Lucifer's Shadow

by David Hewson

  “Perhaps I do. You didn’t kill poor Leo, did you?”

  It was my time for an exasperated sigh. “What do you think? You’ve read the details on the posters—as much as they see fit to print, because the truth was much, much worse. Yes. I was there, and they’d have slit my throat, too, if I hadn’t run for it. But it’s Delapole’s handiwork. I warned you.”

  “Then the game is up for all of us.”

  “No! You give up the ghost too easily. As I tried to tell you before, there is a magistrate on his way here from Rome, with evidence that will put Delapole under lock and key.”

  Jacopo’s eyes brightened a little. “Then where is he?”

  “Delayed. There was an accident on the coach. But he’ll be here. When he arrives, we will need our wits about us, Jacopo. The Englishman will surely try to damn us alongside himself.”

  A spark of hope rose in his face. “Let me talk to Rebecca after they have played. We’ll flee then, Lorenzo. I’m ready to leave this damn town now. Not really my kind of place at all.”

  This was, I knew, impossible. “He’s too clever for that, Lorenzo. He’ll be watching her like a hawk when she’s out in public. Besides, until the watch are after him, he could so easily make us the fugitives, and with little chance of escape. These streets are running over with the Doge’s men.”

  He rubbed his wispy beard. “Then what?”

  “What do you do after the concert?”

  “He wants me with him and Rebecca at Ca’ Dario. To pack, he says. I suspect we’ll ship out this evening.”

  “Then that is where to make our move. They’ll surely come for him there. Before they do, you must find some way to escape the house. Meet me at Salute, and we’ll look for a boat to bribe on Zattere.”

  “You make it sound so simple, Lorenzo. Do you have any idea how sly that fellow is?”

  The image of poor, maimed Leo was still alive in my head. “Oh, yes,” I murmured. “More than you might imagine.”

  He was silent.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I was just thinking. I remember you when you were a boy.”

  I gripped his arm. “That was a long time ago, my friend.”

  Jacopo Levi embraced me then, and I felt the most curious sensation. It was as if I had my arms around his sister. There was in our closeness the same warmth and affection, and some trepidation for the future, too, I suppose. I found, to my embarrassment, tears began to start behind my eyes. Jacopo looked into my face and did me the good service of failing to notice them.

  “I am sorry,” I stuttered, “to have brought you both to this. To have ruined your lives this way. I will give everything I have to correct it.”

  He laughed, like the old Jacopo. “Oh, God, what rubbish you talk sometimes!”

  I felt wretched. There were no words in my head, only sorrow.

  “It’s all a game, Lorenzo,” he said with a grin. “Never forget that. Besides, I was growing fat and lazy in that ghetto, and Rebecca couldn’t wait to get out, as you well know. Man is a sluggish animal at heart. We need to be shaken out of our lethargy from time to time.”

  “All the same ...”

  “All the same nothing. I tire of curing Venetian matrons one moment, then sealing the remedy by bedding them the next. There’s more to life. Besides ...”

  He eyed the crowd on the promenade. Then, with one sudden, determined movement, he ripped the yellow star from his dark jacket and threw it into the gutter. The badge lay there in the dirt, a small, pathetic remnant of his past.

  “I have learned one thing from you and Rebecca.” He undid his jacket and let his white shirt, open to the chest, show through, as is the style of the Venetian gentleman. “That I walked willingly into that ghetto and helped them turn the key. It is our acquiescence that gives them power over us. We are who we believe we are. Wherever I alight next, I’ll be what I damn well like—Jew or Gentile, Swiss or Italian, doctor, quack, or gigolo. If Delapole can do it, why can’t we?”

  His certainty unnerved me. “I am not sure he makes a good example. Or that any of us can shrug off our inheritance when we please.”

  “Perhaps not. But if we Jews are such a different race, why must they place badges on our coats to tell us apart?”

  In his own mind, Jacopo was beginning to invent himself anew. He answered his own question. “Because it’s themselves they fear, not us. The presence in their midst of those who speak differently, worship differently, and—most of all—think differently alarms them. They mark us so we do not taint them with our dissimilarity and, as a consequence, bring this gilded state crashing down upon their heads.”

  It was cold in the passageway, in spite of the late-summer sun. I shivered a little. Jacopo embraced me once more. I felt a little of his strength, an intellectual vigour, pass into me. Then he was gone, back into the crowd, his jacket half-askew like that of any young Venetian blade, his head held high, black locks tossing in the fetid air that rose from the lagoon.

  He was right too. None would have marked him for a Jew unless they knew him. Jacopo’s actions were his way of throwing in his hat with us. One way or another, our lives would be transformed before this day was out.

  I tousled my hair, pulled my jacket up around my cheeks, then ventured out into the sea of jostling bodies. The concert was due to start any minute. Across the cobblestones, by the waterside, was some commotion. I stretched on tiptoe, anxious to see. There, to my dismay, was the squat figure of Marchese, hand upright through the masses, clutching some parchment. His croaky Roman voice came through the throng. He pushed towards La Pietà, looking as if he were ready to arrest Delapole on his own if need be.

  This was too soon. I had expected warning—a troop of guards, one of the city officials at their head, coming to seize Delapole with due ceremony. Rebecca remained in his grasp.

  Ignoring the clamour of complaints and the accompanying kicks and elbows, I dashed into the bustle and clawed my way towards him. This crowd was the largest I had ever seen, a thick and surly mass of humanity fighting for a view of the platform on the concert steps, where Delapole now stood beaming, hands behind his back, master of the ceremony.

  There was so much noise none could hear what Marchese yelled. I fought my way towards him and finally succeeded in pressing through until I caught his arm and bade him calm down. His face was crimson with effort and anger, his breathing laboured.

  “Sir!” I cried. “It is I! Scacchi!”

  “Scacchi?”

  He tugged me backwards with him, towards the water’s edge, where the noise was a little less overpowering.

  “You are too soon,” I warned him. “You must have the watch with you, or he’ll surely flee.”

  “The watch?” he spat back at me. “Why, they’re even more useless here than back in Rome. They’re waiting on the captain, who’s awash in some tavern, no doubt. Only then will they look at the papers I brought them. And ...” He stared at me. “What happened to you, lad?”

  “The Englishman’s doing. He murdered my master and puts the blame on me.”

  “Then his game’s afoot, and he’ll not rest until he’s done. This girl of yours. You have freed her from his grasp?”

  The podium was out of my view. I did not doubt Rebecca was there, as Delapole had instructed. I could only pray that Jacopo would see this through.

  “Not yet. That’s another reason why you must wait for the watch. I fear he’ll take her hostage.”

  Marchese looked at me as if I were an idiot. “She’s hostage already. Don’t you understand? Damn that coach. If we’d been here on time ...”

  “Sir.” I took his arm. He would, I thought, in one more minute become sufficiently composed to follow my advice. “I—”

  “Dammit, Scacchi,” he cried, pointing into the crowd. “There’s his lad. As bold as brass. Why, I ...”

  And then he became silent. For Gobbo had wormed his way through the multitude of bodies and now stood before us, grinning like a monk
ey.

  “Signor Marchese,” he said with a polite nod of his head. “And my dear friend Lorenzo. Why, I don’t know which of you keeps the worse company; that’s a fact. A murderer and a magistrate. What pretty conversations you must enjoy.”

  “I’ll have your head on the block before this day is out,” Marchese warned darkly. “And your miserable master’s too.”

  “Oh, I think not, sir. For we have only just embarked upon this circuit of the world, and it would be undignified and impolite to make such an early exit from our adventures.”

  “You scum,” Marchese growled.

  “Such words do not become a Roman gentleman,” Gobbo said, then turned his back upon us and made as if to reenter the throng.

  The old man was furious. “Why, I’ll ...”

  The mind plays strange tricks. I realised what Gobbo intended in an instant, but witnessing its performance seemed to take an endless age. The old magistrate lunged forward and grabbed the back of his retreating shoulder. At that moment Gobbo spun upon his heels; I saw his left arm jerk back, then forward, thrusting upwards, ever upwards. Marchese gave a soft sigh; his head fell back. There was blood in his mouth. Then that squat body of his tumbled away from Gobbo’s blade, back into my arms. His weight was too great for me. He slumped to the cobbles. There was a dark, red stain in his abdomen. It was an assassin’s blow: a single stroke upwards, deep into the chest, rising until it struck the heart.

  The curious milled around us, murmuring, puzzled, not yet appreciating the horror of what had just taken place. This moment hung in the balance, and still Gobbo stood opposite me, too bold to flee. I was unable to move.

  “What’s the matter, Scacchi?” he cried across the poor old man’s corpse. “Afraid of a little blood?”

  Which I was, but that was not why I hesitated. “He was a good man, Gobbo,” I said. “His testimony will see you brought to justice.”

  He kept his blade hidden, covered as it was in Marchese’s blood, by his side. Bodies milled at my back. Faces began to turn. Gobbo sneered at me.

  “Justice! Some good that’s done your friend, eh? Take that lily-white soul of yours and run, Lorenzo. It’s what the likes of us were born to do.”

  I would not play his game. I shook my head. “I will see some justice done, Gobbo. I will hound you both until it is.”

  This odd, deformed creature shrugged his shoulders and looked almost fondly at me, as he had done in those days when we first met and I was, to some extent, beneath his wing. “Then more fool you, lad. For I’ve taught you nothing. Here...”

  His weapon flashed through the air. Without thinking, I caught it square in my hand. Marchese’s blood ran down the hilt and touched my palm.

  Gobbo leapt into the crowd, waving his fists as if in fear. “Murder! Murder!” he yelled. “It is the Scacchi villain, citizens. Who, not content with murdering his master, has now felled some poor soul in broad daylight. Murder! Murder! Seize him ’fore he kills you next!”

  I dropped the knife, but too late. All faces were upon me, panic and hatred written upon them. I retreated and felt a hand grip my shoulder. Gobbo was gone. I could hear his laughter disappearing with him, like leaves upon the wind.

  With a sudden dive, I ducked beneath the arm of my captor and dodged through the crowd to cover the few yards to the water’s edge. Then, for the second time in a day, I sought safety in the mire, leaping from the jetty into the lagoon below. The black tide covered my head, and I kicked hard east for the further side of the promenade, beyond La Pietà, where the crowd would still, I hoped, be ignorant of Marchese’s fate. Some yards beyond the church, I surfaced, then made my way up the gondoliers’ stairs, rolling and bawling like a drunk so none came near me.

  As I ran hell for leather into the wasteland on the border of the Arsenale, I heard a familiar sound behind, that of an orchestra starting the first few bars of one of Mr. Vivaldi’s favourite tunes. I fancied I could distinguish the tones of Rebecca’s Guarneri in the hubbub. Then the music was drowned by the din of boos and catcalls and yells. Not once looking back, I sought shelter in the bramble and elder scrub, where, teeth chattering, I tried to recover my wits.

  There the beggar Lorenzo Scacchi wept for his friend Marchese, whose amity had been too short and whose absence made this day seem more dark and forbidding than before.

  58

  An auspicious première

  THE CIRCUS ENDED ON THE STEPS OF LA PIETÀ, AMID the TV cameras and the last-minute hopefuls trying to find a ticket at any price. Inside, the church was filled with the low buzz of excitement. The orchestra, dressed in black, was at the far end of the nave. Fabozzi towered over them from an exaggerated podium. Amy stood alone, between the conductor and the massed rows of the audience.

  Daniel walked to the front, accepting the restrained applause with a wan smile, nodded to Fabozzi, Amy, and, finally, the orchestra, then took his place next to Massiter in the first row. He turned and saw Giulia Morelli three seats behind. The policewoman stared at him, un-smiling. A sound behind, Fabozzi’s baton tapping the stand, announced the start of the performance. Then Daniel closed his eyes and, for the first time in his life, listened to the work he knew as Concerto Anonimo in its entirety, losing himself in the swirling themes and winding alleys of its complexities.

  In Ca’ Scacchi, transcribing the notes directly from the mysterious score, he had heard the work as a series of voices, violin and viola, bassoon and oboe, each distinct and fighting for its place in the whole. It amazed him now that any human mind could encompass both the individual clarity of each separate instrument and simultaneously meld them into a greater, harmonious creation more magnificent than the sum of each exquisite part. As always, he found himself fascinated by the identity of its true composer. This was not Vivaldi. There was too much of the modern in the piece, and, if the date on the cover was correct, too much verve for it to have been the work of a man in his fifties approaching the end of his life.

  Yet this was not any composer he had ever heard; of that he was sure. There lay the overriding mystery. No other work by the same hand still existed. If such a piece were extant, it would surely have been well-known. The concerto had come out of some sudden flash of inspiration which had then disappeared or perhaps been stifled by mishap or design. Something else, too, puzzled him. There was in the work a sense of distance, of alienation, as if the composer had listened to Vivaldi’s efforts, absorbed them, and, with a sense of both irony and good humour, transformed them into something akin but separate from what had gone before. This was the act of an admirer, not an acolyte. He doubted any close to Vivaldi’s circle would have dared step so closely, and with such impertinent brilliance, on the old man’s toes.

  Daniel opened his eyes and saw the astonished faces around him. Amy had moved into her first solo, and the voice of her ancient Guarneri soared to the roof of La Pietà with a bold, savage beauty that filled his mind with wonder. He remembered Massiter’s admonition to her. Perhaps Amy believed that there was some release in the music, that she could earn her escape from Massiter by playing as she had never done before. Enthralled, he watched the intense concentration on her beautiful face as she tore into the notes, clutching the Guarneri to her neck as if it were part of her body. Once the slow, melodious opening had given way to the rising, relentless surge of the first movement, she had, like all of them, been swept away by its merciless, all-encompassing rapture.

  He heard every note of the orchestra resound in the body of the church. Daniel Forster no longer felt shame for his act of deception. Without him this wonder would have lain behind brickwork in a crumbling Venetian mansion, perhaps forever. Without him, it might as well never have existed at all.

  Amy cut a searing swathe through one of the most difficult passages, double- and treble-stopping her way along the Guarneri’s narrow neck. Close by, someone gasped. It was the only sound that came from the audience throughout the entire concert. There was, as Massiter had predicted, a sense of history in the occ
asion. For all Daniel knew, this was the first time the work had ever been played in public. Somewhere, he hoped, the shade of its creator could hear a little of its magnificence and feel the awe it inspired in those fortunate enough to share in its debut.

  The concerto ran to its own time, trapping them inside the prison of its imagination. It came as a shock when he realised they had reached the closing sections of the third movement, with Amy working desperately hard once more. Daniel racked his head to try to assemble some logical train of events from the opening bars to the fast-approaching conclusion. It was impossible. The work was both a single, simple entity and a collection of complexities, blending seamlessly beneath the surface. Amy stretched for the close. Like those around him, he scarcely dared breathe. Then she was done, in a furious barrage of notes that tore to the roof of La Pietà and continued to resonate, in the church and in their heads, long after she had ceased playing.

  When the last tremor of her Guarneri died softly into nothingness, there was a moment of silence. A few seconds later La Pietà erupted with sound. The crowd rose as a mass, not knowing where to applaud. Daniel ducked quickly, squeezed past Massiter without a word, and found a hiding place in the shadow of one of the great pillars. With no composer to cheer, the audience spent its adoration on Amy, who stood before them, shell-shocked, eyes moist and wide, unable to say a word. A small girl in a white dress walked to the front of the nave and handed her a bouquet of red roses. The orchestra put down their instruments and joined the applause, Fabozzi leading them.

  Out of view, Daniel watched their faces and wondered. Even Massiter seemed moved, standing to clap furiously and bellow hurrahs. This was a moment to savour. The work was so powerful that none could ever question its value in the future. Amy’s performance, too, had surely marked her step into adulthood, more surely than any mere physical act could have done. A dark thought struck him again: that perhaps some pain, some terrible price, was necessary for such greatness. He wondered about his own part in providing her with the key she needed to unlock the genius inside herself.