Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  Within the lower circles I had placed cryptic images bearing some relationship to the elements associated with each circle, but also making connections with Garzoni’s own life and ambitions, as I had read them. For the circle of power, for instance, I had placed a scourge, adding bloody tips to the knotted ends of the ropes. For kingship I had placed a crown, but one that incorporated the distinctive shape of the Venetian ducal cap. And for glory I had reproduced the image of the black drape that covered Marin Falier’s portrait in the Doge’s palace, but with a sceptre on one side and a sword on the other.

  And beneath all this farrago of pictorial insinuations and hints I had written some cryptic words in English:

  The crown that crowneth all

  Ariseth from a fall

  He who would hold power

  Waits not upon the hour

  Show mercy not to those

  Who spurn the cross and rose

  The doggerel rhymes had come almost randomly to me but I felt confident in my abilities to wrench a suitable meaning out of them if interrogated. And I had no doubt that I was going to be interrogated.

  “Who are you?” said Garzoni eventually, still looking down at the document.

  “A wandering seeker of illumination,” I said, maintaining the English accent. “I was born in the Scottish highlands but have travelled both east and west in search of enlightenment. My name is Umbriel.” I judged it unlikely that he would have read The Rape of the Lock.

  “And what are you doing in Venice?”

  “I came here in the footsteps of the artist Giorgione, having seen his painting of the Three Philosophers in Vienna. Giorgione was clearly one of the truly Enlightened.” I had decided to stick as far as possible to areas where I might have an advantage over my interlocutor, and had guessed sixteenth-century art to be one of these. “His image of The Tempest holds the key to many of our mysteries.”

  “And what brought you to me?” He raised his head as he said this and those tiny pin-points fixed me in place.

  Was I going to get away with the next part of my prepared story? It all depended on just how self-obsessed the man was.

  “I had heard from adepts of the Rosicrucian mysteries,” I said, “that there was a master who cultivated them in this city, and it did not take me long to identify the palace where these ceremonies took place.” I drew from my satchel a small glass cross with an image of a triangle at each extremity, bought in a junk shop that afternoon. “Yesterday, as I passed to and fro before this palace in a gondola the glass of this cross clouded over. Local enquiries informed me, Excellency, of your position and your personal history and so this evening I took the liberty of endeavouring to attract your attention.”

  I thought I heard the faintest hint of a snort from the man with the lantern but I did not look towards him. The two brothers continued to stare out of the window. And I continued to gaze into the dark pits of nobleman Piero Garzoni’s eyes.

  He said nothing for a few seconds. Then he asked: “And what do you want from me?”

  “Only to share in your ceremonies. And perhaps the grace of one or two days’ hospitality before I pursue my journey.”

  “And where are you going next?”

  “My final destination is Egypt, to see for my own eyes the great constructions raised by Thoth, or Hermes Trismegistus.”

  “You make the identification between the two, then?”

  “Most surely, Excellency,” I said.

  “I have no idea whether you are who you say you are,” he said. “Your drawing shows you have skills, and you are clearly steeped in these mysteries.”

  “Thank you, Excellency,” I said.

  “I think you should meet my current mentor.”

  “The count from Georgia,” I said.

  “You know him?” he said.

  “I have heard of him,” I said.

  “Ah.” That seemed to satisfy him. He turned to the man with the lantern. “Fetch the count, Luca.”

  Luca said nothing but his expression became even more peevish. He had no enthusiasm for the task, it seemed. He set off down the salone to the staircase. We were left in the semi-darkness, with just the occasional flicker from the storm outside. Amid the steady rushing sound of the rain I heard Luca’s footsteps climbing the staircase to the next floor.

  “Luca is my loyal servant,” said Garzoni, “as are Gaetano and Giorgio,” waving a hand at the motionless men by the window, who made no acknowledgement of their names. “Most other people have abandoned me.” His tone was quite matter-of-fact; it was as if he were commenting on the weather.

  I found myself shivering. My clothes were cold and clammy but I do not think it was only that.

  He went back to studying the drawing. Now he read the English rhymes to himself. I could hear him muttering the words and it was clear that he knew enough of the language to follow them. “Where did you find these words?”

  “They came to me in a moment of meditation,” I said.

  “Can you interpret them?”

  “No,” I said. This was a spur of the moment decision. “They were not destined for me, but for you. I am merely the conduit.”

  He made no answer to this but continued to mutter the words to himself. Then he said: “Did you know I had visited England?”

  “I know little of your life,” I said, “other than your service on behalf of the republic.”

  “The republic,” he said. He merely repeated the words, with no special emphasis. But I guessed a certain animosity. I remembered the book on Marin Falier. The writer of that diatribe had been no lover of republican virtues.

  We now heard footsteps descending the stairs. I turned and saw Luca entering the salone ahead of Count Gelashvili. The lantern-light brought out the silvery splendour of the count’s attire; he was wearing the same shimmering coat and wig, but had toned down the powder on his face. His frothy poodle ambled by his side.

  “Excellency,” he said breathily as he approached us. “You wish to introduce me to someone?” He did not even glance at me. Perhaps my black garbs had made me invisible.

  “This is Umbriel from the Scottish highlands,” said Garzoni.

  “Umbriel,” repeated the count, and now he deigned to glance at me. He did not recognise me, which was not really surprising. I was attired very differently from our last encounter, which had in any case been brief. “What a charming name. Which clan do you belong to?” He addressed me in his breathy English.

  “Umbriel is not the name I was given at birth,” I said calmly in English. I used just the lightest Scottish accent.

  “I imagine not,” he said.

  “This is a chart that Signor Umbriel has presented to me,” said Garzoni.

  The count moved to the other side of the table and bent over the table. “This is most curious,” he said, returning to Italian. “Did you design it?”

  “No,” I said, remembering just in time to maintain a foreign accent.

  “No?”

  “No. I drew what was dictated to me,” I said. “There is no design to it. At least no design of my devising.”

  Suddenly he looked hard at me. “Have I not met you before?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Where?” I was glad we were now speaking in Italian. Hearing me speak in English might have jogged his memory of the encounter on the Liston.

  “And you are a student of the mysteries of the Rosy Cross?”

  “Hardly that,” I said, with a light laugh. “I make no such claims. As I said to his Excellency, I consider myself a conduit. I know that at times I am chosen by the powers to communicate certain messages.” I gestured to the document on the table.

  “The message is not of the clearest,” he said.

  “I fear not,” I said, with a light laugh.

  “Can you give us any further proof of your powers?”

  “I claim no powers,” I said, modestly lowering my eyes. “I know only that I have moments of insight, which I cannot explain.”

>   “You can’t explain them,” he said. “You make no claims to special studies. Your message is undeniably obscure.” He gave a high-pitched laugh which was echoed by a sudden yap from his poodle. “Quiet, Zosimos.”

  Garzoni addressed the count. “What are you insinuating?” His voice was as quiet and unemphatic as ever.

  “Oh, nothing. Just wondering.” He gave a fluttering gesture with one hand and allowed his voice to fade away.

  Garzoni turned back to me, those pin-point eyes transfixing me. “Do you have anything to say to the count?”

  I thought of waving a hand dismissively myself but pulled myself up in time. I must not attempt to imitate the count in any way. I said simply: “I can only repeat: I’m little more than a conduit. But sometimes important messages pass through me.”

  “Can you give us an example?” said the count. “It would be helpful, you know.”

  “It often depends on the place,” I said. “Certain places emanate suggestive auras.” I glanced around the large empty room, lit by the flickering candle and by a final flicker from the storm outside. “This is indeed one such place. I can hear the voices of those who have lived here in former times. Time is in the end an illusion, after all.”

  Garzoni continued to fix me. “Please go on. Let us hear these voices.”

  I raised both arms suddenly so that raindrops spattered outwards from my shaken cape. Zosimos whimpered. I closed my eyes and raised my face to the ceiling.

  “This is a palace where there has been much joy but also much pain.”

  “Like so many homes…” the count began to say, but Garzoni hissed for silence.

  I swayed to left and right. “No, there is something that must not be said, that must not be uttered…”

  I remained quiet for a few seconds. There was just the steady thrashing of the rain.

  “A young bride,” I said. “Brought to this house. Why is she wandering? At night? What is that in her hand?” I moaned. “No, it’s gone.”

  “That’s enough,” said Garzoni. His voice was as unemotional as ever but the tone was peremptory. I gave another moan and came slowly out of the trance.

  It had worked. I looked at Garzoni and saw him gazing thoughtfully at me. There was little likelihood that he would guess that one of the family servants had reported to the agents of the Missier Grande the strange circumstances of his wedding night, when his bride had been found wandering the palace in the middle of the night clutching a knife (file 362, page 96). As I well knew, this little family scandal had never become common knowledge.

  Of course there was always the risk that he might be wary of taking into his home someone who could intuit family secrets from the very walls of the building, but I guessed that his fascination with such occult powers would outweigh his prudence.

  The count looked at him in some consternation, but he did not dare say anything. Luca’s characteristic air of irritation had also taken on a touch of obvious puzzlement.

  “And can you do the same with objects?” said Garzoni after a long few seconds of silence.

  “It depends on the object and its associations,” I said.

  “Obviously,” he said.

  “Obviously,” echoed the count, attempting to add sceptical emphasis to Garzoni’s observation but only succeeding in sounding flustered.

  Garzoni stood up. He was surprisingly small; I wondered whether he always adopted a sitting position for a first encounter. “Follow me,” he said.

  He picked up the lantern and we all, with the exception of Gaetano and Giorgio, walked the length of the great hall until we reached the last door on the right. It led into a bedchamber which was only a little less sparsely furnished than the hall. A single bed was placed in the centre of the wall opposite the door; it looked forbiddingly hard. I guessed this was Garzoni’s own room. There was a bookcase nearby; the dark tomes that caused the shelves to sag in the middle looked as forbidding as the bed. To soothe his eyes before falling asleep at night he had a tenebrous painting of the Flaying of Saint Bartholomew high on one wall, and a table to the right was cluttered with an odd assortment of objects: strangely shaped receptacles, miniature portraits, small bronze busts and statues of contorted mythical creatures. Odd as the collection was, one sensed that there was nothing random in it. Garzoni went towards it and picked up one of the bronze statuettes. He gave it to me.

  It was a robed female figure with her raised hands joined in prayer and twisted to the right, while her body curved sinuously in the other direction. I knew that I knew it. It was very familiar to me … but where, when …

  I turned it over in my hands and gazed at it. I could sense the others gazing with equal intensity at me.

  Then I recognised it. It was the material that had confused me. It was a miniature bronze copy of a life-size marble original: the statue of Santa Giustina that stood over the monumental entrance to the Arsenale. The Battle of Lepanto had been fought on her feast day and ever since she had become another protector of the city – and more particularly of the Arsenale, where Garzoni had spent much of his life.

  But there had to be more to it than that. I was not being asked as an expert on Venetian mannerist sculpture. There must be some personal link, something that made it important to Garzoni.

  Despite the clamminess of my clothes I could feel sweat breaking out on my forehead. Well, I could at least disguise my panic by putting on a little show. Indeed, some histrionics were almost obligatory.

  I closed my eyes and lifted the statue above me, holding it firmly in my left hand and gently stroking it with the other. At the same time I began to emit my all-purpose musical moan. Zosimos joined in with a high-pitched whimpering, until Garzoni snapped a savage “Quiet”. I realised that, fortunately, it was addressed to the dog and not to myself.

  I knew that I had seen the saint’s name somewhere in those hundreds and hundreds of pages; just a minor reference – possibly in a parenthesis. But where, where, where …

  I forced myself to apply reason. I did at least have the advantage of being able to take my time; no one, after all, knew how long such spirit messages took to reach this world. So taking things calmly, where was such a name likely to occur? Well, logic told me that it would not have been in one of the files devoted to Garzoni’s home life. This must come from the file on his public role. That was the big grey folder, with the wax stain on the cover …

  Just a passing reference … And suddenly the name leapt out at me: it was within a parenthesis, on a page talking about the innovations Garzoni had introduced at the Arsenale. None of these innovations was in any way connected with industrial procedures or techniques of craftsmanship: nothing so tediously practical. No, they were mostly to do with aspects of ceremony or hierarchical protocol. Everywhere there was an emphasis on absolute, blind obedience to authority, obedience that was formalised in repeated ceremonial gestures – including (and this was where the parenthesis came in) a daily act of homage to Santa Giustina. There it was: I could see the scrawled letters of the saint’s name.

  So what did this mean? Maybe Garzoni had introduced a practice whereby every day the arsenalotti had to bow to the statue of the saint … maybe as they entered the Arsenale in the morning …

  No: I saw the handwriting again in my mind. It was not the bureaucratically neat calligraphy of Signor Massaro or any of his officials, which I had come to recognise; it was bold and casual, presumably that of the confidential agent himself. No humble arsenalotto would have written with such careless ease; it must have been someone higher up in the service who had reported the innovation. And now I remembered further details of the pages containing the reference: it had been a report on certain practices introduced specifically for the upper ranks of those employed in the Arsenale. And these practices were supposed to remain confidential, known only to those of that specific rank. This was a constantly recurring theme in the reports on Garzoni’s life; there was nothing he loved so much as secrecy – specifically the secrecy of the close
d circle of adepts. He had endeavoured to introduce such practices into the daily running of the Arsenale. And one of them must have been a daily act of homage to Santa Giustina. So it would not have taken place in the public square but in some private room: therefore the homage had not been paid to the large marble statue outside but to this small bronze copy. Which explained why it had been put into my hands.

  There was a shuffling of feet beside me. I did not open my eyes but I could sense a growing feeling of scepticism around me. I had to say something.

  It would involve a certain amount of guesswork. I let my moan modulate into articulate speech: “I see men. Many men … they approach … again and again, time after time…”

  I swayed and let my speech blur into a moan again. Then I said: “They bow and they take a vow – but their hearts are not in it, no…”

  “That will do,” said Garzoni. There was a note of decision in his voice. I had convinced him.

  I came out of my trance again and looked around. Once again the count was looking bewildered and Luca had an expression of suspicious curiosity on his face. He was probably one of the men who had sworn that daily oath – and presumably was one of the few who, at least in Garzoni’s opinion, had actually meant it. So he knew I had divined rightly. What I did not know was whether Luca believed I had received the message about the oath from the spirits.

  Garzoni now addressed Luca. “Signor Umbriel will sleep here tonight. Find him a room and give him a meal.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You are most hospitable.”

  “Your Excellency,” said the count, “you are always most generous. But have you considered –”

  “Count Gelashvili,” Garzoni cut in – and though no louder than usual his voice was like honed steel, “you know that I do not seek advice.”

  “But I … I…” He sounded like his own poodle.

  Garzoni walked out of the room. I glanced at Luca. It was dark in the room now but I thought that his expression became slightly less peevish as he observed the count’s dissatisfaction. I was beginning to get a sense of the interactions in this vast gloomy building.