The Venetian (26 page)

***

“WE WILL USE
three men.” He held up a hand, silencing the protests. “We need no more than that. Any more and the operation becomes too cumbersome. He has been lucky thus far, nothing more. I will not however provide him with a means of escape because we are too many men, falling all over one another.”

Angelo Utino and Luca Doro knew better than to challenge their tenacious colleague. Pietro Turri was known in Venice as a single-minded ideologue. As the dominant member of the
Provveditori,
he was the sharp end of the stick that was Venice’s Cretan policy, and as much a puppet of the Republic as Donato. The only difference between them was that he didn’t realize it. Utino and Doro, as much as they believed in the importance of the
Provveditori,
were nowhere near as zealous as Turri and long ago learned it was much more beneficial to their notion of political self-preservation to simply go along with what their unbending colleague suggested. Turri enjoyed such moments. It was so very easy to cow those who lacked true conviction. They reinforced his strength, reestablished their weakness, and helped him see more clearly the indomitable man that he knew himself to be.

***

TURRI ALWAYS INSISTED
on choosing the men for their operations himself. He had been a soldier once and would forever be a soldier. He enjoyed reminding people of the fact—not so crass as to use words however, but rather in the way he moved, how he carried himself. He used it to his advantage, navigating the morass that was Venetian politics. The nobles were soft, the
Collegio
in its weakness always willing to defer to strength, and Turri was only too happy to oblige.

Before paying their respects to the Duke, the three men had visited the barracks behind the Ducal Palace immediately upon their arrival. They had sent word to the palace requesting time to rest and get settled after their long journey before meeting with Donato. Turri was somewhat of a hero among the soldiers in Candia, his extremism appealing to many who had come face to face with the Greeks and had seen the burning hatred in their eyes. When faced with such brazen rancor, it was difficult to see another point of view. To inflame the xenophobia of such men was but a small thing for a man of Turri’s talents. He looked first for ruthlessness in those he selected, followed by contempt for the Byzantines. Intelligence was not a factor in his decision, nor was it even desired. He would do their thinking.

The three he chose were frighteningly large, fanatics like himself, and undeniably cruel. They were given minimal information and were told to meet the next morning at dawn in front of the palace where they would be given all the details they required. They required none, that much was clear. They were morally blind, would follow their beloved Turri without question like barbarous hounds with the scent of blood.

Luca Doro reflected on all that had happened in the short time they had been in Candia. It was a splendid evening, night blossoms impatient for the spring perfuming the still air. The three men had been ushered out into the palace courtyard and were seated beneath an ancient, gnarled olive tree. So much like the Greeks Doro thought; unyielding, of the land, beautiful and ugly all at once. They were to dine with the Duke. Plates of bread and cheese, olives and fish covered the table. A boar was being prepared they were told. Doro took a sip of wine.

“Signori, my apologies,” said the Duke, emerging from the Moorish loggia surrounding the courtyard. “I see that you have arrived unscathed.” He smiled warmly. He wore a brightly colored doublet and fur-trimmed scarlet cape, which he dramatically swept to the side as he sat down. “I trust your voyage was not too difficult.” A palace attendant immediately filled his glass with wine.

“Not at all my lord,” replied Turri, tearing off a crust of bread and dunking it in oil. “The importance of our mission was all the sustenance we required.”

God save us from idiots like this!
Donato knew Turri, disliked him immensely, and was profoundly disappointed in the men who had put him in such a position of power. He could not fathom how such a fine family had produced this coarse creature. “Excellent, excellent.” Donato thought his smile must look as foreign upon his face as it felt. He took a sip of wine. “So, this fugitive…”

“Traitor…my lord.”

Donato leveled a hard gaze at Turri. “This…fugitive, you know where he is?”

Turri smiled.
Let him play his little game of power. I will be here long after he is gone
. “Yes, my lord, we do.”

“Excellent. Then you will take him and leave. Quickly.”

“My lord?”

“Let me be frank signore.” It was clear to whom Donato should speak, the other two men merely warming their seats. Donato straightened his back, pushed out his chest. “Candia is at peace.” He nodded, eyebrows raised,
such as it is
. “And I intend to keep it that way. This…traitor of yours may be of great interest to your superiors, but Candia is of the utmost importance to the
Empire
.” Turri gave Donato a bemused smile. “I know of your methods signore, and I assure you that if you do anything to upset the order on this island, finding a fugitive will be the least of your concerns.” He sat back, assessing Turri’s reaction, the amused expression he longed to wipe from his face. He despised this man. But despite saying exactly what he had intended to say, Donato felt as though, in his silence, Turri had already gotten the better of him.

Turri looked shocked. It was a purposefully poor performance. “My lord, I assure you that we intend no disruption. Our intelligence is solid and we are confident that we can apprehend the traitor with a minimum of commotion. I serve the Republic as you do and would do nothing to endanger the vital role Candia plays in the health and well-being of the Empire.”
Fool, weak, old fool. I will do as I please and he cannot stop me, despite whatever power he believes he possesses.

“Good. I expected nothing less.” A more genuine smile emerged. The boar had arrived, steaming, crisp and brown. It was an admirable looking beast. “Eat my friends. May you catch your prey and be warm in your homes before the next full moon.” It was a fine toast and they all raised a glass.

***

HE LOOKED VERY
different. He had blackened his hair and beard with elderberries and red wine, darkened his skin with ash, dressed in the coarse clothing of a common laborer. He would be a Greek until his mission was accomplished. He had changed all that he could, but now the blue of his eyes were that much more pronounced against his newly shadowed complexion. He would have to be careful of that. And his size. The Greeks could be powerfully built it was true, but he had yet to meet a man, Greek or otherwise, to match him in height or breadth. He would do the best he could to conceal these traits but in truth he didn’t care much whether anyone mistook him for a Greek or not. He was never one for skulking about in the shadows, although he had been forced to do just that on several occasions now. As a warrior he preferred to look a man in the eye when taking his life.

The
Provveditori
had already arrived. Gabriele had known of their plans, the ship they would take, and had sent Qilij on to Candia two days ahead of their scheduled departure. He knew not how Gabriele always seemed to know these things, nor did he care. He had stayed in his cabin for the duration of the voyage, refusing to venture out on deck even in pleasant weather and calm seas. Not a single person had spoken to him. He suspected Gabriele had arranged that along with everything else, including the small room on the outskirts of the city in which he now sat. It was just as well. As a Mamluk, he was uncomfortable on the water and during the journey had cursed Gabriele, Avesari, and every Venetian man, woman, and child for subjecting him to such unnatural transport. Even his horse seemed to fare better on the voyage. Man was not meant to travel the seas, or Allah would have given him gills. It was hubris that led man to attempt to master those things that were beyond his control. Allah would punish such pride. And Qilij would be His instrument. Perhaps he would begin by using his knife to provide the man he pursued with gills of his very own.

Qilij liked Crete. Unlike Venice in its perpetual preening, Crete was wild, untamable. The meadows filled with wildflowers were pretty, but it was the inhospitable terrain, beautiful in its savagery, that reminded Qilij of his own home. To be comfortable in such a place was to know it intimately, to be part of it as Allah intended. Unfortunately he would not have the opportunity to explore its wonders. What was required of him would take him no further than the city. It was just as well. He longed for the desert, its hot days and cool nights, and would slit the throat of Avesari this very evening if it would get him home sooner. But he would have to dance about the three Venetians first. That was one thing Gabriele had been unable to control.

***

TURRI, DORO, AND
Utino stayed in the palace as was customary with visiting dignitaries of the Republic. The beds were soft, the rooms vast, the kitchen at their disposal. Murals of Candia and the Cretan countryside covered the walls. They were gathered on the terrace of Turri’s chamber, the torches casting wavering shadows. “So,” began Turri, “tomorrow we will begin the watch. We must ensure, before we take him, that our presence and mission have not been discovered.” His colleagues gave him a quizzical look. “I will not underestimate the traitor as they did in Venice.”

“How long?” asked Utino.

“Two, three days at the most. I want him taken utterly by surprise. Confusion can be a powerful ally.” They had made a brief reconnaissance down to the harbor earlier and had seen Avesari, disguised as he was, going about his business, just as Giovinco had promised. “The spy’s information was flawless. Taking the traitor should be a simple task.” The two men look relieved. “I must say though,” continued Turri, thoughtfully stroking his chin, “I’m almost disappointed.”

***

THEY WERE WATCHING
him. It was a sound strategy thought Qilij—sound but trying. He had been forced to wait far too long already. But he had little choice, so he would watch the watchers. It would give him time to formulate his own plan. He too possessed the information from the spy. The three Venetians thought themselves invisible but they were as glaring to Qilij as the midday sun. To be fair, they believed concealment from only Avesari was required, and they took great pains to achieve this. Ah, but there was nothing fair about this game.

Qilij placed his weapons on the floor beside his pallet. He had brought only his saddle axe, dagger, and bow—the axe and dagger easy to conceal. But Crete was a wild place, and while he would likely remain in Candia, if for some reason he were required to venture out into the countryside, there was no weapon more useful than his bow. Between the three, he would require nothing else.

***

THEY WOULD TAKE
him in the early hours of the day, just after dawn, when the crowds in the harbor were scant and the last night watches of the moored ships were ending. Better in the open than in the tight confines of the Jewish quarter. The environment was unfamiliar, nor could they predict what resistance they may encounter there, and they were in the habit of ensuring that every variable lay in their favor. They would send a contingent shortly after to deal with the traitorous Jews that were helping him. Until then however, they could not be distracted from their primary target.

In the three days they had observed him, Avesari had been down to the harbor each morning on business. On the first day he had been accompanied by the Jew, but was alone the next two. He was likely to be at the harbor again this morning. According to the manifest of the latest arrival, a large galley out of North Africa, there was a shipment of nutmeg he and his “employer” had a hand in.

The three
Provveditori
had settled themselves at a table by the window in the Delfino d’Argento, keeping the expanse of the harbor in full view. The tavern was open all hours. There was no telling when a ship would arrive, and the unreasonableness of the hour was little obstacle to men who wanted a drink. The three soldiers were in position. Nicolo, the largest and fiercest of the three with an almost comically appropriate scar running from the left corner of his mouth to the top of his ear, was tucked away in the shadows of an alley off the Ruga Maestra
.
Avesari would have to take the street down to the harbor, and Nicolo would be following at a safe distance. Bernardo, recently relieved of a small bag of Turri’s gold, was hidden behind a pile of unloaded freight at the harbor’s edge, the men hired to guard it realizing it was more profitable to take a walk. Maffeo, the youngest of the three and eager to prove himself, was pushing refuse about, pretending to tidy up the waterfront. If Avesari didn’t show soon, he might actually have to pick it up.

Bernardo and Maffeo flanked the galley Avesari was coming to greet. He would come directly to them. It would almost be too easy. If, on the off chance, he realized something was amiss and turned to flee, Nicolo would be waiting. It was a pincer maneuver, of sorts, or at least as much of one as could be accomplished with three men. Turri loved to turn everything into a battlefield tactic, even when it was easier to simply say
you go there and you do this.

Bernardo would receive a discreet signal in his hiding place—a cough—from Maffeo when Avesari was approaching, since the youngster was in the best position to see up the Ruga Maestra.

“I hate the waiting.” Utino frowned and nibbled on a piece of cheese. The man behind the bar eyed the three suspiciously. He knew what they were and silently said a prayer for their hasty departure. Doro said nothing, his eyes scanning the waterfront. The harbor was slowly stirring, the darkness evaporating. It would have to happen soon. Before long the waterfront would be a hive of activity, the tongues of many races mixing with one another into a stew of sound, the musical speech of one language meeting the harsh dialect of another like water slapping a hull.