The Venetian

by Mark Tricarico

  He saw them before he heard them, two men moving quickly, snatches of arms and legs appearing and disappearing behind the trunks of trees like ghosts in a children’s story. He cursed, quickly surveying his surroundings, looking for an escape route, something he should have done before sitting down to eat. He was tired and getting careless. And it may have just cost him his life.

  He was on a sloping ridge overlooking the road. He stuffed the food back into his bag and scuttled down the hill, hugging a tree to stop his momentum. He peered down at the road. Empty. He hesitated. No, they were there, he knew. There were too many places to hide, and these men knew these woods. He would have to go up, a course less comforting, but at least it offered him a slim chance of escape. He wasn’t sure if they had seen him or not. If they hadn’t, there was still a chance he could find a place to hide. If they had, it was already over—he just didn’t know it yet.

  He scrambled back up the hillside as quietly as he could manage, slipping on the pine needles, clutching at the loose soil with his fingers. He glanced up, saw no one, heard nothing save his own breath, thunderous in his ears. Coarse rock littered the hillside. They looked like stony fingers thrust through the surface, piercing the earth as though frozen in mid eruption. Perhaps there was a small crevice he could conceal himself in until dark, if he could manage to get there without being spotted.

  He had to calm down. He had come too far to be taken now, and by bandits no less. He stopped, shut his eyes, and steadied his breathing. He glanced back up the hill and saw the geography more clearly now. He laid flat on the carpet of needles. The grove of pines thinned out some ninety feet up the hillside where the land became more barren, large boulders littering the terrain. That was too far, too open. He had to remain in the trees. The smaller, protruding rocks were his only hope. One such formation was up and to his right, a little less than sixty feet away he estimated. There were thick trees for about half the distance, then a clearing of bright light where the canopy thinned, then more trees and the rocks. He began to crawl, dragging his bag along the ground to keep its contents from making noise. Each movement sounded like an explosion. The salt from his sweat stung his eyes.

  He had gone no more than fifteen feet when he heard the shouts. There were more than two of them now, many more, emerging from the trees, men where there had been nothing before. And they had seen him. He scrambled to his feet, slipped on the needles, got up, and ran back toward the road. His choice to move up the hillside had been a poor one. He had been crawling into the lion’s mouth. He glanced back over his shoulder as he ran. What struck him in those final seconds wasn’t fear or even despair. It was admiration. The bandits were leaping from boulder to boulder, crevice to ledge like the kri kri. He found himself wondering how men could do such a thing.

  He turned back in time to realize that he had been facing the wrong direction for a breath too long. A tree root caught his ankle and he was suddenly off his feet, in the air. The lip of the ridge that led down the hill sailed by, the tree trunks a brown smear against the blue of the sky, and the millions of crushed stones of the road rushed up to meet him.

  ***

  WHY DOES ALLAH test me so? Qilij could not believe it. What did he have to do to kill this man? When he had headed east and spied the traitor after only a day and a half, he had thought his luck changed. The pursuit, effortless as it was, was still exhilarating, freeing him from his cell of monotonous lingering. Avesari was no woodsman and Qilij had shadowed him, like a hawk might a rodent, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His death, although unseen by the world, would be a thing of beauty nevertheless. He had waited so long, wanted to savor this moment now that it had finally arrived. But the fool had marched right into a group of filthy bandits. Qilij would have to rethink his plans. He may already be dead he reminded himself. It had been a terrific fall, Avesari lying motionless on the road, a pile of bones. They had taken him back up the hillside like a felled boar for supper. Qilij hadn’t followed, but they would be easy enough to track.

  The question now was, what should he do? If Avesari wasn’t already dead from the fall, he most likely soon would be. The bandits will have searched his bag, realized he had nothing of value. They would see that he was a Venetian and would doubtless be unable to check their anger. Perhaps they would slit his throat while he was still unconscious. Perhaps, if they were anything like Qilij, they would wait until he awoke, eyes wide, and slit his throat then so he would know his fate. Either way he was probably dead and not, Qilij in his frustration had to admit, by his hand. But there was always a chance. He would not give up his prize just yet. If they did not mean to kill him, Qilij had to protect his prey, at least for a while. It was likely that those preening peacocks, the Provveditori, would be arriving shortly—if they had any sense. If that were the case, they would surely be intercepted by the bandits and would learn of Avesari’s whereabouts should he miraculously manage to remain alive.

  Too many if’s he thought. He would track the bandits to their camp and assess the situation. Avesari would either be dead or about to be killed. Perhaps they would torture him first. He wanted the traitor for himself, but Qilij had to be realistic. The bandits were likely decent fighters. No match for him of course, but even the greatest of warriors could not hope to defeat a swarm of rabid men. He swept angrily at the loose soil, spraying dirt. He had to stop this infernal speculation. It did him no good. He would wait to see for himself.

  ***

  TURRI WAS IMPATIENT. They were two days outside Candia and had been moving too slowly, too carefully, the others blathering on about bandits like old women. The vermin in the mountains, he had tried to explain, would not dare attack Venetian officials and soldiers. They were like rats, small and weak, using the darkness to frighten travelers. Any show of strength would keep them in their holes. He was also not as confident as he pretended to be. Avesari heading east was the most likely scenario it was true, but anything was possible. The man seemed to have a knack for the unpredictable. If they were going the wrong way, Turri would prefer to do it quickly and discover their mistake sooner.

  The late afternoon sun was still warm, but the evening chill was not far off. There was no village close enough to reach by nightfall. As they were here on official business, the villagers would have been obliged to feed them, care for their horses, and put them up for the night. Instead they would have to camp. Another reason they should have been moving more quickly. They had entered a wide cleft in the hills, the road meandering through a small valley, the hills sloping away at a sharp angle. The sun-bleached rock of the road curved into and out of the basin like a coarse white snake. The floor of the valley was dotted with wildflowers. Turri halted the party.

  “We’ll camp here,” he said, pointing to a clearing just off the road, “where the road leaves the valley. Anyone following our same path will be spotted once they enter the basin.”

  The men dismounted from their horses and Nicolo immediately took charge of setting the camp, first sending Maffeo off to gather wood for a fire. It was decided that Bernardo would take the first watch.

  “Are we building a fire for warmth or for meat?” Utino asked no one in particular, brushing the dust from his traveling cloak, his expression hopeful. They had changed back into their official garments, Turri reasoning that no bandit would dare incur the wrath of official Venice. Utino thought it made them more of a target.

  Nicolo answered first, tired of Turri playing soldier. “We should eat only what we have brought. While the bandits present no real danger, there is no reason to alert them to our presence by bounding after something as silly as a rabbit, succulent though it may be.” Utino was disappointed by the news. Another night of bread and cheese. Turri said nothing, and simply nodded as though the logic was sound. Nicolo breathed a small sigh of relief.

  ***

  MAFFEO SCANNED THE hillside. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he had thought. He had welcomed the diversion when Nicolo sent him on his errand, want
ing to stretch his legs after the long hours on the road. But now he saw that finding wood for the fire would not be just a matter of collecting sticks from the ground. The soil was rocky and loose. Solitary trees, stunted in most cases and all leaning in the same direction, were scattered across the hillside. Low bushes and tall grasses that swayed in the soft breeze offered a green and brown mosaic extending to the top of the hill, meeting the blue and white sky. It looked like a place where the wind could be fierce, the vegetation huddling close to the ground for protection.

  Maffeo peered up the incline, shading his eyes against the sun now lower in the sky. He saw a jagged outcropping of rock and a solitary tree twisting as though trying to free itself from the clutches of the land. He would be able to see the entire stretch of the small valley from there he thought. And if he were lucky, some firewood.

  He was perspiring heavily now as he climbed, but the sweat was drying quickly from the encroaching chill. He would have to find some wood soon. He didn’t relish the thought of Turri’s cold stare. Ever since the debacle at the harbor, he had been treated with disdain by the man. It had not been his doing, but he was the youngest, inexperience etched on his lineless face, and by default became the symbol of their failure. The other two Provveditori, Utino and Doro, seemed more agreeable but they mostly kept quiet around Turri. They seemed eager to be done here. Maffeo didn’t blame them. He was getting closer to the rocks now, the wind stronger here with little to buffer it. He wiped his forehead and stopped to take in the view. He scanned what he could see of the horizon. Yes, there would be an excellent vantage point from the rocks once he got there.

  He stepped up onto the lowest rock of the formation, reached for the tree to steady himself, and turned back toward the opposite hillside. He could see the full extent of the basin, the twisting road entering and leaving the valley. The wildflowers were more prevalent then he had realized, stippling the grassy floor on either side of the road with yellow and violet so different from the dull brown and sparse green of the hills. The valley was half in shadow now with only the upper portion of the hill on the opposite side still illuminated by the sun. He could see the men in the camp, Turri in animated discussion with the other two officials, Bernardo and Nicolo standing nearby, silently observing the exchange.

  The whistling of the wind off the promontory masked the hiss of the saddle axe as it plunged and split Maffeo’s head down to the bridge of his nose. There was no sound except for the thunk of the blade as it went through the skull and got stuck midway. Bits of brain and scalp and slivers of skull came loose as Qilij wrenched the axe out of Maffeo’s head. The body toppled over. Qilij cleaned the bloody blade on the dead man’s shirt.

  It was a foolish thing to do. He should have waited until dark he knew, until they were asleep. One guard would have been easy to approach and silently dispatch. He could have then killed the rest while they slept. But his patience had come to an end. No, that wasn’t quite it. He wanted this fight, this way. He was no silent assassin. He was a warrior, and warriors fought in the light of day, under the watchful eye of Allah.

  Qilij glanced at the sky. It would be dark soon. They would wonder what had become of their comrade. Attack now or wait for them to come to him? He could not take the chance of one of them getting away. He had been impatient once today already. He would not make that mistake again.

  ***

  “WHERE IS THAT fool?” Turri was pacing back and forth, already agitated from his discussion with Utino and Doro, the two of them bleating like sheep about how they should have brought more men. Not that it mattered now. Two days on the road and this dolt Maffeo taking too long to find firewood, and these men, these noble men of the Republic, are reduced to frightened children.

  “Perhaps we should look for him,” said Doro.

  “I am reluctant to send Bernardo alone,” replied Nicolo.

  “Then don’t,” said Turri impatiently. “You go as well.”

  “Someone should remain at the camp.”

  “We will remain at the camp. Go.”

  Nicolo hesitated. It was obvious what he was thinking.

  “Ah,” said Turri. “Did the whimpering of my colleagues alarm you? We are quite safe, I assure you.” Nicolo didn’t move. Turri could see that the man’s duty as a soldier overcame any fear Turri may have inspired in him. That was good. It softened his attitude toward the soldier, and he spoke to him in a more amiable tone. “It is not yet dark. The bandits, if they are even about, would not think to approach a contingent of our size until much later. By then we will have Maffeo back with us and the watch will have been set. Please, I appreciate your concern. Go find your man.” Turri concluded the speech with a wry smile. “I have been known to do some soldiering myself,” he said. He was very aware of his own myth among the soldiers. He made it his business to be aware of such things. “I am certain that if we encounter any…difficulties, I can hold them off until you return.”

  The man’s pride is going to get us killed one day Doro thought.

  Nicolo said nothing, only nodded. It was useless to argue with the man. He motioned for Bernardo to follow. They took their swords and moved off in the direction Maffeo had gone.

  They were halfway up the hill before Nicolo spoke, breathing more heavily now. “Stay sharp. The shadows are lengthening and soon it will be difficult to see.” Bernardo grunted his assent. “I don’t like this,” Nicolo said, more to himself than Bernardo. “He should have returned by now.”

  Ten minutes passed, the climbing becoming increasingly difficult, before Nicolo felt Bernardo’s hand on his elbow. He turned back to his companion. Bernardo was not looking at him but rather had fixed his stare up the hill. Nicolo followed his gaze. There was a jumble of jagged rocks at the crest of the hill topped by a contorted tree. The sun was almost below the hill now, the rocks and tree in dark silhouette. But there was another shape as well, what looked like a man leaning against the twisted trunk.

  Nicolo felt his face flush with heat. “If that fool is admiring the view…” He didn’t need to finish for Bernardo to guess the rest.

  “Perhaps he is looking for wood from a better vantage point. I saw none during our entire climb.” It was Nicolo’s turn to grunt, reluctant to give the younger man the benefit of the doubt.

  They were within thirty feet now. “Maffeo!” called Nicolo. “What are you doing? It is cold and yet you amuse yourself with a pretty view.” Even if he was doing as Bernardo had suggested, the boy still lacked discipline and Nicolo didn’t feel bad about scolding him.

  Nicolo had a difficult time comprehending what he saw next. One of the rocks broke away from the others, rose, and flew toward the two men. In the split second before Nicolo felt the crushing blow to his chest, there was no fear, only bewilderment. He landed on his back nearly ten feet away, the air punched from his lungs, his sword no longer in his hand.

  Qilij knew that the two men would be looking into the sun as they approached, his huddled body just another black rock. He needed to separate them. The big one with the scar he would need to take more time with. Better to get him out of the way with a nicely placed kick so he could dispose of the other one quickly.

  Nicolo had been ahead of Bernardo and was now behind him. What had just happened? He stared at his friend’s motionless body for an instant before turning back toward the top of the hill. He never got the chance to raise his sword arm. His head was gripped, as though in a vice, pressure behind his eyeballs pushing them out of his skull. The scene before him, the tree, the rocks, the sinking sun, all rushed by in a blurry torrent as his head was twisted with inhuman speed.

  The crack of the neck was no louder than the splintering of a chicken bone. Qilij spread his hands, allowing the dead body to fall to the ground and advanced on the man with the scar. He was sitting up now, trying to fill his lungs with air, his chest heaving. He saw Qilij moving toward him and began scuttling backward on the ground, trying to put distance between them, frantically scanning the dirt and brus
h for his sword. Qilij stopped, retraced his steps back to the rocks, and returned with his axe. He tossed it at the man’s feet. Nicolo looked at it, eyes wide, and looked back at Qilij.

  “Pick it up.”

  “Who are you?” Nicolo whispered.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “We are here on official business,” he said, his voice shaking. Qilij smiled. “We are not interested in your group or their activities. We are seeking only a fugitive from Venetian justice.”

  “My group?”

  “Your group, your tribe, whatever it is you call yourselves. Bandits.”

  Qilij laughed and saw the jumbled emotions on the man’s face, making his scar dance, anger at being mocked, fear at what it meant. “I do not seek your valuables or your horses. It is you I want. I am here to erase you from this place.”

  Nicolo felt a surge of anger, banishing his fear. This was a direct challenge and he a soldier. He was slowly recovering from the shock of what he had witnessed. The man before him was large. He did not know how a man of such size had moved so quickly. Some sort of trick he expected. He had ambushed them and so had had time to arrange things just so to inflict the maximum amount of fear. But Nicolo was large as well, and it was time to avenge his friends. Large or not, the man was a peasant, dressed in rags. If he were foolish enough to offer him his axe, Nicolo would allow him to fully comprehend his error before ending his time on earth.