The Four Horsemen

by Gregory Dowling

  “So they have all gone, then,” said Signora Querini. “Including that – that –” She made a dismissive gesture with one hand.

  “If you are referring to Nobleman Sanudo, he too has left.”

  I could see that the role that Sanudo played as cicisbeo was not to everyone’s taste. In some cases a cavalier servente became an accepted member of the family; not here, it seemed. However, glancing at Querini I had the impression that he probably had no problems with having Sanudo around the house; it presumably made it all the easier for him to concentrate on his dusty antiquities.

  “And this gentleman?” said Signora Querini.

  “This is Signor Alvise Marangon, who recites Homer in English most delightfully.”

  “Does he?” she said coldly. It was clearly not something she had ever felt the need for.

  “Yes. But sadly he lost his book. I said he could stay and look for it.”

  “I’m sure we can ask the servants to do that,” said Signora Querini.

  “Yes, we can. However, they are now busy with other things. But, signora, there is no need for us to trouble you with this search. If it is anywhere, it is in the portego. We will look there and leave you here to talk to my husband.”

  Her husband did not appear to think this a happy prospect. “I’ll help you, my dear,” he said with pathetic eagerness.

  “I don’t think it’s necessary. I’m sure your mother has things she wants to talk to you about.” There was no defiance or hardness in her tone. She was quite calm and reasonable – which clearly infuriated her mother-in-law.

  “And when might we hope to have the use of the portego back?” Signora Querini’s voice trembled just a little with suppressed anger.

  “I’m sure it will only take us a minute or two, and then you can use it for whatever you wish. For your habitual evening stroll, perhaps.” This was said with perfect gravity, but I guessed that the old lady was not in fact accustomed to perambulate in the portego, which was why she seemed unable to reply. “Come, Signor Marangon.”

  I made a quick and only slightly embarrassed bow towards mother and son and followed the silvery gleam of Isabella Venier’s retiring figure.

  The portego was no longer so brilliantly lit. A servant was standing on a stepladder extinguishing all the candles in the central chandelier. Two other servants were rearranging the furniture against the walls. Isabella went straight towards the end of the room, where the tall windows overlooked the canal and the little campiello. Her dress, still shimmering with the light from the remaining candles, made her a ghostly figure against the blackness of the windows.

  “Excellency,” I said, “I really don’t think it’s necessary to look for this book.”

  “No, of course it isn’t,” she said at once.

  “You know what happened?”

  “I can guess. Andrea Sanudo thought it might be amusing to see how you would cope without it.”

  “Yes. At least I’m fairly sure that’s what happened. Of course, I couldn’t accuse him.”

  “Of course not. What an absurd idea. You coped very well. In fact, you coped brilliantly.”

  “Thank you, signora.”

  “I think I’d like to hear some more Homer in English.”

  “Now?” I said, slightly taken aback.

  “No, of course not now.” She always replied without hesitation and she didn’t seem to worry if her remarks might seem curt.

  “So when?”

  “Tomorrow evening. But not here. As you may have noticed, not everyone is over-delighted to have visitors here. We can meet at my casino.”

  “Ah, yes. I heard your mother-in-law mention it,” I said.

  “No doubt she was asking why I didn’t use it for this evening’s meeting.”

  “Well, yes, she did say something along those lines.”

  “And undoubtedly my lion of a husband sprang to my defence.”

  “Well . . .”

  She laughed; unsurprisingly, it was a silvery sound. “Don’t worry, Signor Marangon. I know my husband. He has many endearing qualities, but the ability to stand up to his mother is not one of them. He has spent his life among books and antiquities and would probably have been happier as a monk.”

  “A monk?”

  “Well, somewhere where he could have spent his time in a library. I had thought that a literary salotto might be to his taste, but it seems he prefers to converse with the dead through their books rather than with living people who are interested in the books.”

  “I see,” I said. “So he is a scholar.” The Italian word was studioso.

  She frowned. “I doubt one could say that exactly. I’m not sure he actually studies the books. He likes them as beautiful objects. Just as he likes ancient sculptures and images. Yes, he does like beauty.”

  “I can easily believe that,” I said.

  She looked at me quizzically. “Was that a compliment, Signor Marangon?”

  I think I probably blushed. “Well, I, that is . . .”

  “Please don’t apologise for it,” she said. “That would offend me. We are agreed then to meet tomorrow. At my casino. Nine o’clock would be suitable.” She gave me instructions to reach it.

  “Signora,” I said, “do you think you will be able to retrieve my lost book?”

  “Ah,” she said. “Delicate point. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I could just ask Nobleman Sanudo for it directly myself,” I said.

  “That would be very foolish.”

  “I know he took it. He knows that I know he took it. And you know that he took it . . .”

  “Yes, yes, all very clear and logical. But Andrea is not a man who acts on the basis of logic. He is driven by impulses. Sometimes very foolish impulses. But even when he has acted foolishly he never likes to admit a mistake. It would not be sensible for a man in your position to challenge him. And I think you know that.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “You are clearly a good deal more sensible than Andrea.”

  I was struck by the way she casually used his first name when talking about him to me. “Then I will have to rely on your diplomatic skills, signora.”

  “Oh, I’ll manage it. But it may take a day or two. I trust you can be patient.”

  “I’m a cicerone,” I said. “I often spend whole days waiting for clients at Fusina.”

  “I, on the other hand, never like to be kept waiting. So I will expect you at the casino punctually at nine tomorrow.”

  “Of course, without the book I won’t be able to recite very much Homer. I haven’t learned the whole epic by heart.”

  “Then we will have to find other ways to pass the time, Signor Alvise.” She said it very simply, her eyes resting on me for just a moment before darting towards the window.

  I found my heart beating a little faster. “I see,” I said. “At least, I think I do.”

  “I’m sure you do, Signor Alvise. You are not a fool, as I’ve already said.”

  “Until tomorrow then,” I said.

  “Oh, and do watch out for Andrea. He has a dreadful temper.”

  “I’ll try to do so,” I said. “May I ask . . .” My voice petered out.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “If you were going to ask why I tolerate a person like Andrea then you were wise to stop.”

  I remained silent. She had, of course, guessed correctly. She was probably also right to have rebuked me.

  She added nothing more. She gave me a formal bow, and I made my way to the door. This was the strangest lovers’ assignation I had ever been involved in. But then my experience was fairly limited.

  12

  As I stepped out of the palace on to the little bridge I drew my cloak around me. The fog was thicker than ever, and I regretted my hatless state. I clearly should have listened to Siora Giovanna.

  I could also have done with a codega. There was a little light from the open windows above me, but once I had taken a few paces t
owards Campo Santa Maria Formosa I was in total darkness. I wondered whether it was worth trying to summon a codega by the traditional method of clapping my hands and calling out. I tried it, but no welcome glow appeared from the gloom.

  Well, I knew the way home. And once I got on to the narrow Ruga Giuffa, there was usually a little light from unshuttered windows.

  Black shapes appeared out of the dark mist in front of me. Men in cloaks, with tricorn hats pulled well down over their heads. Their eyes must have been more accustomed to the dark than mine because they were walking unhesitatingly in my direction, while I faltered, putting my hands out in preventive fashion. “Good evening,” I said.

  They uttered not a word but just surrounded me. Four of them. Or at least four that I could see. There could have been a whole army lurking in the fog.

  One of them had drawn a sword, and I found its blade touching my chest.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “A quick lesson in manners,” said the figure holding the sword. It was said in a whisper and the mask further muffled the words, but I had no doubt this was Sanudo.

  I stood completely still. I didn’t think he was going to run me through, but it was not worth provoking him. How many people had warned me against doing that so far?

  “I’m always willing to learn,” I said. I was glad my voice didn’t shake; perhaps I’d picked up something from speaking in Achilles’ voice.

  We all stood completely still and silent for a few seconds. I wondered if Sanudo had not actually thought this little scene through. It would fit in with what Signora Isabella had said about his impulsiveness.

  And then a voice came from behind the four dark figures. “Can I help? Do you need a light?” Even more welcome than the voice was the glow of hazy light that accompanied it.

  The four figures swirled round, and the sword was removed from my chest. The light grew stronger, and as it did I realised that I recognised the voice. It was Komnenos. He now emerged from the fog, holding a lantern in his right hand. Dressed in black though he was, he struck me as a dazzling angel of salvation.

  “Signor Komnenos,” I said, “how kind. I would greatly appreciate it. Which way are you going?”

  “I can go whichever way you need,” he said. “I’m in no hurry. And these other gentlemen?”

  The cloaked figures made non-committal noises.

  Komnenos said, “A drawn sword? I’m sure it’s not really necessary. This is not a dangerous city, you know.”

  Sanudo returned the sword to my chest and said, still in a whisper, “We can teach two people a lesson just as easily as one.”

  Komnenos said, “I expect so. But how about four against four?” He clapped his hands and two more figures emerged from the mist. They were his two young companions, Dimitris and Alexis, and they were both holding long knives. They came and stood beside Komnenos, their weapons held out challengingly. Their blades were not as long as the four men’s swords, of course, but they looked as if they knew how to use them.

  There was complete silence for a few seconds. Eventually Sanudo lowered his sword. Still keeping up his absurd attempt to disguise his voice, he said, “We have no intention of starting up a vulgar brawl with foreigners. Just remember, Sior Cicerone, that you have encountered the Four and may well do so again.”

  “I’m not likely to forget the encounter,” I said, “although I still haven’t understood its meaning.”

  Sanudo made no attempt to answer this. He put his sword back in his scabbard and then stood there for a second or two. I suspect he was trying to come up with a suitably menacing parting line. His three companions were obviously getting embarrassed and were preparing to depart, but they still waited for a sign from their leader. Eventually Sanudo turned round, making a clear effort at a dramatic cloak-swirling swivel, and stalked off in the direction of Saint Mark’s. The other three followed, less showily but clearly with relief.

  “Thank you so much, Signor Komnenos,” I said at once.

  “I usually carry my own lantern,” he said, “and I had a feeling that you might need company. I saw that Sanudo and his friends did not leave the square and I suspected trouble, so I decided to wait round the corner with my companions.”

  “That was brave of you,” I said.

  He waved his free hand. “I don’t think bravery comes into it. They are braggarts, not warriors.”

  “Yes, but they’re four braggarts with four swords, and you’re one poet and two mosaic-restorers with just two knives. Thank you.” I bowed to the other two men as well, who returned the bow and sheathed their blades.

  “It is my pleasure,” said Komnenos. “I am actually going in the direction of the Greek church, as perhaps you have guessed.”

  “I’ve made no guesses,” I said. “But that’s my direction too. I live close to Sant’Antonin, so I’ll gladly accompany you.”

  “My companions live near the Rialto, so we’ll bid them goodbye.”

  We did so. Dimitris made an effort to say “Arrivederci” in tolerable Tuscan, while Alexis bade farewell in Greek. They set off in the direction of the Rialto while Komnenos and I started walking towards the bridge that led to the Ruga Giuffa.

  “I was impressed by your recital,” I said after a pause. “Although I’ll confess I didn’t understand a word.”

  “How convenient. We can pay each other exactly the same compliment. But of course I knew what story you were telling, and I suspect the same was not true for you.”

  “No, you’re right.”

  “I was reciting my version of a traditional kleftic ballad.”

  “A what?”

  “Well, I suppose I would have to call it a ballad of a bandit. You may know that under the Ottomans many who do not wish to serve the Turks have taken to the mountains, where they live difficult but free lives. As klefts. Which literally means thieves, but bandits sounds more attractive. And they have developed their own songs, which recount their lives and their heroic deeds.”

  “And what are these deeds?”

  “Oh, sometimes they’re purely mythical. Legends that go back to Homer, but often overlaid with Christian themes. But the songs are very energetic and have become very popular.”

  “But you yourself are not exactly a bandit,” I said. “I understand you served under the Ottomans.”

  He swung the lantern to gaze at me quizzically. “You know a good deal about me for someone who came to this salotto for the first time this evening.”

  “I was curious and I asked around before I came. You know, Venice is small . . .”

  “I know there are a lot of spies in Venice.”

  I tried to react lightly to this. “People often say that. I think it’s just that Venetians like gossip.”

  “So what is the gossip about me?”

  “Someone told me you were a Phanariot.”

  He acknowledged this. “I have lived in Phanar. And I have had humble roles in government administration.”

  “As an interpreter, I was told.”

  “Your partners in gossip are very well informed. I have something of a gift for languages, as you may have noticed.”

  “Your Italian is very good.” He spoke Tuscan Italian, not Venetian, but I had noticed earlier that he had no problems understanding both.

  “Thank you. I should perhaps return the compliment on your English, but of course I have no means of judging that.”

  “Well, English is my first language,” I said. “So if you like you can compliment me on my Italian and Venetian.”

  “Consider it done,” he said.

  “So you recite poems about bandits,” I said.

  “Songs composed by bandits but rearranged by me into more formal poetry for a more sophisticated audience. Yes, I can see the objection . . .”

  “I’ve made no objection.”

  “No, but you are thinking it. Here I am, clearly a man from an educated background, who has worked for the Ottomans, pretending to be a wild rebel ready to cut their
throats.”

  “Is that what was happening in your poem?”

  “The refrain said ‘Adelfia to maheri vastate kopteron / Nan’ etimo na kopsi tyrannou ton lemon,’ which is to say, ‘Brothers, keep your knife sharp, so that it may be ready to cut the tyrant’s throat.’”

  “I see,” I said. “And yet you approached Nobleman Sanudo who had a drawn sword with nothing but a lantern in your hands.”

  “So there is the contradiction,” he said. “But while I sing the bandits’ songs I do not claim to be one, merely to let people know what these people think. I bring the voice of those who dwell in the mountains to those who dwell in the city. And sometimes I improve the rhyme-scheme, since city-dwellers are particular in matters like that.”

  “Yes, I caught the rhymes.”

  “As I did your Mr Pope’s. What wonderfully symmetrical experiences we have had. As perfectly balanced as his own couplets.”

  His tone was as light as ever, but I glanced at him. I wondered if he was referring to something beyond our aesthetic experiences of each other’s poetry. I decided to wait before asking that, however. Instead I said, “I also heard about you from a man who had met you, I believe, at the monastery of Sant’Elena.”

  “Ah, the little man with the funny walk. Padoan. I remember him well. And I remember he died tragically. And you knew him?”

  “Only slightly,” I said. “He lives – or rather lived – very close to the gondolier I work with.”

  “And what did he have to say about me?”

  “He was very impressed by you. As they all are, clearly.”

  We had reached the little square of San Severo. There was more light here from the windows of the Palazzo Zorzi, with its white facade overlooking the canal. Komnenos stood still for a while and nodded. “Yes, they are.” He smiled. “I am the latest fashion, I believe. Perhaps next month they will want Armenians. Or Russians. But while I am in vogue I will continue to enjoy it.”

  “Paolo Padoan was obviously rather frightened by something that happened to him at the salotto,” I said. It was probably time for a more direct approach.

  “Yes, I thought perhaps he was.”