The Four Horsemen

by Gregory Dowling

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m sure something like this is what is planned. And Komnenos will be part of the delegation, to act as interpreter.”

  “And then he’ll spring out, snatch all the booty and make a dash for it,” said Lucia.

  “Yes, I realise it sounds rather unlikely, but it makes sense of some of what I heard. I know that Komnenos does have followers. They will be with him. In fact, I know that he has had friends or followers working in the basilica for weeks now, working on the mosaics in the baptistry. Perhaps they’ll find a way to hide inside.”

  “So when is this going to happen?” said Fabrizio.

  “I don’t know. I had a sense they were talking about something imminent. I’m hoping that if we go to the Fontego we might be able to find out something.”

  “You propose to call at the Fontego and ask when the secret trip to the treasury is?”

  “Not exactly in those terms.”

  “So what is your plan?” asked Lucia.

  Was this the right time to tell them both that my specialty was improvisation, not long-term planning? I remember it hadn’t greatly impressed Bepi – at least, not until he had seen the skill being deployed. Perhaps I should call him as a witness to my abilities in this area.

  “Let’s see when we get there,” I said.

  We fell silent for a while. I stepped outside to talk to Bepi. We were passing under the Rialto Bridge at that moment, and I waited until we had cleared it and swung round the curve of the canal before I spoke.

  “Bepi, do you know the gondoliers who work for the Turks?”

  “The ones who were beaten up the other day? I know one of them a bit. At least, I know his cousin, who works for the Loredan family.”

  “Are they back at work, do you know?”

  “I imagine so. Can’t think why they wouldn’t be. There weren’t any bones broken.”

  “Well, if they are there at the Fontego, perhaps we could have a word with them. Only I think it would be best if you could talk to them by yourself.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “I mean, we were both interrogated yesterday by the Inquisitors, but you haven’t been accused of a brutal murder in the meantime.”

  “No, not so far as I know,” he said. “I see your point. What do you want me to ask them?”

  “As casually as you can, see if you can get them to tell you if they’ve been booked to take a delegation to Saint Mark’s, and if so, when. And see if you can find out who’ll be in the delegation.”

  “All of this, just casually.”

  “Yes. The way you managed to slip in the subject of dice-playing to Sior Fabrizio.”

  I could see his teeth flash in a grin. “It wasn’t so difficult, you know. He’s a curious old fellow. All right, I’ll do my best. If there’s anyone there to talk to.”

  We agreed that Bepi would find somewhere to moor not too far from the Fontego, and Lucia, Fabrizio and I would go and find a tavern to have something to eat. Bepi would join us as soon as he could.

  We turned off the Grand Canal into Rio di San Zan Degolà and moored there. I remembered a furatola in Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio, which was just nearby; it served simple food and although it wasn’t allowed to serve wine there was a nearby malvasia where we could get a glass of Cyprus wine, before or afterwards (or preferably both). I led the way, while Bepi, after tying up his gondola, set off towards the Fontego.

  Lucia had never been in this area before, and so I was able to bestow upon her some of my cicerone eloquence as I told her of the treasures held within the church of San Giacomo, whose buxom apse protrudes into the square (as so often, the façade looks on to the nearby canal, rather than the square itself). She thanked me and wrapped her cape about herself as we entered the furatola; it was not a place that women of her class usually entered, and Fabrizio put a protective arm around her as we made our way to a table. Obviously I would have liked to provide the same protection on the other side but realised that this was not the right moment. And I was not the right person.

  The other clients, who were mainly intent on their food, paid little attention to us. I had the impression that this was not somewhere people went for elegant conversation or even for company. It was a strictly practical place providing cheap, solid (and not entirely fresh) food.

  A rather surly waiter brought us a board with a selection of cheeses, cold meat, some coarse bread and a few leaves of lettuce and red radicchio.

  Fabrizio gazed around with curiosity. “A long while since I ate out,” he said.

  “Perhaps we’ll find somewhere a little more genteel next time,” said Lucia.

  “I apologise,” I said. “But I think it’s the most convenient place in the area. And certainly the least expensive.”

  “I hope so,” said Lucia, lifting a hunk of bread and picking some of the mould out of it.

  “Come, my dear,” said her father. “We mustn’t be fussy. It’s all part of the adventure.”

  She smiled at him. “Dear Father, you always manage to see the bright side of things.”

  “I try, my dear. Perhaps Sior Bepi will let me have another game of dice when he comes back.”

  “I have no doubt he will,” she said.

  We set to eating. The cheeses and meat were quite good and the bread acceptable, once the more colourful elements had been removed. We did not talk for a while; I was sitting opposite Lucia and her father, and I noticed that she carefully avoided catching my eye.

  After a while Fabrizio spoke. “You haven’t said where you think the murder of that poor man comes into the story.”

  “No,” I said. “Because I’m not sure.”

  “If, as you have indicated, this Greek person is responsible for the thefts and is planning something more ambitious now, logic would suggest that he was behind it.”

  “Yes,” I said, “logic perhaps. But I still find it hard to believe.”

  “I’ve a feeling you rather like this Komnenos,” said Lucia suddenly.

  “Well, let’s say I find it hard to dislike him entirely.”

  “Even if he’s planning an assault on the city’s most sacred treasures?”

  “I certainly don’t approve,” I said. “And I hope we can prevent it. But . . .” My voice trailed away. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.

  “But you can’t help admiring him as well,” she said. Her voice wasn’t gentle and it wasn’t hard. She was merely stating a fact.

  “Perhaps,” I said. I realised that, as was so often the case, there was something in what she said. “Maybe it’s not exactly admiration. It’s just that I think I understand him. I’ve a feeling perhaps we’re similar in certain ways.”

  “You too feel that the Venetian state has oppressed and enslaved you?” she said. This time her tone was definitely sardonic.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s more an attitude to life. A need to take advantage of things as they happen. Which probably also means I’m not as good as I should be at making long-term plans.”

  “Yes, that seems a fairly accurate picture of you,” she said. “Of course, I have no idea how true it is of your friend.”

  “He’s not my friend,” I said at once. “I hardly know him.”

  “Well,” said Fabrizio, “since long-term plans are not your forte, perhaps Lucia and I should give some thought to them.” He lowered his voice. “For example, what are we going to do about the fact that you’ve been accused of murder? We seem to be forgetting all about that.”

  “Forgetting is perhaps overstating it,” I said. “But one thing at a time.”

  Lucia sighed. “There we go again.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m not just putting it off. But first I think it essential to find out what Komnenos is up to. There are clear indications that it must be linked with the murder, so one thread will lead to another, I’m sure.”

  “So we return to Ariadne,” said Lucia. “Let’s hope she really can get us out of the labyrinth.” Her eyes had taken
on a distant look. She was clearly remembering the scene with Ariadne’s mistress.

  It was something of a relief when Bepi arrived some quarter of an hour later. He had prudently taken off his red Castello cap and he looked around the uninviting locale rather warily. “We do these things better out in the east,” he said as he sat down at our table, gazing unenthusiastically at the food before him.

  “Remember we’re all Venetians,” said Fabrizio mildly.

  “It just seems a place where there are unlikely to be too many sbirri or agents,” I said.

  “Too high-class for them,” said Bepi.

  I ignored this and got to the point. “Did you manage to speak to the Fontego gondoliers?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I found them in a magazen not too far from San Zan Degola. They didn’t mind talking, once I told them I had an aunt at Anzolo Raffaele. Turned out one of them knew her – or, at least, his cousin knows someone who lives just next door—”

  “Yes,” I said, a little impatiently. It is impossible for two Venetians to meet without finding mutual acquaintances, and I knew that if I allowed him to expand on the subject we would be lost in an unending labyrinth of linked friends and relatives, without an Ariadne’s thread to extricate us. “But what did they say about the visit to San Marco?”

  “Well, it took me a little time to work that into the conversation,” he said with mild reproach. “First I had to hear all about his cousin and his wedding next month; I used that to ask if he would be ferrying guests. And he said yes, so I said I hoped he could get time off from the Fontego. And he said it wouldn’t be a problem. Just so long as he told them in time. So I asked if they let him know things in advance. Because I’d heard of some foreigners who expect you to be on hand all day and night, and never give you any indication of their plans. You know, my cousin, who works for the Germans . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, “I know.” I had indeed heard a good deal of this cousin and his troubled relationship with his Teutonic employers.

  “Well, he said that although they’re heathens, they’re not bad as employers. They don’t always tell him ahead about their plans during the day, but they always let him know if they’re going to need him at night.” He took a bite of cheese at this point, and his eyes expressed surprise that it was not as bad as he had expected.

  “And so?”

  “So I asked if they often went out at night. I’d not seen many Turks out in the Piazza after the Marangona, I said. And he said, oh, they did occasionally. In fact, just tomorrow evening . . .”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Yes, just tomorrow evening he and his mate have been asked to be ready to take a party down to the Piazza. Around nine o’clock, he said. And he was to keep quiet about it.”

  “Good to know he’s loyal to his employers,” said Lucia.

  “Well, you know,” said Bepi, “among gondoliers . . .”

  “And we’re now honorary gondoliers,” she said with a smile.

  Bepi smiled back and nodded. “I’d be honoured to think so.”

  “You are a true cortesan,” said Lucia, bestowing on him the term Venetians often use to indicate a gentlemanly man of the world. He bowed his appreciation.

  I felt a slight and entirely unwarranted pang. She had never used such a term to describe me – but then why should she? “So tomorrow evening,” I said in a business-like fashion.

  “That’s what they said.”

  “So we have time to plan this properly,” said Fabrizio.

  “Yes,” said Lucia. She turned to me. “Perhaps you had better leave this to us then?” She said it with a slightly ironic inflection.

  “Naturally I’ll be glad to have your help,” I said politely.

  “We could think about turning to the appropriate authorities . . .” Fabrizio left this thought hanging in the air.

  “Yes,” I said. “The authorities that are trying to arrest me for murder.”

  “Sior Alvise,” said Lucia, “I remember when your English friend was arrested for murder, you didn’t advise him to try to escape. You told him to trust in Venetian justice.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “But a rich Englishman is rather different from a – well, from a low-life spy. Especially now that I have lost my protection.”

  “Don’t belittle yourself,” she said sharply. “It’s not dignified.”

  She was right. There was no point in self-pity.

  “And remember the story of the poor little baker’s boy,” said Fabrizio.

  I knew the story he meant and had often recounted it to my clients. However, I wasn’t sure I liked where it took me. “As I remember, Sior Fabrizio, the little baker’s boy was beheaded for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “Yes, but the point of the story,” Fabrizio said, “is that ever since then the Venetian magistrates have been much more careful before issuing a death sentence.”

  “Well,” I said, “let’s see if we can gather some evidence to help the authorities avoid a wrong sentence.”

  “How shall we do that?” said Lucia. “Follow Komnenos around? I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “No,” I said thoughtfully. “The authorities do, though. They know him well.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m just thinking of his very recognisable face. Certainly much more so than the Turks’ . . .”

  “Why are we talking about his face all of a sudden?”

  “It’s not his I’m thinking of,” I said. “It’s theirs.”

  “Whose?” she said with justifiable impatience.

  “The Turks’.”

  Fabrizio spoke up. “Sior Alvise, if you don’t express yourself more clearly I fear you will lose some of our sympathy.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I’m working things out as I speak. Which is very much what I think Komnenos does as well. As I said, no long-term planning.”

  “Go on,” he said calmly, as his daughter began to show signs of intense irritation.

  “No long-term planning,” I said again. “Tomorrow evening for someone like Komnenos is a long way away.”

  “And for you too, I gather,” said Lucia.

  “Yes, exactly. I’m sure Komnenos has no intention of waiting till then. He’s going to act tonight.”

  27

  “But I thought the whole point was that he was going to act when this delegation visits the treasury,” said Lucia.

  “Yes,” I said. “And that will be tonight.”

  “Are you saying the gondoliers were lying?” she asked.

  “They weren’t,” said Bepi at once, as if offended at such an outrageous suggestion.

  “No,” I said, “they weren’t. The Turks and their gondoliers are all planning to visit tomorrow night. But Komnenos is going to do it tonight.”

  “All on his own?” Lucia said.

  “No, together with what will appear to be a delegation of Turks. That is to say, the ambassador, or someone standing in for him, the ambassador’s wife and their daughter. Both the women, of course, veiled.”

  “He will never get away with it,” she said.

  “In normal circumstances, certainly not,” I said. “And he certainly wouldn’t get away with it if he waited until tomorrow. Then people would have time to reflect, to carry out checks, to make the whole procedure much more formal and official. He is relying on a sense of urgency – and, of course, on the need for secrecy on both sides.”

  “How can you possibly know this?” said Lucia.

  “I don’t know it,” I said, “I strongly suspect it. From what I have gathered of his character. And from the situation.”

  “And because it’s what you would do,” she said.

  “Yes, perhaps,” I said, “if I were a bandit.”

  “I’m beginning to think you wish you were one,” she said.

  “I may end up being one, of course,” I said. “But for the moment I’m still mainly on the side of t
he law.”

  “But if this is so,” said Fabrizio, “then we must act. At once.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Without too much long-term planning.”

  “Just the way you like it,” said Lucia.

  “Just the way the situation demands,” I said.

  “You want us to go straight to San Marco,” said Bepi, taking things in with his usual phlegmatic calm.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No more cheese,” he said. “And no glass of malvasia.”

  “Maybe a quick one before we set off. We might need some stimulation.”

  “I’ll need it,” he said, putting another piece of cheese into his mouth and getting to his feet.

  And so, after settling our score (I insisted on paying, and my offer was accepted), we all had a glass of wine at the nearby malvasia and then made our way to Campo San Zan Degola, where the gondola was moored.

  “So who is going to play the part of the ambassador?” asked Lucia, as we clambered into the felze. “Don’t they know him?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “And possibly Komnenos will explain that the Ambassador was unable to come and so this other person, whoever it is, has had to take his place. I don’t know the details, obviously, and maybe I’m completely wrong. But I think it’s worth going to check.”

  “And the fact that the date is different?”

  “That’s the easy part,” I said. “Remember, Komnenos acted as interpreter between the two sides, and he simply told them two different dates for this excursion. I know that it was he who arranged things with the Procurator.”

  “Can it really be that simple?” said Fabrizio. “I thought the whole point of people like – well, people who do the job you’ve been doing all this while – was to ensure the city’s security.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And one thing I did hear Komnenos say to Isabella Venier was that the whole matter was greatly simplified by the fact that there is no Missier Grande at present. I have no doubt that his plan would never work if the Missier Grande were overseeing things. But if things are left up to people like Marino Basso . . .”

  “Who’s he?” asked Lucia.

  “He’s the man who came to your shop the other day and took away the diary.”