The Mamluk’s legs buckled, his grip on Paolo loosening. Paolo let go and stepped aside. The Mamluk stood still for an instant, swaying on his feet. He shuffled forward, his left eye gone, his right eye already dead, and crashed into the stone bowl, the fragment of mirror piercing the back of his neck. Paolo stood there, frozen, staring at the Mamluk, his own body shaking with fear, exhaustion, and hate. He didn’t move until he began to retch from the smell of crisping flesh and burning hair.
The sun had come up, flooding the tower with light. It caught the shard protruding from the Mamluk’s neck, sending a spike of morning across the chamber toward the stone steps. Paolo followed it, on his way down wondering if Avesari e Figli had perhaps made the mirror.
***
HE PRESENTED HIMSELF to the ship’s captain as Esau had instructed him. The man stared, Paolo looking as though he had been raised from the dead, but said nothing. A ship’s captain sees many strange things. Another man showed him to a small cabin below, a place where he could clean up. Later, back on deck, the captain described the voyage to come.
“And we will leave you on Negroponte before we sail on to Venice, as arranged,” he concluded.
“I’m not going to Negroponte,” said Paolo. “I’m going home.”
Thirty Four
She didn’t recognize him at first, without the beard. When she did she wept. They made love with a rough urgency, settling into tenderness only much later. The questions of their feelings for one another, the ones that had been plaguing them, were all answered. He told her what had happened, attempting to spare her some of the more grisly details, but she insisted on hearing it all. She clutched him at times as he spoke, burying her face in the warm pockets made by their connected bodies, murmuring things he couldn’t understand and didn’t need to.
They stayed that way all afternoon. When Bercu returned home the sun was low in the sky, the interior of the house ablaze with orange light. He found Paolo sitting at his kitchen table.
“My God, is it you?” he whispered. He was stunned, looking more at Chaya than Paolo as though he could not trust what he was seeing unless confirmed by his daughter.
Paolo smiled. “It is.”
Bercu rushed to where Paolo sat. “Then get up man.” Paolo stood, gingerly, and Bercu embraced him. “It is very good to see you my friend. Adnah sent word of the Provveditori. We feared the worst.”
“Your fears were not unfounded.”
“I want to hear everything.” He clapped Paolo on the back. “And then we will figure out what to do.”
***
“THEY KNOW ABOUT the Provveditori, about what happened,” Bercu said. The three of them sat at the kitchen table, bowls of rice and peas set out before them. Paolo raised his eyebrows. “Only that they are dead,” Bercu explained further, “but not how.”
“I can help you there.” Paolo explained what had happened. It was a briefer version than the one he had recounted for Chaya. Bercu looked skeptical.
“Forgive me my friend, but a Mamluk? You are young and fit it is true, but Mamluks exist for no other reason than to wage war. How could you possibly have defeated him?”
Paolo nodded. “I do not know myself. Only that I was fighting for my life.” Paolo stole a quick glance at Chaya, one that was not missed by her father. “And he underestimated me. Just as you have done.”
Bercu held up his hands in apology. “Paolo, I meant nothing by it.”
Paolo waved it away. “No, no, I would think the same thing in your position. I still do in fact,” he said with a chuckle. “And in the end, it was a very good thing. It is the only reason I am sitting here now. That is the how. The bigger puzzle is why.”
Bercu stroked his beard. “Indeed. It makes very little sense, like so much of this affair. A Mamluk assassin,” he mumbled, pondering the thought. “Hired by whom? Surely not the council. They sent the Provveditori to retrieve you, to bring you back for trial. Not kill you.”
Paolo nodded. “The Mamluk killed the Provveditori to keep them from bringing me back. Whoever hired him wants me dead, but murdered quietly, away from here.” Paolo paused, thinking. “He spoke to me as though I were an insect. Because I was a Venetian, I was beneath contempt.” Paolo remembered the beacon chamber, the blood, the smell of charred flesh. Chaya reached for his hand beneath the table and gently squeezed it.
“And yet they are among our most trusted allies,” replied Bercu. Without the Mamluks, we could not hope to control the spice trade.”
“And without Venice, they would not be the kings of Egypt,” Chaya added.
Her father nodded. “It is true.”
“I suspect the council now believes that I had something to do with the murders of the Provveditori,” Paolo said dispassionately.
“I suspect so,” Bercu answered. “Under the circumstances, it would be difficult to draw any other conclusion.”
Paolo was tired. It was getting late, the darkness matching his mood.
“Why did you return?” Bercu asked softly, not wanting to admonish Paolo.
Paolo glanced at Chaya, a reflex he couldn’t help. Bercu smiled.
“Other than to see the radiant face of my daughter again, I mean.” Both Paolo and Chaya reddened. Bercu laughed. “I am old but I am not blind.” He patted Paolo on the arm, glancing sideways at Chaya with a small smile. “We will speak of it later.”
“I am tired of running. I could not bear the thought of starting again in Negroponte. There is something very wrong here, and I cannot uncover it as a fugitive.”
“You may not uncover it at all my friend. You may die instead.”
“Then so be it. I would prefer death to the life I have been living.” He looked at Chaya, staying on her face as he spoke to Bercu. “But I have no intention of dying. And it is very clear that someone doesn’t want me in Venice. So Venice is exactly where I need to be.”
Thirty Five
Francesco read the message. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He read it again. He would need to handle this very delicately.
***
“BUT THIS IS almost too perfect.” Gabriele smiled. It had been an infuriating few weeks: Avesari found on Candia, the Provveditori sent to bring him back, their removal by Qilij, only to be followed by his disappearance. He should have known he couldn’t trust a man who would betray his own people. He chuckled. How very ironic he thought. He read the message again, his smile growing, showing more teeth. But now it would all be put to right.
***
“ARE YOU SURE about this?” Bercu asked.
Paolo wasn’t, not at all. “Whether I am or not no longer matters. The messages have been sent.”
Bercu nodded. “Tonight then,” he said and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Paolo walked over to where Chaya was sitting at the edge of her bed and sat down next to her. He ran the back of his hand down her cheek, amazed at its softness. She closed her eyes, placing her hand over his. He leaned forward and kissed her eyelids.
“This love can never be. It is not allowed,” she whispered. “A Jew and a Christian. My father, I think he cares for you. And though he has said nothing thus far, even smiled at the thought, he will not allow it either.”
“It may not matter after tonight,” he said, hearing the soft cry she tried to stifle. He kissed her again and gently pressed her down onto the bed.
***
SHE HAD PUT up a token resistance, her rational mind wrestling with her desire. Desire had won out, but only briefly, a minor skirmish in a larger war. They still lived in a world where people believed they used the blood of murdered Christian children to make their unleavened bread. How could their kind of love exist in such a place? Chaya shook her head. Why these thoughts now? She looked at Paolo lying beside her—eyes closed, naked body slick with sweat, saw her hand carelessly resting between his legs. She smiled. What had happened to her ordered little world?
Paolo opened his eyes. “What are you smiling at?”
&nb
sp; “I’m rather shocked at where I currently find my hand.”
He raised himself up on an elbow and looked down. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking the very same thing. About my hand.”
He rolled onto his side and cupped her breast, giving her nipple a gentle squeeze, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. He ducked beneath her chin, began kissing her neck, slid his hand down below her waist, gently working his way between her legs. She could feel him growing hard, and gave him a tender squeeze. He moaned, suddenly collecting both her hands, pinning them above her head. He rolled over, looked at her eyes first, roamed over the rest of her face, stopping here and there as though memorizing, before returning his gaze to hers, the slightest rise of an eyebrow as he entered her again.
She sighed, closing her eyes. “You win,” she whispered.
***
THE WAREHOUSE WAS dark, a tomb coming to mind. Francesco had said he would leave the door to the alley unlocked, and so it had been. It was late, long past the hour when they would have to worry about too much activity down in the Rialto. The occasional street urchin combing the canals for scraps would be their only concern.
There was a light in the merchant’s spacious office at the rear of the warehouse, a single candle’s modest glow. Paolo walked toward it, silently, alert for any movement in the cavernous space. Mountains of merchandise filled the warehouse—wine, wax, and iron, spice and wool, exotic beans and gnarled roots. Paolo wandered through black canyons of unfathomable wealth. He wondered how this night would end, and had no doubt it would not be as expected. Such things never were. There was still too much he didn’t know. But he had to take the chance. Either that or keep running, and he would never run from anything again.
The three of them had decided to send the message. They did not know how exactly, but suspected that Francesco must somehow be involved. There were too many coincidences—his connection to Lanzi, the timely job offer, and smaller things Paolo had remembered, behavior that meant little at the time but took on new meaning now. At least that had been the reasoning. Paolo secretly wondered whether they were just searching for ghosts, seeing what they needed to see, connections that weren’t really there. But he sent the message, telling Francesco that he was back in Venice and needed his help. Either the merchant would help or he would betray. Paolo did not relish the notion that his very life turned on the flip of a coin.
Chaya had begged to come, as he knew she would, as her father knew she would. So they had been prepared, the two of them, to refuse her. She had been angry, then fearful, and finally resigned. He made a promise to return and silently prayed he could keep it. And then it had been her father’s turn. While he knew he himself could not accompany Paolo, Bercu had wanted to send some men with him, at least two or three, to stay outside in case there was trouble. Paolo had laughed. Of course there would be trouble. If there was one certainty, it was that. But he did not want to risk any more lives. Too many had died already. Bercu understood. He wouldn’t argue.
Paolo arrived at the door to the office. It was ajar. He could hear nothing inside. He touched the dagger Bercu had insisted he take, tucked into the waist of his pants, and wondered if he would have to use it. He pushed the door and it opened slowly, a soft creak that made him wince.
The merchant was sitting at his desk, his heavy hands and forearms resting atop the enormous piece of wood. The candle stood on a narrow table by the door, burned two thirds of the way down. Its dim light did not reach Francesco.
“Francesco,” Paolo whispered, picking up the candle, the thick tapestries absorbing his voice. Could he have fallen asleep? When it came to eating, drinking, or sleeping, he would put nothing past the man. He approached the desk, raising the candle higher. “Francesco, how could you possibly…”
Paolo sprang back, nearly dropping the candle. Francesco was dead, strangled. His eyes bulged, spidery webs of blood vessels burst in the milky whites of the orbs. His tongue, fat and blue, hung limply, protruding from between his fleshy lips. The garrote was still around his neck. It had gnawed into the soft folds of his skin, leaving a thin red collar. Paolo was breathing heavily, trying to think. He had been right about one thing. This he hadn’t expected. The door closed behind him, the creak the sound of death.
“Well Signore Avesari, I see that you took my advice after all. At least the advice about fleeing. Although I don’t recall suggesting that you come back.”
Paolo turned, knowing whom he would see, the voice unmistakable, chilling in its familiarity. The deputy stood there, baring his teeth like the wolf he was, flanked by two large men. He seemed to emit evil itself, a darkness that dwarfed the men beside him, no matter their size. And like the wolf, Paolo now understood, this was a man who killed not with brute strength but with malevolent cunning.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be quite a shock to find your employer like this.” They had been standing behind a carved screen near the door that Paolo hadn’t noticed in the dim light—a lovely piece of work from the East he couldn’t help but note.
Paolo was thinking furiously. How was he going to get out of this? He’d already been in too many certain-death situations for one lifetime. His luck was bound to run out soon, if it hadn’t already. “I thought Francesco was behind all of this.”
The deputy smiled again and Paolo nearly turned away, remembering the face. He had been frightening at the Doge’s Palace, but now it was worse. The pieces of a normal countenance were all there, typical in their separateness, but when combined, somehow, took on the aspect of an animal, the kind of mythical darkness in a fairy tale.
“Yes. Well, he was to a certain degree. At least in the beginning. Then he became somewhat…reluctant.”
“He told you of my message.”
“Oh no. And that is why he sits before you in such an unhealthy state.” He inclined his head toward Francesco, whose bulk had been pressed against the desk to prevent his body from slumping over. “Please, sit.” The deputy indicated a chair on the far side of the desk. Paolo walked over and sat down. At this point, there was no reason not to. The deputy followed, sat on the corner of the desk, and peered down at Paolo. Paolo could see Francesco’s bloated face through the crook in the small man’s arm. The office was beginning to smell.
“No, I am here because of the other message you sent, the one to the council. The one in which you accuse poor Francesco of treachery, vague and ambiguous though it was, and urged them to meet you here and see for themselves. Alas, I see all messages to the council first and thought it best that I investigate on my own. To see if there was any merit to the charges of course. The council is very busy. It would not do to waste their precious time.”
Paolo was dismayed, and it was clear from the deputy’s expression that it showed on his face. “Yes, I see that you are putting things together now. There is no one here to help you. And,” the deputy said, taking obvious pleasure in the irony, “had you not sent that message to the council, Francesco might still be alive. But don’t blame yourself,” he continued in mock sympathy, “I would have found out eventually. Had he informed me of your message in the first place however, he would indeed still be alive, preparing to be honored as a hero in the royal court of Lisbon. Unfortunately for him, you seem to have roused a bit of sentimentality in his character. He was weak, allowing himself to be diverted from a place in history. Wherever he is, I hope he thinks it was worth it.”
“Lisbon?”
The deputy sighed as though Paolo could not possibly expect him to explain everything. “Yes, Francesco was a Portuguese spy. Some say there are more spies in Venice than true Venetians. An exaggeration of course, but not by much. He wasn’t a very good spy however and we discovered him relatively quickly. And that was my chance. The council wanted to throw him into the leads but I intervened, convinced them it was instead an opportunity to keep Francesco in place and provide the Portuguese with false information. Francesco readily agreed of course. It was either that or death and we both know
how much Francesco loved life. It was the perfect situation really. The council believed me to be passing false information to Lisbon when in fact I was providing real intelligence—natural resources, advances in weaponry, the secrets of the Arsenale.” He looked very pleased with himself.
“So you are a spy as well. Do you expect me to congratulate you?”
“Of course not. I expect you to die like a good Venetian.”
“I still don’t understand.”
The deputy closed his eyes, shaking his head in false frustration, but Paolo could tell he was enjoying this, proving how intelligent he had been. Paolo suspected he had never been treated with much respect.
“Why did you have my brother murdered?”
“Abramo Lanzi, you know of him I take it?” Paolo nodded. “He knew of certain plans, exactly how we still do not know, but we will find out. Any close associates of his had to be silenced in the event that he had divulged the information. He was a scoundrel. Did you know that he had been trying to woo your brother, to convince him to sell his glassblowing secrets to the highest bidder? I believe that your brother refused, loyal servant of the Republic that he was. But of course I had to convince the council otherwise. Though Ciro was innocent on that account, who knows what else Lanzi whispered in his ear.”
“All the men that were killed…”
“In one way or another had something to do with Lanzi,” the deputy finished. “We could not take any chances.”
Paolo nodded. “One more thing I do not understand.”
“Yes?” the deputy asked with exaggerated patience.
“Why are you spying for the Portuguese? You are the Deputato alla Segreta del Consiglio dei Dieci.”
“Indeed I am. And it has served me well. But beneath that title I also have a name. I am Andrea Petri.” Paolo waited but the deputy said no more, apparently expecting some sign of recognition, but Paolo had never heard the name. “Typical,” Petri said with disgust. “Venetians care not for their heroes, those who gave their lives to defend the Republic. They ignore their history, care only for where the next lavish dinner is being held. My grandfather died at Constantinople, waiting for Venice to send help, help that never came.” He paused, smiling now. “In fact it was a lovely coincidence, how I was able to have your brother killed in a nearly identical fashion.”
The Venetian Page 26
