The Venetian

by Mark Tricarico

  Paolo heard footsteps now. There was little attempt to conceal them. Either it was not the man seeking him, or it was but he didn’t know Paolo was there. Paolo surveyed the square. There was no place to hide. The footsteps were louder now, coming from the same direction he had. The only other way out of the square was through the archway. Paolo went through it quickly, careful to make as little noise as possible. He turned the corner and stopped abruptly, staring at a stone wall in front of him. A rickety wooden table leaning to one side stood against the wall with two squat chairs on either side. He rushed back to the square, looked the fountain up and down, and started to climb. He put a foot on the head of the center lion, testing its strength, and clambered up. He reached up, grabbed a protruding acanthus leaf, found a small foothold where a piece of the stone had cracked away, and pulled himself up.

  Now he was halfway up the face of the fountain, frozen. Whoever was coming was almost there. Paolo searched for something else to grab on to. Between the top of the columns and the stone beam there was more decorative stonework. Paolo reached for it, praying it wouldn’t crumble under his weight. The fountain was old, its stone façade littered with cracks. He found another foothold, this one smaller though, large enough only for the big toe of his right foot. He crammed his toe into the space, kicked at the stone, hoping to dislodge more of it, but nothing happened. He reached up, grabbed what looked to be a carved olive branch, held his breath, and pulled. It held his weight.

  He reached for the beam, his only chance to get on top. It was more than wide enough for a man to lay flat upon and too high for someone down in the square to see anything that may be on top. The stone was slick with moisture from the heavy mist. He moved to grasp the beam with his left hand, his right suddenly slipping from the stone olive branch. He was falling backward. He lunged, pushing off from his toehold with all his strength. He grasped the top of the beam with his right hand, but he was swinging wildly now, knew the momentum would pull him off and send him crashing down to the square below. He closed his eyes, trying to slow the swing of his lower body, his right arm on fire, the footsteps pounding now in his ears. He finally came to a stop, the seconds it took seeming much longer, and was hanging freely now. He found his foothold again, grasped the top of the bean with his free hand, and pulled himself up. He swung over the lip of the beam on his stomach just as the man entered the square. It was him.

  Paolo peered over the edge of the beam. He had never seen a man so large. He was agitated, scanning the square. There was not much to it. It was clear that no one could hide there. He saw the archway and went through it as Paolo had done. Paolo suddenly panicked, trying to remember the dead end on the other side, and if there had been a way to see on top of the beam from that vantage point. The man came back though, frustrated, showing no sign that he had seen anything of interest. He moved back toward the way he had come, satisfied the square was empty.

  Paolo moved his right leg. Knowing whoever was approaching was about to enter the square, Paolo had remained frozen in position when he had thrust himself atop the beam, not wanting to risk any further movement. But he had lost feeling in his right leg and moved it now, trying to get the blood circulating.

  The taller building behind the fountain was crammed with small apartments, the residents of which apparently disposed of their garbage out the windows. A small animal bone that had been sitting atop the beam fell to the cobblestones of the square when Paolo moved his right leg. It hit once on the bulbous joint, spun in the air before striking the stone again, and came to rest.

  The giant had been nearly gone, but only nearly. He spun around at the sound. Paolo raised his head a little too high, peering over the edge of the beam to see if the man had heard. When one is terrified, he is also impatient to know that he is safe. What Paolo saw made his blood run cold. The man traversed the length of the square in three running steps, silent all the while, and launched himself at the fountain. Paolo could not believe his eyes. He had meticulously searched for a way up the face of the fountain, and still had nearly fallen. But this man was literally flying through the air, having not given the fountain more than a passing glance.

  He landed three quarters of the way up, his right foot somehow wedged into the face of the fountain, both hands firmly grasping the decorative stonework just beneath the beam. The entire time—all of four seconds—Paolo had been paralyzed. With a shriek of rage the man reached up with his right hand, grabbed a handful of Paolo’s shirt, and pulled him from the top of the beam.

  Paolo fell and the world tumbled. He landed on his left shoulder, crying out in pain. Before he could move the man was there, grabbing him by the shirt. He picked him up like a child’s doll and thrust him into the stone basin beneath the three lions. The water was shockingly cold, Paolo closing his mouth only just in time. He was pinned to the bottom of the basin on his back, underwater, the man’s arms like two stone columns pressing down upon his chest. He couldn’t move. He was dying. Paolo grabbed at the arms, but it would have been easier to move a tree. He tried to pry the fingers away but it was no use. He was becoming weaker by the second, the act of holding his breath sapping his strength. He was losing consciousness, the black of oblivion settling on him. His lungs were on fire, his chest on the verge of exploding. He would open his mouth in a few seconds he knew, his lungs so desperate for air that the death of the rest of his body seemed of little consequence. Then it would be over, and in a way, a blessing.

  And then he knew. This was also the man that had tortured and murdered his brother. It happened in an instant, in the twilight between living and dying, this connecting of things. Paolo hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t had time, but saw it now. He relaxed his body; stopped fighting. He had precious little time now, and but one chance.

  The man’s features were distorted through the churning water, though Paolo could see that his face was impassive, waiting for him to expire as though he were a minor nuisance, something to be dealt with before going about the rest of his day. His grip relaxed. Paolo was no longer a threat. He was simply waiting the few more seconds to be sure. His attacker was no longer looking down into the basin, his head turned away, making sure no one was watching. Paolo knew that whatever he was going to do, he had to do it now, the darkness seconds away from overcoming him.

  He shoved both hands between the man’s arms and thrust outward. His arms felt as though they had barely moved, the water as unyielding as his assailant. But they had moved enough. The man’s arms splayed to either side and he pitched forward into the basin. In the same instant Paolo pushed himself up with the last of his strength. He felt his head connect with the man’s nose, felt the bone splinter. The man howled, instinctively turning away, blood pouring from his nose. Paolo screamed, the act of it somehow returning a measure of his strength. He grabbed the man’s head, and thrust upward, fury and hate propelling his arms. They had been beneath the fountain’s center lion and Paolo heard the wet pop from the fang entering the man’s left eye.

  His attacker staggered back and fell hard onto the cobblestones, his face covered by both hands. Blood flowed from between his fingers, a savage shriek caught in his throat. Paolo rolled out of the basin on hands and knees. He struggled to get up, gulping air, fell back down and was violently sick. He glanced back at the man who was trying to stand and stumbled out of the square.

  Thirty Three

  He ran for the harbor. The dawn was finally breaking and a few people were out, beginning their day. They stared, alarmed by his appearance, some recoiling. Soaking wet, staggering through the streets, his left arm hanging. He barely saw them. He had to get to the ship. He was only now beginning to think more clearly. Who was he? He had never seen a man like that, and he hoped never to again. Paolo stopped, putting out a hand to steady himself against a wall. His legs were trembling. He couldn’t possibly be following him, not after what had happened. The man’s eyeball had been pierced by the stone fang, blood and viscous fluid pouring from the socket.

&nb
sp; He tried to compose himself, evening out his breath. He could see the masts of the ship above the jumble of buildings, off to his right. He prayed they would be underway soon. He tried to keep them in sight as he walked, the masts playing tricks, looking closer, farther away, disappearing altogether. He turned, turned again, backtracked, for how long he didn’t know. Rethymno was larger than he had originally thought. He finally emerged from a narrow street onto the wider avenue that ran parallel to the harbor. It was deserted. Paolo was thankful for it and headed toward the ship, gulls crying overhead.

  Something large stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path. Paolo knew it could be no one else. He could see him standing there but still couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He retraced his steps in his mind. He wasn’t sure how long he had been winding through the streets searching for the harbor, but still, how could he have gotten here so quickly? And in such a state? There was no point in questions, their answers irrelevant. The man was standing before him now. Paolo had only just escaped death and could not conceive of having to do it again. The shadow moved toward him. Paolo turned, scanning the waterfront, and saw the narrow spit of seawall extending out into the harbor, the lighthouse at the end. He ran for it.

  ***

  THE LIGHTHOUSE WAS about sixty feet high, the white stone ghostly in the early light. Paolo could see the thick base. The top looked as though it were suspended in midair, casting a faint glow, the middle section lost in the mist. He moved quickly but cautiously down the narrow seawall. He knew the man was following, but he couldn’t risk a glance back, the breakwater too wet and slippery. The door was around the opposite side, facing the channel out to sea. Paolo threw his weight at it, expecting a hard reply. The door swung free and Paolo’s momentum sent him sprawling into the vestibule. Large tapers had been lit casting rounded shadows on the circular wall. Someone is here. Paolo called out but heard only his own voice in reply.

  A thick rope ran straight up through the center of the structure, disappearing into darkness. Stone steps curled around it, hugging the outer wall, narrowing as they spiraled up. At the bottom was a box of wood. The rope, attached to some sort of pulley Paolo presumed, snaked through two handles on either side of the box. Fuel for the light Paolo thought. The light keeper must have only just left after the night watch, setting the wood out for the following evening. There must have been a mirror or some sort of polished metal at the top of the tower acting as a reflective device. Paolo looked back at the door. It had swung back in the other direction and was nearly closed. He couldn’t see any way to lock it but knew there had to be one. Locking himself in the lighthouse wasn’t the best of ideas he knew, but at least it would buy him some time.

  He took a step toward the door and leapt back as it crashed open. The man filled the doorway and Paolo turned, taking the stairs two at a time, keeping his right hand on the rough stone wall for balance. The stairs narrowed as they rose, melting into the gloom until he reached the next group of candles set into the wall halfway up. Paolo slowed, taking the steps more carefully. He emerged into the beacon chamber, quickly taking in the space. It was small, maybe a third of the diameter of the tower’s base. There was a stone shelf set into the wall at the top of the stairs where the box of wood could be pulled along the ropes and set down. A single piece of thick wood was lying there, unused. An immense mirror was suspended from the roof of the tower, facing out to sea, and set into large metal brackets on either side just above and behind a wide stone bowl. The bowl contained remnants of the previous night’s fire. There was no longer a flame, only bright red embers burning themselves out. Paolo could see the glow reflected in the glass, a sunrise before the sunrise. He was trapped.

  The man had taken his time climbing the stairs, knowing that Paolo had nowhere to go. He was unhurried as he entered the beacon chamber. He looked enormous in the cramped space. His clothes were wet, clinging to his massive frame, and Paolo could see the muscles straining at the fabric. His skin was lighter than Paolo had realized, as were his hair and beard. He had dyed the hair, Paolo now saw, and darkened his skin, the color partially washed away by the water from the fountain. He was fair-skinned and blond. His face was ruined, the nose pushed in and twisted, the left eye a gruesome sight. The black socket oozed remnants of the eyeball, a silvery coagulated pulp. Blood beginning to crust over framed the hole in ragged smears.

  “You’re a Mamluk,” said Paolo. The man said nothing, only stared. “You murdered my brother. I want to know why.”

  “You know why Venetian.” His voice sounded like rocks in a bucket. The Mamluk walked toward Paolo, slowly. Paolo backed away, keeping the distance between them.

  Paolo didn’t know what he meant, and was struck by something in his voice. “You say the word as though you despise Venice. You are serving the Republic now by hunting me.”

  The Mamluk laughed, deep and sonorous, but said nothing more. The fact that his nose was broken and he was missing his left eye seemed to trouble him not at all.

  “Why are you trying to kill me?” Paolo pressed. “Why is the council trying to kill me? Why did you murder the Provveditori?”

  The Mamluk stopped, considering the questions. “You truly do not know.”

  “I told you. I know nothing.”

  He shrugged. It no longer mattered. “Then you will never know, and you will die not knowing why your brother was murdered. Why your father was killed. Why you must die here today. Why your entire family was wiped from this earth.”

  Paolo felt his rage growing, no doubt what the Mamluk intended, attempting to antagonize him into making a fatal mistake. He had lost the knife Calix had given him, likely laying at the bottom of the fountain’s basin. He didn’t know whether the Mamluk had a weapon. He certainly didn’t appear to need one. They continued their slow turn around the chamber, Paolo backing away, the Mamluk advancing steadily, but not making any sudden moves. The small smile on his lips looked all the more menacing next to the grisly eye socket.

  Paolo passed the stone shelf and grabbed the piece of wood he had noticed earlier. The Mamluk saw and smiled. If that is your plan, this will indeed be over quickly.

  “I do not know how you have managed to stay alive so long,” the Mamluk said, looking at the wood in Paolo’s hand. He swiped at it lazily but frighteningly quick. Had he connected, Paolo had no doubt his wrist would have been broken. But he didn’t. He wasn’t even close, the large hand a good two feet from Paolo’s. He has a problem with his vision. He cannot judge the distance between us. The Mamluk realized it too. He smiled again to show it didn’t matter, but Paolo could see the trace of uncertainty in it.

  The Mamluk stopped, spreading his hands—another smile, this one reassuring. He is worried. He will try something else. Stay alert. “Let us be reasonable. Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.” The instant the last word left his lips he sprang. In a single motion, he had wrapped the rope from the tower’s center around Paolo’s neck. One eye or no, the Mamluk had him. He tightened the rope.

  Paolo didn’t know how, but he had raised his damaged left arm, managing to get two of his fingers between the rope and his neck. It felt as though his shoulder was being ripped from its socket. The Mamluk pulled tighter. Paolo gasped, his two fingers crushed into his neck, compressing his airway. Intense pain stabbed at tendon and muscle. He swung the wood wildly with his other hand, striking nothing. The Mamluk’s right eye grew wide with anticipation, spittle bubbling on his lips.

  He tried to spin away, to loosen the Mamluk’s hold on the rope. The red embers flashed in the periphery of his vision. He swung the wood at them and missed, hitting the lip of the bowl. He jerked his body back, the motion tightening the rope around his neck, intensifying the pain, but getting him a step closer to the bowl. He swung again, this time finding his target, and sprayed the burning embers up the side of the bowl and into the face of the Mamluk.

  He didn’t move. It was as though he felt nothing. He tightened his grip on the rope. What are a few ho
t embers to a man with half a face? Paolo swung again and again, each time with less force, the darkness coming. Finally succumbing, Paolo swung wildly. He knew it would be his last act on earth. Some of the slag entered the Mamluk’s eye socket, the heat searing the raw flesh around the ragged hole. He reeled back, covering the eye, the roar far away in Paolo’s ears. The rope fell.

  Paolo choked, sucking at the air, and knew he had very little time. He swung at the mirror with the wood. Shards of glass rained down, landing in the bowl of embers and on the floor. He reached into the bowl, felt the searing bite of heat, grabbed a long slice of mirror, and rushed at the giant.

  The glass tore at his hand, carving bloody grooves across his palm. He felt nothing. The Mamluk heard him coming and bellowed, tearing his hands away from his face. Paolo plunged the shard of mirror into his throat. The Mamluk’s head snapped back, his hands clutching at his neck, the remaining eye going wide. Arterial blood pulsed from the wound, spraying Paolo’s hand and face. Paolo wouldn’t let go and shoved the glass deeper. The Mamluk grabbed at his arms and Paolo pushed harder. He no longer cared what happened now, whether he lived or died, returned home or breathed his last breath atop this tower. His life’s work, all he required, had become in an instant, the death of the man before him.