by James Becker
But still they weren’t finished. Řezník permitted them a short break to recover their strength, then supervised the disassembly of the wooden arch, the component pieces of which they stacked against the side wall of the chapel. Once that had been completed, he instructed them to drag three heavy sacks containing soil, taken from the cemetery outside the church, across to the slab that now covered the tomb. They upended the sacks and spread the contents into a single even layer over the slab.
Now, finally, the monks’ work was almost over. They replaced the flagstones that had been removed to allow the hole to be dug, but left enough space directly over the grave for the gravestone itself, a slab that Řezník had had prepared by a stone mason in the village the previous day. Two of the monks picked up the stone and lowered it carefully into position.
Řezník stepped to the end of the gravestone and lowered his head in prayer for the last time, the six monks who had assisted him kneeling on the flagstone floor beside the tomb.
Moonlight speared in through one of the chapel’s side windows and the beam played silently across the freshly cut and very simple inscription in the stone. The words made no mention of Eleonora Amalia’s family name or her aristocratic status. It didn’t even include the Schwarzenberg coat of arms. On the specific instructions of Řezník, who had himself simply been following the orders he had been given by the men who had prepared the parchment, the inscription simply listed the first name of the princess, and the date of her death:
Hier liget die arme sunderin Eleonora bittet fur sie. Obut die 5 Mai A1741.
With the body of Eleonora now safely consigned to the earth, Řezník had two more tasks to perform. The carriage was standing outside the church, the driver waiting for him. Řezník climbed up on to the vehicle and instructed the man to return to Krumlov Castle.
The gates were still wide open, but the courtyard was now virtually deserted. Only three men waited for Řezník’s return and the orders they expected him to issue. The priest stepped down from the carriage and walked across to them.
The men were all wearing tunics that identified them as servants of the Schwarzenberg dynasty, and two of them were armed with short swords, the scabbards buckled to their belts. It was these two men that Řezník approached first.
‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘Do it now. Kill them all, and dump the bodies in the forest.’
The men nodded, turned on their heels and vanished inside the building.
Řezník turned to the third man. ‘Show me the painting.’
The servant led Řezník into the castle and to a long gallery, at one end of which hung a life-size portrait of Eleonora. The priest stared at the princess’s pale face for a few moments, his lip curling in disgust.
‘Lift it down,’ he ordered.
Once the painting was leaning against the wall, Řezník took his folding knife and opened it. He drove the point of the blade through the canvas to the left of the princess’s head and hacked downwards in a vertical line. He repeated the operation on the right-hand side of the image as well, then sliced a horizontal line above the head to join the two cuts. He seized the flap of canvas that now fell forward, and started to cut along the last remaining side.
As his blade began cutting through the painted image of Eleonora’s neck, the mournful howl of an animal echoed through the vast old building.
The man beside Řezník glanced round in alarm, but the priest ignored the interruption. He completed the final cut through the canvas and stepped back, holding the painted image of the princess’s head in his left hand. He looked around and then stepped across to the nearest sconce in which a torch burned brightly. Taking it down, he held the flames to one corner of the square he’d removed from the painting. The canvas was heavy and the paint thick, and for a few seconds it merely smouldered. Then the fire took hold and it flared suddenly, the flames a kaleidoscopic mix of colours as the pigments in the paint were consumed by the heat. Řezník dropped the final corner of the canvas to the floor and watched as the last of the flames flickered and died.
‘Are there any other pictures showing that woman?’ he demanded. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak her name.
‘That was the last one. All the others have been destroyed.’
Řezník nodded in satisfaction. His work was done. The princess was buried in what amounted to an unmarked grave, and he had done his best to expunge all traces of her life, all reminders of her presence, from the castle.
Without a backwards glance, he walked out of the gallery and a few minutes later passed through the double gates that secured the courtyard of Krumlov Zamek. He knew he would never enter that cursed and wretched castle again.
He just hoped that he had done enough to stop the contagion before it took hold in the district.
* * *
But in that regard, Řezník was mistaken. Over the next few years he would officiate at nearly a dozen burials that would require him to use his peculiar and arcane knowledge, though none of these would involve another member of the aristocracy.
And on his own deathbed, nearly twenty years later, he would finally acknowledge the truth he had shied away from for all those years.
Because what happened in the months and years after the burial of Eleonora Amalia proved to him beyond doubt that she was not the source of the plague, as Řezník had always believed, but simply another victim.
1
Present day
‘This truly is a spectacular place,’ Chris Bronson said, looking back at the city of Venice.
It was the first day of November, and he and Angela were standing side by side in the stern of a crowded vaporetto that was ferrying them from the Fondamente Nuove stop on Venice itself across the lagoon to the Isola di San Michele – the island of St Michael – to take part in the celebrations known unofficially as the Festival of the Dead.
There was a stiff breeze blowing from the south-east, sufficiently strong to create dozens of white horses that surged all around the vessel, but the boat carved an arrow-straight wake through the choppy waters. The lights of the city were just starting to pierce the late-afternoon gloom, a gloom made more pronounced by the patches of mist that were forming over the water. Venice looked almost like a huge and improbable cruise ship, floating silently in the cool and shallow waters of the lagoon.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ Angela said, taking his arm to steady herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting this wind though. Is it the sirocco?’
Bronson shook his head. ‘No. It’s the wrong time of year. The sirocco only blows in the spring and summer.’
‘Well, I was hoping for a warm and balmy evening – a kind of last gasp of summer, if you like – but this feels more like the onset of winter.’
‘It is November, you know.’
Angela shivered slightly. She was wearing a pair of black trousers (she’d guessed that a skirt would be much less practical for climbing in and out of vaporettos during the evening), a white blouse and a kind of woollen tunic that Bronson had incautiously referred to as a cardigan, only to receive a loud sigh at his manifest lack of fashion sense. Over this, she was wearing a midnight-blue silk coat. Bronson liked it: it brought out the colour of her eyes. He could see now that it couldn’t be very warm.
Bronson had always regarded fashion as an easy way of separating large sums of money from gullible men – and even more gullible women – who were foolish enough to believe the rubbish spouted by the self-appointed fashion ‘experts’. He invariably dressed for comfort and practicality, selecting a shirt by opening a drawer and picking up the one that lay on top of the others. He chose trousers, socks and underwear using the same simple and, to him, foolproof system. His only concessions to fashion were that he normally wore dark colours, usually blues and blacks, and had never owned a pair of white socks. This evening, he had chosen a dark check shirt, slightly faded blue jeans, and a pair of black trainers. And his leather jacket was proof against even the strongest wind the Adriatic could produce.<
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Angela buttoned her coat, and snuggled closer to Bronson. ‘With your love of Italy, and all things Italian,’ she murmured, ‘I’m really surprised that you’ve never been to Venice before.’
‘I know,’ Bronson replied. ‘For some reason, I’ve spent my time on the west side of the country. So I know Rome, Florence, Pisa and Naples really well, but this is the first time I’ve ever visited the Adriatic coast. And it really is stunning.’
It had all been Angela’s idea. There had been an unexpected reduction in her workload at the British Museum, and for the first time since the start of her employment there she had found herself with almost nothing to do. She was a ceramics conservator, and spent most of her working day either trying to reassemble ancient pottery shards into something that resembled a recognizable vessel or writing reports and assessments for the benefit of other people who were trying to do pretty much the same thing.
And this lull in her workload had coincided neatly with the dates of Bronson’s final week’s leave for the year. Her ex-husband had planned to do little more than sit around at his home in Tunbridge Wells, watch a bit of television and, if he could summon the energy and enthusiasm, tackle a handful of DIY jobs that he knew needed doing. When Angela had suggested spending the week exploring Venice instead, Bronson had thought carefully about his choice for nearly a second and a half before agreeing to go with her. It was, he thought now as he put his arm round her, absolutely the right decision.
‘OK,’ he said, smiling down at her, ‘you’re the historian. So what, exactly, is the Festival of the Dead?’
Angela rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Do you really want a history lesson?’ she asked.
‘I like hearing you talk, especially when you’re talking about something that really interests you. And you know I’m never tired of hearing about Italy.’
‘Actually, it’s not really Italian history,’ Angela began, ‘because the date – the first of November – comes from a really old pagan festival, and is celebrated over most of Western Europe. Yesterday was, of course, the last day of October, or Halloween, which as everyone knows has always been associated with death and the supernatural. But what’s less well known is that it’s only ever been a kind of taster, a precursor, if you will, for the main event – Allhallows or Hallowmas, which is today.’
‘I thought it was a kind of saints’ day,’ Bronson objected.
Angela nodded. ‘If you talk to a Christian, especially an Anglican or Roman Catholic, he or she will tell you that today is All Saints’ Day, a day that celebrates God and all his saints, both known and unknown, so the Church can cover all the bases. But it’s a little more complicated than that, because the early Christian Church was desperate to try to stamp out all competing religions, especially all pagan rituals and celebrations. They couldn’t simply ban pagan festivals because they feared that people would still observe them in secret, so they did the next best thing: they hijacked them.
‘Some time in the early seventh century, Christians began celebrating All Saints’ Day on the first of November. In 835 AD Pope Gregory IV officially authorized the festival, and it’s been celebrated ever since. Allhallows was once one of the four greatest and most important festivals in the pagan calendar, but most Christians today have never heard of it, because the Church has done such a good job of changing the original purpose and meaning of the celebrations.
‘And, just to ram home the fact that November the first was a Christian celebration, the Church also created another festival day on the second of the month – All Souls’ Day, which is a celebration to help cleanse and purify the spirits of the dead. And you’ll find similar crowds out on San Michele tomorrow, because the Venetians celebrate both days.’
‘But surely the early Christians weren’t celebrating death?’
Angela shook her head. ‘No, not death, but the dead themselves. Allhallows was intended to help people remember the dead, and to say prayers for the souls of the departed. Interestingly, it’s not just in Western Europe that you find this kind of celebration. Over in Mexico they have a Day of the Dead, which is also on the second of November, and that’s a kind of combination of an ancient Native American tradition and the Catholic All Souls’ Day. The people there decorate their homes with fake skeletons, visit cemeteries to clean and tidy the graves of their deceased relatives, and even leave offerings of food and drink for various wandering spirits.’
‘And I suppose the Venetian Festival of the Dead is something similar?’ Bronson asked.
‘Exactly, but over here they don’t so much tend the graves as wander about the cemetery carrying lighted candles and chrysanthemums. Those flowers have become firmly associated with burial ceremonies in Italy, and it’s a very bad idea to offer a bunch to anyone who’s still alive. But, being Italy, it’s become a social event, too, especially for locals – and because we’re here in Venice, I thought it would be interesting to come along.’
‘So we’ll be spending the evening in a graveyard. How nice!’ Bronson turned his back on the city they had left and looked ahead at the Isola di San Michele, colloquially known as the ‘Island of the Dead’ because it was simply a huge graveyard.
He’d read that the idea of using one of the islands in the Venetian lagoon as a graveyard dated back to 1807, when Venice was conquered by Napoleon and was suffering under a French occupation that virtually bankrupted the city. Burial on Venice itself was deemed to be unsanitary, so the neighbouring island of San Cristoforo della Pace was selected for the task. When that proved inadequate in size, the narrow canal that separated San Cristoforo della Pace from the larger San Michele was filled in, during 1836, and the combined island became known simply as San Michele. For a very short period the island was also used as a prison, but afterwards reverted to solely being a graveyard, which still held some very famous corpses. The bodies of the dead were transported across to the island from Venice on special funeral gondolas.
The edge of San Michele lay only a couple of hundred yards from Venice itself, but the vaporetto stop was at the most northerly point of the island, right beside the Chiesa di San Michele, one of the earliest Renaissance churches in Venice. Bronson could see it now, its stark white Istrian stone standing out in the gloom, and marking it out from the mellow colours that characterized most Venetian architecture.
A couple of minutes later, the vaporetto was stationary alongside the jetty, and the gangway had been opened. The passengers surged off the vessel and started making their way towards the entrance. Bronson and Angela were in no particular hurry to leave the boat, so they waited in the stern until almost all the other passengers had left. Then they too stepped on to the jetty and followed the rest of the crowd who, noisy and gesticulating, seemed to be getting in the mood for the evening ahead.
‘The wind’s dropped, which is good news, but it’s getting a bit murky,’ Bronson said to Angela, pointing at the blanket of fog that was descending fast. They had seen patches of mist forming over the water after they’d left Venice, but what lay in front of them was more like a real peasouper. Within minutes, visibility was reduced to just a few yards, and they were glad that the path itself was visible, though the family in front of them were still making enough noise that following them was very easy.
Angela shivered again. ‘You’re right – it’s quite spooky now. And this mist is exactly the right atmosphere for an evening in a graveyard.’ She took a map of the island out of her pocket and smoothed it out.
‘Well, as long as we can find our way back to the jetty and the boat I’m not bothered,’ Bronson said. ‘But I certainly wouldn’t fancy spending the night out here. Do you see that kind of yellow glow in the mist over to the left of us? Shall we head towards it?’
Angela looked in that direction as well, and nodded. ‘It’s probably from all the candles people are carrying.’
They were now catching up with the people ahead, who had walked along the semicircular path that curved around in front of the chur
ch, and had then turned down another path that seemed to be leading in the opposite direction.
‘Where are they going now?’
Angela looked down at the map. ‘This path takes us over towards the centre of the cemetery, and also towards some of the older areas. One slightly odd thing about this graveyard is that, these days, the bodies are removed after about ten years. They’re buried in the usual way in the ground, with the grave marked by a slab or headstone, but because this graveyard serves the entire population of Venice, space is pretty limited. So once the body has been reduced to bones, it’s exhumed and the skeleton stored in an ossuary, or bone box. Apparently, there’s an exhumation timetable posted near the entrance.’
Most of the more modern graves they were passing displayed photographs of the occupants, and almost all of them had been decorated with fresh flowers, giving the graveyard a strangely colourful appearance despite the gloom.
Even through the fog, Bronson could tell that the cemetery was huge, a vast expanse of ground studded with ancient vaults and individual tombstones, some standing erect, others either deliberately placed flat on the earth or having presumably fallen at some point over the centuries.
Walking through one of the older parts of the cemetery, they paused at intervals to look at some of the inscriptions. These varied from the simple to the flowery: from just a name, date of birth and date of death, to elaborate verses written in Italian or even Latin, to glorify or justify the life that had ended.
Angela had been right about the source of the yellowish glow. Almost every person they passed – and there seemed to be literally hundreds – was carrying a large candle, and the combined mass of tiny flames was giving the heavy mist a distinctly yellow or orange colour.
