cape with a large hood. She actually curtsied, and then tripped back to her companions, most of whom were lolling about as if nothing untoward had happened.

And indeed, there was little evidence to the contrary. As I pulled on the cloak I looked around the room. Everything was back in its place. The floor was wet but clean. Two new customers had come in, and were taking their ease, oblivious. Then I felt a touch upon my shoulder. Letice stood behind me. Her hair was plaited and coiled on top of her head, and she wore a simple shift of white cambric. I blinked, for she was suddenly very pure and fair.

'Go up to the north shore of Castello,' she said, 'and take a boat to the island called Cavana del Muran. The fishing fleet gather there in the morning and evening. Find someone to take you across to the mainland. It is too dangerous any other way.'

She took my face between her two hands and looked straight into my eyes. Her long fingers were digging into my temples and quivering minutely. The tip of her tongue brushed my upper lip. Then she was gone, a blur of white vanishing up the stairs. I stood there for a long moment, then I unlatched the door and went outside.

The square was busy again, and I shouldered my way, head down and hood up, through the teeming, flesh-tranced Venetians, feeling every eye upon me. Not looking back, I ducked into the Calle dei Morti, walked briskly past the entrance to the Calle Morto and found myself at the end of the street. I could turn left or right: on the right, the alley ended in a doorway. I turned left, following the alley until it turned again and deposited me in a narrow square. There was an ancient, Greek-looking church on one side and houses on the other. I heard the clack of shoes on stone ahead, turned a corner and stepped on to a busier thoroughfare. Slipping in amongst the people I slowed my pace.

I needed to get across the Grand Canal, but there was only one bridge, and as Letice had pointed out, it was the easiest place in the city to keep watch over. If I could find the canal, though, I could hire a boatman to take me across, or perhaps there were ferries. The Grand Canal was somewhere to my right, I knew, and I looked down each side street in the hope that I would find some clue as to how I might cross. But each passage or alley ended in a wall, and only the canals gave out on to the broader waterway, until at last my stream of people joined a larger stream crossing us from left to right, and looking that way I saw the water and a small crowd gathered on the embankment. It must be the ferry.

It was. A long, sharp craft was bobbing towards us over the canal, laden with figures all standing bolt upright despite the choppy water. It slid up against the dock and I marvelled at how the people all managed to get ashore without tipping the boat over. I edged forward with the crowd, hoping that I would be able to board as it seemed as if there were far too many of us for the slender ferry. But the two ferrymen, barking in dialect, guided every passenger to a precise spot, and at last I had handed over my coin and was stepping down on to what little deck remained free. The boat felt alive underfoot, twitching yet firm. My fellow passengers stood around me, stolid and uninterested, gossiping or silent. I felt as if I were naked and wet with smoking blood. The ferrymen heaved upon their long oars and turned us around. We slipped out into the open water of the canal.

The Grand Canal is wide - wider than the Tiber in Rome, yet narrower than the Thames in London - and crowded. Its shores are lined with palaces built of red brick and white marble, and churches great and small. To me it seemed as if a whole sea had been squeezed in between the buildings. The little black boats of Venice, the gondolas, were everywhere, darting about like water beetles. Bigger craft loaded with crates of fruit, live geese, piles of mortar, bricks and lumber ploughed up and down, and fishing boats, sails furled, were being rowed by weary fishermen. But I felt horribly exposed, and bit my lip nervously as our own boat sidled closer to the gaggle of striped mooring poles that marked the landing stage on the right bank.

Suddenly the ferryman in the prow cursed and began churning his oar furiously, hurling oaths to left and right. The ferry began to pitch alarmingly, and the passengers to stagger and mutter, and I looked about us to see, as I guessed, if we were about to be run down by a larger vessel. There was no big boat, but it seemed as if we had steered into the middle of a small fleet of gondolas. I counted seven of them, all fitted with odd little hutch-like structures that seemed to be made of half-barrels covered with black cloth. The gondoliers were wearing livery of red and white. The ferryman yelled to the nearest one in Venetian.

The gondoliers said nothing in return, but leaned carefully against their oars until, three on each side and one behind, they had closed in and were matching our pace exactly. I was beginning to doubt that this was an everyday occurrence on the canal when a flap opened in the side of the nearest cabin and I found myself looking at the polished head of an arrow.

What the ..’ I gasped, and felt the other passengers go rigid beside me. The ferryman had shut up at last. Very slowly I looked around. Arrows pointed at us on three sides, and now I could see that within each cabin crouched a man, each armed with a small, curved Saracen bow. Their bowstrings were not taut, but I had seen such bows in the hands of Saracen mercenaries when we had put in to port at Messina. They had been shooting at butts, and at the time I had marvelled at the way they had seemed merely to pluck at the string to send their arrows deep into the target. Now it was very clear that, if the archers wished it, we would be dead in the blink of an eye. So I barely noticed that the seventh gondola, bigger than its fellows and rowed by two men, and with its own, larger cabin, had come across our bows.

What is this?' I hissed. I knew, though: but how had they found me so quickly? A man next to me understood my poor Roman speech and whispered back, 'The Doge's men. Someone hasn't paid their taxes.' He jerked his chin towards the ferryman in the prow, but then a black curtain hung across the end of the cabin on the big gondola, which a ringed hand pulled open. The owner of the hand bowed through the opening and stood up. He had the balance of a gondolier, for the boat kept quite still in the water. He was of medium height, very thin, and his austere black robe hung close about him. He might have been a priest, but he stood like a warrior. The lines of his face were deep and precise, and his eyes did not blink. They were eyes that would have been terrifying had they stared out from the slits of a helmet, but even so I found myself wishing I could simply roll out of our boat and sink into the muddy canal just to escape them and what they seemed to promise. He raised his hand and pointed straight at me.