Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘He, he? Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Old di Betto’s son, Lorenzo. It was his idea. All of it, I swear it was.’

  I left Sebenico hanging upside-down in his own sottoportego, with the front of his nightgown stuffed in his mouth for good measure. It would not take him long to get free, but long enough for me to return to the barge, and pole myself into the night. But as I crossed under the Merceria, I heard the familiar cry of the Signori de Notte, baying in the darkness. Sebenico, it seemed, had been quicker than I had anticipated. I stopped the boat directly under the crude wooden bridge that spanned the rio, and crouched in the gloom. The sound of one man’s hurried footsteps echoed above my head, quickly joined by those of several others.

  At first I thought that the Signori had merely converged on the bridge in their search for me. My heart pounded in my chest, and my fist tightened over the hilt of Caterina’s sword. Then I heard a strangely strangled cry, and a scuffling of feet. I kept as silent as I could for fear of discovery. The scuffle was oddly quiet, with only a grunt or two to suggest there was a fight for life going on above me at all. I had always imagined a fight to the death would have been more noisy, more dramatic. But when the end came, it came with nothing more than a curiously feeble gurgle.

  As I was pressing with both my hands and shoulders on the underside of the bridge, in order to prevent my boat from drifting out from cover, my face was close to the edge of the timbers. Suddenly, a swarthy face appeared right before my eyes, but upside down like Sebenico’s had been. I gulped, thinking I had been discovered. But even as I looked back at him, the man’s eyes were emptying of life. Streams of blood poured from his nose and mouth and over his forehead. It mingled with his long, black curly hair, and dripped down on to the water’s surface, spreading out in pink circles. He gurgled once, and was dead. As his head swung lifelessly backwards and forwards, his face was so close that I could make out an old scar on his lower jaw, and a gold ring in his ear. Then it disappeared once more back above the bridge’s lip. The Signori were removing the evidence.

  I listened for their footsteps fading into the distance, before I risked a glance over the edge of the bridge. All I could make out was a gang of men, dragging what appeared to be a large sack behind them. Even that vision soon converged with the shadows and the silence. It was as if nothing had happened, as if I had dreamed it. But I was sure I had made out the bulky shape of Lorenzo Gradenigo in their midst. My hands were trembling as I poled the boat back to its moorings, realizing the stranger’s fate could well have been my own, if I had been caught by Gradenigo.

  However, it was another Lorenzo–Old Man di Betto’s son–who I needed to track down the next time that darkness allowed me to roam abroad. But first I had to get through the day, cooped up with a restless Malamocco for company.

  ‘Barratieri. Show us the dovetail shuffle again.’

  I sighed, and took the boy through some of my classic card-sharp moves, starting with the dealer grip, and moving on to the dovetail shuffle–where you can keep track of a single card, as it’s no shuffle at all–and the classic force. Malamocco tried it himself, and laughed at his own dexterity. He was good, almost better than I was, and I mentally noted not to play any gambling games with him in the future. If either of us had a future, that is.

  ‘Who did you say the silversmith ratted on?’

  I was getting into a gloomy trough of despondency again, so the boy’s question served to sharpen my wits somewhat.

  ‘I didn’t. His name is di Betto. Lorenzo di Betto. I conned some money out of his father, and though he got it back with interest, it was not half of what the son had expected. I suppose this is his way of getting his own back on me. Landing me in the sh…’

  ‘Lorenzo di Betto?’ The boy was now excited, and scattered the cards over the table.

  ‘Hey, that’s no way to fool your mark! Never show him the deck broken up. He might see the trick.’

  ‘What? Oh that doesn’t matter, now. That name–it’s the name of the witness. The one who said he saw Lazzari being killed. I should have told you before.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Master Alimpato came round last night, while you were out. He told me he had got his hands on the witness statement taken by the Quarantia. Read it and all.’

  Now why did that not surprise me. I reckon Alimpato has a better spy system than the doge himself. So, he was able to read the doge’s private correspondence. I railed at Malamocco’s inability to pass on a simple message.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘Because when you got back you went straight for the bottle,’ he grumbled sulkily. ‘And then you told me you didn’t want to be interrupted.’

  He was right. I had been scared by the sight of what the Signori de Notte could do when they were let loose. But if Malamocco was going to be a sidekick of mine, he needed to know when to ignore an order.

  ‘So did Alimpato say what was in the papers?’

  ‘He said this di Betto bloke swears he could not be sure of the identity of the man who killed Lazzari, as it was dark. But he says he had red hair. And he described the sword in great detail. It was an old sword, he said, with a distinctive cross–dogs’ heads that looked as though they were baying. And it had some sort of inscription on the blade. He swore that he could see that as the blade was swung high in the moonlight. Before it did for Lazzari.’

  I could see Malamocco’s eyes landing on my sheathed sword that lay at the other end of the table, taking in the down-turned dogs’ heads with their mouths wide open. Like mad dogs baying at the moon. He looked back at me with admiration in his eyes.

  ‘Did you really do it? Cor, I bet a sword like that would take a man’s head off. Was there lots of blood?’

  I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and shook him.

  ‘Get it into your thick head, boy. I didn’t do it. I didn’t harm a hair on Domenico Lazzari’s head.’

  Mentioning hair made me think again of the stranger who I had seen give up his life last night. The blood running down his oily hair, and dripping into the canal. His life’s blood washing away into the lagoon. And I wondered exactly how Lazzari had met his end. Maybe di Betto had seen him die, maybe not. Either way it looked like I needed to find him. Malamocco straightened his rumpled clothes, which were still the respectable ones I had clothed him in when he played the innocent ballotino.

  ‘OK. OK. Keep your hair on.’ He began to gather in the scattered cards. ‘I just wanted to know what it’s like. To kill a man.’

  ‘It’s evil, and it makes you feel sick. Even in war. So let’s hope you never have to do it.’ I tried to lighten the mood. ‘Far better to take them for all they’ve got, and leave them alive to pluck another time. Come on, show me you can do the dovetail shuffle properly.’

  Later, I left Malamocco practising, and made for Old Man di Betto’s house. I had a rendezvous with his son, who it seems had persuaded Sebenico to denounce me, and had claimed to have witnessed the murder. My route involved crossing the Grand Canal, and as I didn’t want to risk being seen crossing by boat after curfew, I decided to venture out in the late afternoon on foot. I was in disguise however, having long ago laid my hands on the brown garb of a Franciscan friar. It had come in useful to escape irate gamblers out for my blood on more than one occasion. I had chosen it rather than the black of the Dominicans because it suited my complexion better. Besides, the Dominicans were building their church out in the marshy expanse on the eastern side of Venice. Not a very salubrious neighbourhood, and I had thought it unpropitious at the time. That choice helped me now, as the Franciscans’ pile of Frari was close to where the di Bettos lived. So it would be natural for a Franciscan to be making for that neck of the woods.

  Crossing the floating bridge at the Rialto was a bit chancy, but as luck would have it, some merchant was arguing the toss about the toll he should be paying to cross. As he was being stiffed by the guardian of the bridge, I pulled my h
ood down and hurried across, making the sign of the cross for good measure. He even let me cross without charge, probably aiming to get double out of the unfortunate merchant. On the other side, I avoided the main streets, and detoured through some vegetable gardens, and a nasty muddy campo where several pigs were rooting for fodder. Not all was beauty and elegant architecture in Venice, even now.

  Finally, after wiping the pig-shit off my boots on a couple of wooden piles jutting out from the side of a rio, I made it to where Old Man di Betto’s house stood. It was opposite the church of San Pantalon, inside which there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity. It was already dusk, and the light of scores of candles cast a yellow glow on to the beaten earth of the small square before the church doors. More strangely, the street door to di Betto’s house stood wide open. Venice isn’t such a safe place that you can leave your doors open, and expect your property to still be in place when you return. The unusual circumstances made me instantly cautious, and I just poked my head round the door. A female servant stood weeping at the foot of a spiral staircase. I pulled back, but she had spotted me already.

  ‘Oh, father. Have you come for the funeral ceremony? It’s in San Pantalon across the way. Your presence will be such a comfort to the master. Though he hardly knows what’s going on, actually…’

  I laid my hand on the woman’s shoulder in what I hoped was a fatherly gesture, and expressed my sorrow at old di Betto’s death. Silently, I cursed my ill-luck. With the old man’s death so recent, it would make my inquisition of his son all the more difficult. The servant prattled on about the tragedy.

  ‘Yes, father, it is so cruel when a son precedes his parent to Heaven.’

  ‘A son…?’

  ‘Yes, father. Who would have thought little Lorenzo would die so soon?’

  I quickly made the sign of the cross over the servant woman, and hurried across the street, and into the interior of San Pantalon. The groups of candles cast deep shadows in the arcades and recesses of the church, throwing the little huddle of people sitting below the altar into stark contrast. Before them, on trestles, lay a coffin, its interior open to view. I felt an urge to run across the tiled floor to see who was inside, but restrained myself enough to keep my pace down to an urgent trot. But soon I gathered pace, and a few heads were lifted in surprise, as I finally passed the mourners at a gallop to come to an abrupt stop at the coffin. I grasped the sides, and peered in at the sightless face that lay within.

  ‘Damnation.’

  It wasn’t the old man. It was the son, Lorenzo di Betto. The man who had accused me of murder. It was the worst of all situations for me. His witness statement couldn’t be retracted now, and I had missed my chance to get the truth out of him.

  ‘Father? Why did you say he was damned?’

  It was the quavering voice of Old Man di Betto. The poor bastard was confused at the best of times, so now was not the time to cast doubt on the integrity of his only son. I dipped my head down so he would not recognize me, and kept my voice low and spoke with a heavy Paduan accent.

  ‘I was damning the man who did this to your son. He was murdered, I presume?’

  A heavy-set man with thinning white hair separated himself from the group, and grasping my arm, took me to one side. Lorenzo’s father remained standing by the coffin, his mouth hanging open. Saliva dripped down the front of his mantle, and incomprehension stood in his eyes.

  The heavy-set man spoke. ‘I am Carlo di Betto, Lorenzo’s uncle. Come, it would be better if my older brother does not hear us.’

  We walked side by side back down the nave of the church. In contrast to my arrival, the pace was now stately and solemn. After all, I had nowhere to go now. Carlo di Betto took a deep breath, and then explained what had happened, insofar as anyone could fathom.

  ‘It seems Lorenzo received a message two days ago that caused him a great deal of agitation. But he would tell no one what the content of it was. Nor can we now find the message anywhere. It must, however, have requested a rendezvous, because at some point that evening, Lorenzo left the house alone. We can only assume he didn’t ever come back, because his bed lay untouched the following morning. Then around midday yesterday, his body was brought to my brother’s door on a pallet. He had been strangled, and stabbed with a dagger. Whoever did this to him surely wanted to be sure he was dead.’

  ‘And does anyone know who did it?’

  The man laughed bitterly. ‘That is obvious. If Lorenzo had not happened to witness the murder of Domenico Lazzari, he would still be alive today. And if my brother had not wasted his money on a stupid colleganza, Lorenzo might still be with us. No, father, it is obvious as the nose on your face who did it.’

  I instinctively buried my face further in the folds of my hood, guessing what was coming next.

  ‘The man who killed my nephew was the man who swindled Lorenzo’s father. The same man who connived with, and then fell out with, Lazzari and murdered him. Nicolo Zuliani.’

  Di Betto turned back to go inside the church, leaving me standing on the steps leading back down into the square. The door to di Betto’s house still yawned blankly open, and I could sense only darkness and sorrow inside. I felt the same emptiness in my heart. My final lead had been snuffed out like a votive candle.

  At a loss as to what to do next, I hovered by the church doors, keeping to the shadows in case someone recognized me. It was lucky I did, because who should emerge from San Pantalon but a very familiar figure. Fish-faced Pasquale Valier. I couldn’t imagine that he was acquainted with Lorenzo di Betto, or anyone else in that family of merchants, so I was instantly curious as to why he was there. And it may have been the moonlight, shining down cold and silvery on the scene, but I could swear his face looked very pale and washed-out. There was also something furtive about his movements. Though I could hardly comment, lurking secretively as I was in the shadow of the church’s portico in the garb of a Franciscan.

  As he scuttled past me, he muttered a plea for benediction. I bowed low to be sure he didn’t recognize me, and made the sign of the cross. I watched him cross the square, and go over the rio, before realizing he was going in the wrong direction for his father’s palazzo. On the spur of the moment, I decided to follow him. I had no other plan up my capacious Franciscan sleeve.

  As we both passed the building site that was the Frari, he looked anxiously over his shoulder. So I turned left towards the steps of the half-finished building, and through the archway. Pausing for a few moments, I then abruptly turned back on myself. I peered round a rough-hewn column just in time to see Valier make for the imposing street doors of one of the fine palazzos whose water frontages lined the Grand Canal. Deciding my disguise was a hindrance now, I discarded the robe on a pile of stones, but still hung back in the shadows. I tried to figure out on whose door he was knocking, and it was quite a shock when I realized.

  More used to seeing the palazzo from the canal side, it was only when the door was opened, and I heard a familiar broad accent, that I saw he was gaining admittance to Palazzo Dolfin. A million questions buzzed around my fevered brain. Had Caterina and her family returned unbeknownst to me? Had they ever been away? If neither, what business would Valier have with the lone servant left behind to look after the house?

  I stood on the other side of the small square, and watched the passage of the servant and Valier as they ascended the staircase inside the palazzo. The shutters were still closed but, being old and worn, the candlelight spilled through each set of slats as they passed. The light finally stopped outside an upper room where the shutters stood open, though the room was in darkness. The servant’s light now illuminated a figure that had been standing looking out of the window. The silhouette resembled the shape of a woman, but one with a belly big with child. This had me puzzled for a moment, for I knew of no member of the Dolfin family who might be about to give birth. Then the figure turned her face towards the candlelight, and the people who had just entered her room. It was Caterina’s face. As I sto
od watching in confusion, she took a step towards Valier, and embraced him.

  I had been tossing and turning in my bed for hours, when the next thing I knew Caterina Dolfin was leaning over me, stroking my brow.

  ‘Caterina! How did you get here?’

  She didn’t reply, and I saw it was a changed Caterina. Her finely chiselled features were now slack and heavy, her cheeks distended, her hair hung down in lank ropes, and worst of all, as she rose from me, I could see that she was as distended as a ripe melon. Huge with child. I moaned and called out her name, reaching for her.

  ‘Caterina!’

  But when I touched her grotesque belly, I could feel it pulsating underneath my palm. Her lips parted in a black-toothed grin then, with the coarsest of leers, she lifted her skirts. Her legs parted, and out from her belly marched a column of little replicas of Pasquale Valier, each with a little knife in its hand. They scrambled up my prostrate form as I tried to rise, killing me with pin-pricks. My leaden limbs would not respond to my commands, and I was unable to swat them off. They climbed over my face, and I couldn’t breathe. I was being smothered by an army of Valiers issuing from Caterina’s loins. I tried to call out but my frozen vocal cords refused to come out with more than a high-pitched squeal. It was a merciful release when death and darkness came.

  I woke up to find myself fleeing from something unknown. But the faster I tried to run, the slower I went. I was wading through the mud of the great lagoon. And the clinging silt sucked at my legs making each step an inhuman effort. I was sinking deeper and deeper into mud as the sound of my pursuers rang out across the open expanse. Voices carried easily in the way they do at sea, the hunters sounding closer than they really were. I struggled, and yanked my legs out of the sucking mud, staggering on at last. I didn’t dare look back in case the Signori really were as close as they sounded. Then, when I did finally chance a look over my shoulder, I stumbled, and measured my length in the mud and rising waters. I floundered, and some unseen impediment–an ancient log, or fisherman’s rope–pinched my leg and held me fast.