The Four Horsemen

by Gregory Dowling

  “Very wise,” he said after a brief pause.

  “But how have the Turks taken this affair?”

  “How do you imagine?”

  “Well, I really have no grounds for imagining anything. I have never had any dealings with any Turks. I just know their popular image. Comic figures in Goldoni’s plays. Terrifying conquerors in the annals of history.” I paused and gestured back in the direction of the Fontego. “And always worth trading with.”

  “Spoken like a true Venetian. But to answer your question, there is deep, deep anger. There is a desire for revenge. But there is also an unwillingness to allow this to disturb normal relations between the two powers – if powers is still the right word for either of them.”

  “I would advise you not to say that last bit too loudly – to either of them.”

  He smiled. “I’m caught between the two and know full well how to soothe them – and how to provoke them, should I so wish. I now have to speak to the Procurators and inform them how matters stand at the Fontego. I will be playing this non-poetic role for a few more days, I believe.”

  “A peacemaker rather than a bandit.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Which way are you going?” he asked as we reached the end of the street.

  I guessed he would be heading towards the Rialto and so indicated the opposite direction. He bade me farewell with a dramatic sweep of his hat, followed by another toss of his thick black hair, and strode off.

  24

  After a day spent slinking around the quieter corners of the city, thinking about all I had seen and heard, wondering what the sbirri would have done to my room this time, and counting my money (I needed to make plans for an eventual flight to safer shores), I made my way to Campo Sant’Angelo for my appointment with Ariadne. She was there, standing by the well on the north side of the square, close to Calle dei Avvocati.

  I had the distinct impression that she was already regretting her decision but didn’t know how to back out of it. I firmly thrust from my mind all considerations of what Lucia would have advised in such a situation and determined to go ahead as planned. And so I bowed to her and smiled, and gestured that I was ready to follow her lead.

  She proffered a weak, nervous smile in return and started walking towards the casino. She gave an agitated look over her shoulder as she inserted the key in the lock and then beckoned me to follow her quickly. I did so.

  We mounted the stairs and entered the familiar rooms. She found a tinderbox and lighted a candle, and I glanced around. There were, of course, no signs of the sensuous feast from my previous visit. The chairs were set back against the walls, and the table was covered with a dark cloth. She led me through the bedroom, whose neatly made bed had an air of crisp and pristine innocence, to another smaller room beyond it. She put her finger to her lips as we entered it. I guessed this room must be reserved for herself on occasions when her mistress decided that she needed her maid on hand all night. It was furnished very simply with a plain bed, a single straight-backed chair and a tall dark wardrobe. She walked over to the wardrobe, and then, with another nervous look behind her as if other people might have slipped into the apartment in the last ten seconds, she turned a key in the wardrobe door and opened it. I could see nothing but long hanging dresses; she put the candle down on the chair and parted the skirts. From the deep recesses of the closet she brought out an icon, about a foot high, of the emperor saint. It was set in a silver frame with precious stones at top and bottom. She held it towards me with nervous reverence, and I put down my satchel and lifted the candle to inspect it.

  It was a fine work, and I had the clear impression that I had seen it before. My cicerone’s mind was turning over image after image, and at last it came to a halt on a sharply defined one: I could see the icon on the cluttered wall of a Venetian guildhall, the Scuola dei Calegheri, in Campo San Tomà. Why the shoemakers should have paid homage to Constantine the Great I had no idea; it was quite possible that one of their number had simply inherited the artefact from a crusading ancestor (it was clearly Greek in origin) and donated it to his guild. And it had disappeared a few weeks earlier. What on earth was it now doing in this woman’s wardrobe?

  “Very beautiful,” I said. “Poly kalò,” I added, a few words coming back to me from the two or three lessons I had once had in ancient Greek somewhere in England before my mother’s professional engagements had resulted in a move to yet another part of the country.

  She nodded with fierce agreement, and took it back from my hands and replaced it in her wardrobe, crossing herself several times after she had done so. She put her finger to her lips to inform me that it was a secret.

  “Are there any others?” I asked. “Others?” I repeated the last word, feeling it was one she might have come across.

  She looked warily at me. I think there was a flicker of understanding in her eyes, but seconds later she clearly decided it was safest to feign a total lack of comprehension. She waved her hands helplessly and shook her head.

  At that moment we heard a noise from the direction of the entrance to the apartment. In an instant Ariadne’s face turned from wary to terrified. She gazed aghast towards her mistress’s bedroom. She seemed frozen with fear.

  I moved swiftly to the door and closed it noiselessly. There was nothing else that could be done. There was no way out of this small room except via Isabella Venier’s room.

  We could now hear people approaching. I recognised the low but distinctive tones of Isabella’s voice, even though I could not make out any words as yet, and then came a male voice, equally distinctive: Komnenos. They came into the bedroom.

  Ariadne gestured frantically towards the wardrobe. Was I really going to get in there? This was like a scene from a Goldoni play. But there seemed little choice. I tiptoed towards it. Fortunately it was still open, and I was able to step inside without making any noise. For a moment I wondered whether Ariadne was going to get in after me, which would have added to the overall embarrassment and general absurdity; I think she hesitated for a second or two, but then she quietly closed the door on me, leaving me in the musty darkness on my own.

  The cupboard was tall enough for me to stand upright, even if I was hemmed in by dresses, at least one of which gave off a distinct smell of sweat. I couldn’t see it, but from the feel of the coarse texture I assumed that it was Ariadne’s, rather than her mistress’s. Fortunately the wooden wardrobe was old and full of cracks; even with the muffling effect of the clothing, I was able to make out words and even whole sentences of what was being said in the next room, particularly by him, as his voice was slightly louder. I prayed hard that Ariadne and I were not going to have to listen to a scene of passionate love-making. Quite apart from all other considerations, it would be very embarrassing for us both – and might lead to all sorts of depressing comparisons. But the voices did not sound like those of aroused lovers. They were business-like and brisk.

  Komnenos: No, it’s not completely without risks, but nothing is in this world.

  Venier: (inaudible) but how will you persuade the . . . (inaudible).

  Komnenos: It only needs one, and that’s already done. He obtains the . . . (inaudible) from the other two. They don’t all have to be there. In this case we have specifically asked for as small a delegation as possible. To preserve the . . . (inaudible).

  Venier: When you say “we” . . .

  Komnenos: My employers. Or so it must seem.

  Venier: It just seems a little precipitate. I thought our plan . . . (inaudible).

  Komnenos: I’m taking things as they come. Your friend Sanudo delivered this beautifully into our hands.

  Venier: That was partly the idea. But I didn’t know that he and his friends would take it . . . (inaudible).

  Komnenos: It has made me indispensable to both sides, but discreetly so: that is the beauty of it. And I have insisted on this desire on the part of the ambassador for immediate reparations to his wife and daughter. They haven’t questioned it.


  Venier: (light laugh) What else do they expect Turkish women to be interested in?

  Komnenos: That’s what I calculated on.

  Venier: (inaudible) be sure there won’t be anyone else?

  Komnenos: That’s what I mean by the beauty of it. There is an intense desire for secrecy on both sides. I just take advantage of it. It helps too that the Missier Grande is out of the picture. I’m sure he would not have allowed it to go ahead without more thorough checks.

  Venier: And you have all the necessary . . . (inaudible)?

  Komnenos: Those have been ready for weeks.

  Venier: Well, you know what to do afterwards. It can all be concealed there, for weeks or months if necessary.

  Komnenos: I hope it won’t be necessary to wait for months.

  Venier: No, but it never hurts to be cautious. And it’s our own goddess who will be protecting it (light laugh).

  Komnenos: Of course, we will respect the usual pact. One quarter . . .

  Venier: We can sort out those details in future weeks. Now I suppose you had better go.

  Komnenos: Yes.

  Venier: Kiss me one last time . . .

  (Long silence)

  I prayed that the length of the silence was not an indication of the transformation of the salutary kiss into something more passionate. However, there were no further noises indicative of intimate contact, and eventually they resumed talking. I could hardly distinguish any words now, as their voices had become much quieter. Presumably they were standing closer together.

  However, despite the softness I could detect a nervousness in their tones. I surmised that despite their intimate knowledge of one another there was not complete trust. And at the moment they were both very much on edge. Clearly something extremely important was about to happen, and it was overwhelming all other considerations.

  Their voices faded as they passed back out of the bedroom. I remained completely still; I could now hear Ariadne breathing hard. She was presumably releasing tension. Then Isabella’s footsteps could be heard returning, and Ariadne caught her breath again.

  There were faint noises from the bedroom as Isabella pottered around. I thought I detected the rustling sounds of clothes being removed. And then the door to the inner room was opened.

  There was a second of silence, and then Isabella’s voice spat out a single vituperative syllable. It sounded like “si”, but I guessed it must be Greek for “you”.

  Immediately Ariadne’s voice responded, in a babbling torrent of apologetic words. Isabella cut her short with a few more explosive syllables. And then there was another second of silence during which Ariadne merely whimpered. I could hear Isabella moving across the room and suddenly light hit my eyes as the wardrobe door was flung open. Isabella Venier stood there, wearing only her undergarments and holding my satchel in one hand.

  25

  She was clearly astonished. I could only imagine that she had expected to find some humble lover of her maidservant: a local porter or a stall-keeper, whom she could have freely tongue-lashed.

  However, it took her only a couple of seconds to recover her poise, which cannot have been easy, dressed as she was. Of course, the absurdity of my position must have helped.

  “This is embarrassing,” I said, quite unnecessarily.

  She let out a burst of laughter. It was not merry, but it was real enough. I stepped out of the wardrobe and tried to smile myself; it seemed only courteous.

  “Well, Sior Alvise,” she said, “let us hear your explanation for this.” It was striking that she made no move to cover herself up.

  I did my best not to look at the superb curves of her body. Such a distraction would not help.

  “I foolishly panicked,” I said. “I knew I should not be here.”

  “Am I to understand that after your assignation with me you conceived a passion for my maidservant?”

  I noticed that she did not deign to glance at Ariadne, who was gazing at her mistress with a piteous expression of contrition and fear on her face. It struck me that it would be best for the safety of both Ariadne and myself if I allowed Isabella to think along those lines, damaging though it would be to my dignity (not to mention Ariadne’s).

  I opened out my hands in a helpless gesture. “What can I say?”

  “As little as possible,” she said. The contempt in her voice was total.

  “Please don’t blame Ariadne,” I said. “I took advantage of her—”

  “I really don’t want to hear any of this,” she said. “Just get out.”

  I took my satchel from her hands and moved towards the door. She must have been struck by a sudden thought because she stopped me with a sharp “Wait!”

  I turned round. She was staring hard at me. “Were you listening to our conversation earlier?”

  “Siora,” I said, “I was inside a wardrobe, surrounded by thick dresses. I could hear voices, but I certainly couldn’t make out any words.”

  She continued to stare hard at me. I gazed back, as guilelessly as possible. After a while her expression changed to one of contempt and she said, “After you had had this,” and she gestured to her own body, “could you really crave that?” And she jerked a scornful thumb at her maidservant cringing pitifully by her side.

  I was tempted to say that there was certainly more human warmth in her servant but guessed that this would not do the poor woman any favours. I simply shrugged and said, “Siora, I was weak.”

  At that moment there came a thunderous pounding at the front door of the casino. Isabella Venier pushed past me into her bedroom, where she snatched up her dress, which was lying across the bed. Ariadne, clearly eager to make amends, hurried to help her. The next moment we heard the front door being opened and urgent footsteps crossing the entrance hall.

  “Who on earth . . . ?” began Isabella Venier, her voice furious again, as she thrust the dress into Ariadne’s hands.

  The door opened and Lucia stood there, her face determined and stern.

  Even as I stared at her, in the full consciousness that I had fallen into a convoluted plot scripted by Goldoni at his most farcical, I could not help thinking how enchanting she looked, her dark eyes flashing with fiery determination. And then the full awfulness of the situation was borne in on me.

  “Just who are you?” said Isabella, once again refusing to be embarrassed by her state of near nakedness.

  Lucia spoke with breathy urgency. “I was worried about my friend.” She refused to look at me.

  “And so you came breaking into my apartment without permission?”

  “I’m sorry, but I thought something bad was happening.” She said it with a kind of resolute calmness. “The door was unlocked. But I see I’ve made a mistake, and I apologise.”

  “If this is your friend,” said Isabella, “I think you have probably made a bigger mistake than you know.”

  “I’ll leave,” said Lucia. The fire had passed from her eyes into her cheeks, which were now blazing.

  “Please take him with you. I certainly have no use for him.”

  Lucia did not answer but turned and walked towards the door. I gazed after her but did not move.

  “Please leave,” said Isabella to me. As I followed Lucia towards the door she called after me, “If that is your friend from the bookshop you’ve made an enormous mistake yourself.”

  “I know,” I said. And I meant it. I wasn’t sure what Isabella meant, but did not think it the right moment to ask. But the mention of the bookshop did remind me of something I had to ask her. I stopped walking and turned to face her. “Signora Isabella, before I go, can you tell me what happened to my book?”

  Her blank stare suggested that the Homer had quite gone from her mind; it also suggested that she had not yet heard of the murder, which was slightly reassuring. After a moment’s pause she clearly recollected what I was referring to and said, “Do you think I’ve had time to think of that?”

  “My apologies,” I said, and headed for the door aga
in. As I reached it I glanced momentarily back at Ariadne, thinking that from common courtesy if nothing else I should make some kind of acknowledgement to her. However, she was standing with her head bowed, holding her mistress’s dress with as much penitent reverence as if it had Constantine’s face blazoned on it. I felt that I had done as much as I could to protect her from her mistress’s wrath. Probably silence would now be the best strategy. I walked swiftly after Lucia.

  She was making her way down the stairs as fast as the darkness allowed. I called after her, “Siora Lucia, wait.”

  “Please leave me,” she said. “I need to be alone.”

  “You’ve misunderstood the situation,” I said, realising even as I said it that while technically true it was not the whole truth.

  “I’m not sure I’ve understood anything at all,” she said, pulling open the door into the street. There was a catch in her voice.

  I followed her into the open air. She had paused for a moment, as if uncertain which way to go.

  I said, “Siora Lucia, Noblewoman Venier came into the apartment with Komnenos, and when I heard them I made the foolish mistake of hiding in Ariadne’s bedroom.” I could not quite bring myself to say that I had been in the wardrobe. “When Komnenos left she must have decided to change her dress, or perhaps she wanted to lie down on her bed. And then she found me. That is the story.” I had been intending to say “the whole story” but at the last moment could not bring myself to do so.

  She lifted her head and gazed up at me. Even in the darkness I could see the lucent moisture of her eyes. “Sior Alvise, I only know . . .” She paused. “I only know that I feel deeply humiliated.”

  “Please, Sior Lucia . . .”

  “It’s probably my fault. I followed you to the campo because I was worried about your appointment with Ariadne, and I saw you enter this house with her. And then when I saw the noblewoman go in with that other man I was at a loss as to what to do. Then he came out, and I had all sorts of thoughts. Suppose he had killed you . . .”

  “Killed me?”