The Four Horsemen

by Gregory Dowling

  I glanced at Komnenos. He was listening to this recital with the same expression of mild amusement, as if watching a room of children attempting a mathematical problem too difficult for them. I was a little puzzled by the high regard given to this man, who seemed to have so little sympathy with the troubles of the company he was in. However, when Isabella Venier stopped speaking and a general discussion was launched, I began to get an inkling of why Komnenos was so readily accepted. For what followed was not, as our hostess’s opening remarks had half led me to expect, a series of proposals for military action against the Turks, but instead a litany of protests against the city’s inaction, inertia and indifference. It all became gradually clear to me. These people had come here to grumble, and the target of their grumbling was the Venetian state. And so this Greek castigator of Venetian greed and tyranny was far from out of place. The fact that what they were mourning for was a product of an equal greed and tyranny did not seem to strike them as a contradiction. He, in his own charming way, was grumbling and so were they; that was enough for them. And he did it in a delightful foreign accent as well.

  So on they grumbled. One by one they lifted their hands and recounted a story of recent humiliation or described their ever-increasing woes. Nobody cared about them. Nobody listened to their stories of former glories. Nobody was interested in their bereft state, least of all the city’s authorities. Certainly nobody had ever compensated them for their losses.

  In all their complaints the speakers were careful not to name any specific authority; not a word was said against the Doge, or the Inquisitors, or the Ten. It was an unspecific plural “they” that was held responsible for all their grievances. If I had been there as an agent of the Inquisitors (and it was all too likely that someone in the company was), I would not have been able to make any definite accusations of treasonous talk.

  It was mostly the older people who spoke. Sanudo and his cronies listened and nodded along with the others but were clearly not going to contribute any specific complaints themselves. I wondered why they were here; perhaps it was Sanudo’s tie to Isabella Venier that brought him here, and his friends felt obliged to tag along with him. Sanudo caught me looking at him at one point, and his expression changed to one of sudden defiance, which caught me off guard. I looked away with a touch of embarrassment, just as Isabella Venier announced the start of the second half of the evening’s “entertainment” (she used the French word divertissement, to the disapproval of one or two).

  Komnenos had already risen to his feet; he pushed his thick black hair back in a theatrical gesture and then stood there, his hands on his hips, almost as if he were a defiant brawler in a tavern affray. Perhaps that was how he saw himself and us.

  Isabella Venier gave a few introductory remarks and then Komnenos began. He made no announcement of what he was about to recite but simply began speaking, in a low but resonant voice. It was clearly a long poem and it was all in Greek.

  I caught a number of refrains and thought that Madricardo would be happy, maybe. In fact, I glanced across at him and saw he had fallen blissfully asleep.

  The refrain was repeated in a louder voice each time and eventually Komnenos was almost shouting. Madricardo gave a nervous jolt and started awake. It was difficult to tell how many people understood what they were hearing. It was clear that Isabella Venier herself did; her lips moved in time with the refrain. At a certain point Komnenos’s eyes fell on her, and he gave the faintest sardonic smile as he saw her lips moving. I glanced across at Sanudo. He too was watching both Isabella and Komnenos, and his expression was grim. Then he caught me watching him, and his grimness momentarily became fury; he got a grip on himself and I noticed, with some surprise, that the next time he looked at me his expression was one of smug pleasure.

  That unsettled me, and I fell back to looking at Komnenos. Whatever drama he had been recounting was clearly winding towards its conclusion; I had no idea whether this envisaged perpetual bliss for all concerned or a resolutory bloodbath. Komnenos’s sardonic expression was difficult to read; however, whatever was happening was doing so noisily now. The final refrain was actually shouted, and then he sat down, mopping his brow and sweeping his hair back in one single flamboyant gesture.

  We all applauded, Isabella Venier most of all. She was clearly very moved. She began to turn to me. I put my hand to my pocket to bring out my volume of Pope – and felt a sudden jolt of panic. The pocket was empty.

  11

  It only took me an instant to understand what had happened. My eyes darted straight to Sanudo. I remembered that awkward moment of jostling as we entered the room, which had seemed partly clumsiness and partly a wish to offend me. It had actually had a strictly practical purpose. I now understood that expression of smug anticipatory pleasure I had seen on his face a few minutes earlier. He was gazing at me with a smirk of sheer triumph; he was not even bothering to disguise it.

  I knew that the last thing I must do was get flustered. I must not be reduced to a panicky display of desperate rummaging through my other pockets or a floundering search around my chair. And obviously I must not level an accusation of an act of petty pilfering against a nobleman. That was probably what he was longing for me to do.

  I put my hand down from my pocket as calmly as possible. So, I would not have the book to read from or to consult. That, I told myself firmly, was not a tragedy. I had spent the few hours before my encounter with Madricardo getting by heart the opening lines of Pope’s translation; I knew just how much more effective it was to recite poetry by heart than to read it from a book. I had always learned verse with relative ease; it was a skill I had picked up in my childhood days playing about backstage in various theatres around England. And I had noticed that a few lines dropped casually into conversation when showing clients around the city (passages from The Merchant of Venice or from Ben Jonson’s Volpone, for example) never failed to impress, particularly if the clients did not know a line of verse themselves. It had not been difficult to learn the opening pages of Pope’s Iliad; the lines, with their elegantly clicking couplets, were designed for easy memorability.

  I gazed back at Sanudo with what I hoped was an expression of calm indifference. I could see that it unsettled him.

  Now I listened to what Isabella Venier was saying: “. . . a young man who has come to join us and to share his love of Homer, a love acquired not in the academies of Italy but in a distant northern land, a land possibly unknown to Homer himself”.

  I got to my feet and gave a slight bow. I thanked my hostess and said a few words to explain who Alexander Pope was and how his translation was generally considered to be the finest of the day. I said that I realised that most people present would not be able to follow the words, but I suggested that they should listen out for the rhymes; Pope was a supremely melodious poet, and he had attempted to find an equivalent for Homer’s unique music in the very different but equally harmonious music of the English language.

  I gave a quick glance at Sanudo and saw him staring at me with a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. Then I looked away and began to recite, taking great care not to look at him again. I did not want to be distracted. I wanted simply to yield to my love for the verse. I took care not to become too dramatic, but I also made sure that I laid suitable stress on the rhymes, so that those who knew no English would catch them easily. I did not exaggerate the different voices of Agamemnon, Chryses and Achilles, but I did attempt to distinguish them. I had the impression that one or two people who knew The Iliad well were managing to follow the story, even if they did not understand the words.

  I could not deny to myself that I also wanted to impress Isabella Venier. When I came to the final lines of the passage that I had by heart, the closing words of Achilles’ first speech (“So Heav’n aton’d shall dying Greece restore, / And Phoebus dart his burning Shafts no more”), I stopped short, stood in silence staring at the ceiling for five seconds and then bowed my head (I had borrowed this histrionic trick from the las
t performance I had seen of Henry V). As applause broke out I risked a glance at our hostess. She was clapping with great energy and brightening the room with another radiant smile. An ideal audience.

  When the applause had died down, I said, “Thank you. I had brought a copy of Mr Pope’s translation, but I appear to have mislaid it. If anyone sees it lying around I would be very grateful to have it returned to me.”

  People began to look around themselves in a desultory fashion. Sanudo gazed at me with an expression of utter scorn. His friends, who did not appear to be in on his little prank, joined in the pointless search. Isabella Venier now stood up and thanked me. “I had no idea English could be so musical,” she said.

  “I think all languages have that capacity,” I said, “when played on by a skilled master, such as Alexander Pope.”

  “So if the language is the instrument and the poet the musician, I’m not sure what role you are supposed to have played, but you did it superbly.”

  “Thank you,” I said. It was an elaborate compliment, in what I had come to see was the rather formal style of this salotto, but I couldn’t help feeling pleased.

  Isabella Venier brought the evening to a close with a few more suitably chosen pleasantries, and people began to get to their feet. Madricardo reawoke with another start (I think he had missed my entire performance). Servants weaved in and out, removing glasses and bottles. We were gradually ushered towards the portego where we had first assembled. Just as I was about to step out – acknowledging compliments to left and right with gracious bows – Isabella Venier tapped my arm with her fan.

  “Sior Marangon,” she said. She now spoke in Venetian, presumably to indicate a rupture with the more formal part of the evening.

  “Siora,” I said.

  “Please stay in here.”

  “If you say so,” I said, a little puzzled.

  I could see Sanudo bearing down on her. She turned to him with a smile, but it struck me as being a less radiant one than usual, as if she had extinguished a few candles on the chandelier. “Sior Andrea,” she said, “you may leave with your friends.” She was speaking in Venetian again.

  “But – but –” He was clearly flustered. I could see Tron behind him, with a vacant smile on his round face, and the two Bon brothers remaining at a cautious distance. Clearly they knew better than to interfere between their companion and his lady.

  “I don’t require your services this evening,” she said lightly. “Now don’t be a bore. Run along with your friends and have a pleasant evening on the town. I’m sure you all have your masks with you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, go out to the theatre or to the ridotto. I’m asking Sior Marangon to stay back for a while. He’s lost his copy of The Iliad, and the least I can do is help him search for it.”

  He stared at her, clearly infuriated but unable to see a way out that would not be personally humiliating.

  “I’m sure it won’t take you long to look,” he said at last, through clenched teeth.

  “Who can tell?” she said. “Now please, do run along. If there’s one thing I can’t bear it’s people who take ages to make their farewells.” She gestured towards the main doorway out of the portego. I couldn’t see from where I was, but I could imagine the bustling crowd of people there, ruffling through the cloaks that the servants would be holding, looking for their hostess in order to pay final elaborate compliments to her, and generally not yet leaving.

  I carefully looked away from Isabella and Sanudo and pretended a great interest in the nearest portrait. Eventually I heard their voices fade into the general buzz as they moved across the portego.

  So now I was alone. What should I do? Break open the nearest desk and rummage for papers revealing the identities of the Four Horsemen? Unhinge the portraits to find secret crannies containing hidden assassins?

  Or just stand there looking and feeling bewildered?

  The last, of course.

  The door at the far end of the room opened and in walked the grey-haired man I had seen scuttle out in such an undignified fashion earlier. The spaniel was loping by his side again. He stared at me in blank dismay.

  “I’m so sorry, Excellency,” I said. “Noblewoman Venier told me to wait here.”

  “I thought you’d all gone by now,” he said in a plaintive tone.

  “Yes, everyone is leaving,” I said. “But I was asked—”

  “Well, never mind, never mind. I’ll get on with my things over here.” He made towards the desk I had seen him sitting at earlier. He seemed determined simply to ignore me, which was fine by me. He was clearly not dressed for company, being wigless and wearing a rather shabby old jacket, in marked contrast with the splendidly berobed figures of his ancestors on the walls all around us.

  I returned to gazing at the nearest portrait, that of a Querini admiral in a scarlet coat, gold cloak and silver breastplate. The situation reminded me of my morning spent in the library at Sant’Elena, with the monk pointedly taking no notice of me while I scanned the bookshelves. I gave a glance back at Nobleman Querini. He was sitting at the table and staring at me with a sulky expression, quite unlike the defiant gaze of his ancestor in the painting. In his hands he was holding another little bronze statue; it looked like a miniature figure of Hercules with a club. The dog was sitting by his side, also gazing at me with big reproachful eyes.

  “I’m really very sorry, Excellency, but as I said . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t matter, but why she has to have these things here . . .” His voice faded into incomprehensible mumbling.

  At that moment the same door opened and a small elderly woman appeared. “Ah, there you are.” She had an imperious voice which more than compensated for her size. She was dressed in far more formal clothes than Querini. I realised she was talking to him, rather than to me. She was clearly a little short-sighted and had not even noticed me.

  “Yes, Mother,” he said. “Where else would I be?” His voice sounded resigned.

  “Well, I don’t know. With your wife taking over the palace like this. You might have been driven into the attic. What I want to know is why are we renting that casino for her over by Sant’Angelo? You must put your foot down, Marco. You can’t just lock yourself up with your sculptures and your paintings.”

  “Mother . . .” he tried again.

  “This is the Querini family palace. We have a certain position to keep up. If she wants to consort with orientals of all sorts, with heretical priests and actors and singers, then you must tell her that she can do so in the privacy of the casino.”

  “Mother . . .”

  “Don’t keep bleating ‘Mother’ like that. Are you going to tell her or are you going to leave it to me?”

  “Mother, we are not alone in here.”

  “Ah, has she come back? Well, I’m not afraid to speak my mind, even if you are.” She peered around the room and eventually spotted me. “Ah. You, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m very sorry, signora, I was asked to wait here by Her Excellency Signora Isabella . . .”

  “Oh, were you indeed? And why?”

  “That I’m afraid I can’t answer, signora,” I said, as respectfully as possible. “However, I’m sure she will be joining us in a moment. Once she has taken leave of the rest of the company.”

  “So you were with them, were you?”

  “Yes, signora. It was my first evening.”

  “First time in a nobleman’s palace as well, I’ll be bound.”

  “Mother,” said Querini, in feeble protest. “The gentleman is a guest here. The least we can do is treat him with respect.”

  I bowed. “Thank you, Excellency. I’m sorry if my presence is causing any inconvenience.”

  “You don’t need to apologise to him,” said the old lady. “Nothing inconveniences him, so long as he can find a corner where he can pore over his old statues –” She suddenly realised this was inappropriate and turned back to her son. “Ar
e you going to speak to her?”

  “Mother,” he said. He sounded exasperated, probably because he was still embarrassed by my presence; however, the word came out in a petulant whine, like that of a child who has been told he must put away his toys. He was, I suppose, in his early fifties.

  “It’s time you took your responsibilities more seriously. You are the head of the household. You can’t spend all your time with your dusty old antiquities.” She had clearly decided that the best way to deal with an embarrassing problem, like my presence, was just to ignore it. I imagined Querini spent quite a lot of time uttering that petulant “Mother”.

  “Ah,” said the far more attractive voice of Isabella Venier from the other doorway. “I see you have met each other.”

  “We have not been introduced,” said Signora Querini with cold dignity. “The gentleman had just been left here, like an abandoned . . .” She clearly didn’t know how to finish this sentence in any way that wasn’t excessively offensive, and so just came to a sudden halt. She managed to make even that sound decisive rather than awkward.

  “I just asked Signor Marangon to wait while I bade farewell to the other guests. It was a question of a minute or two.” She sounded quite calm.