Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  I climbed back down, leaving the trapdoor open. There was no knowing whether it might become necessary to make a sudden clandestine departure. I also left the chair in place alongside the chest of drawers.

  About an hour later I had another look into the hall. I had no chamber pot this time but I could always pick up the old one with another gesture of apology for my incontinence. However, this time Gaetano gave no sign of life. I stood completely still and after a few seconds I caught the faintest rumbling sound. Was it a snore? I did not move. It might well be, but could I be sure it came from Gaetano? It might be the count in the room opposite. Or even Zosimos. A few seconds later I felt fairly sure that the dulcet sound was emerging from Gaetano’s lips.

  So. Did I really want to take this opportunity? Would it not be much easier just to wait in my room and go on pondering on the futility of it all? Yes, but it would not actually make me feel any more relaxed. On balance, exploring the palace would at least make the way I had spent my day (and much of my earnings) seem slightly less pointless.

  I opened the door fully. Gaetano did not stir. I picked up my candle and moved towards the staircase, shielding its light with my hand, and started down the stairs. The palace seemed absurdly large now; my candle could not hope to illuminate more than the smallest circle around me. Beyond its flickering yellow light the shadows amassed. When I reached the first floor I felt sure that the whole building had expanded while I was waiting upstairs. Everything – the ceiling, the doorways, the paintings, the distances – was higher, broader, larger, vaster and more menacing than it had been an hour or so earlier. And the shadows were definitely thicker and blacker.

  I headed for Garzoni’s bedchamber. In the flickering light Saint Bartholomew’s torturers seemed to be setting to their messy task with extra vigour; I shuddered and moved towards the cluttered table.

  I passed my candle over the various objects, so that the bronze and marble caught the light and shadows swirled and swivelled, giving the impression of sudden scuttling movement, as in the kitchen cupboards. I identified statues of Egyptian deities, bejewelled representations of astrological signs, and busts of (I think) magi and occult thinkers. Some of them were certainly of value, even if not necessarily of great artistic worth. Part of the table was given over to writing materials and books; the latter were clearly what Garzoni was currently reading. My scroll had been placed on top of the pile, I saw, and felt a totally inappropriate glow of pride.

  One of the books was open and I saw that Garzoni had written marginal annotations beside certain passages. The text appeared to be written in Latin, a language I could translate from given a desk, a good dictionary, a clear head and a free afternoon. For the moment I had none of these things, so I could only hope to get a vague notion of the subject matter. It was the names that caught my attention: I saw Sereniss. Princ. Henrico, and then, a few lines below, imperator Rudolphus. The only Emperor Rudolph I could think of was the eccentric Holy Roman Emperor of the previous century. I then saw some words whose meaning jumped out at me, coupled with a repeated name: Horologium Drebbelianum. Telescopium Drebbelianum. Instrumenta Drebbeliana Sole lucente agitata.

  It had to be a scientific treatise of some sort – but one with royal connections, whatever that meant. I looked at the frontispiece, which told me the book had been published in Amsterdam in 1688. The title itself was in what I presumed to be Dutch and covered much of the page; I only recognised the words ELEMENTUM and below that PRIMUM MOBILE, Garzoni’s annotations were incomprehensible, being written in some kind of shorthand.

  I took my scroll off the other books and looked at their titles. More of the sort of stuff Fabrizio had lent me: The Clavicle of Solomon, Picatrix, the Zecor-ben. A quick glance inside the last one showed me it had been much read; there were the same incomprehensible marginal annotations on every other page.

  This was getting me nowhere. I put the book back on the pile, then remembered the scroll. It had fallen off the table and, owing to the usual vagaries of Venetian floors, had rolled beneath it. I bent down and reached for it but it had gone too far. I had to get down on to my knees and grope in the dusty gloom and when I backed out I tried to get up too quickly and hit the back of my head on the edge of the table with a resounding thwack. I only just managed to repress the word that rose to my lips, and bitterly regretted the fact that I had not put my wig back on to carry out this little piece of reconnaissance work.

  Before the sound of the thwack had ceased to resonate I became aware that it had caused a disturbance among the cluttered objects on the table, some of which were performing a juddering dance. My hand shot out to pacify a vibrating jar and my sleeve caught a heavy clock, delicately poised on the very edge. A second later the clock had tumbled to the ground, and the crash when it landed made the thunder seem like a mere amateur.

  21

  I stood absolutely still, waiting for the last echoes to die down, and then listened hard. There was complete silence for a few seconds, with just the faintest steady swishing of rain outside. And my heartbeats.

  And then footsteps. They were coming down the stairs – fast. I snuffed out the candle and looked around. If I attempted to run towards the door I would be seen as soon as Gaetano reached the foot of the staircase. So a hiding place … under the bed seemed an obvious one.

  I moved swiftly towards it and lifted the overhanging counterpane. The stench of stale urine made me hesitate – and another second of reflection made me decide against it; if I were to be caught my chances of talking my way out of the situation would diminish in counter-proportion to the embarrassing circumstances of my capture. Instead, I moved behind the door, to the blank spot invisible to anyone entering the room.

  Gaetano had come down without a light, which was good. I heard him grunting his way across the hall and then pausing before entering the room. He was presumably screwing his eyes up in an attempt to pierce the gloom; I imagined he was already regretting his failure to bring a lantern.

  He moved cautiously forward and soon I could see his lumbering form. He reached the table and his foot touched the clock, whereupon he leaned down to grope about before straightening up and looking around – at least I thought I saw his shaggy head turning slowly from side to side. It was possible he even stared straight at me, but clearly he saw nothing. He mumbled something and headed out again, presumably to make his way back upstairs in search of a lantern, which would give me time to make my escape.

  And then there was a scrabbling clickety sound and something small and white came dashing into the room. It paused and sniffed and then swivelled and ran straight towards me, yapping shrilly. Seconds later the broad dark shape of Gaetano lunbered back into the room and his hands shot out and grabbed my shoulders.

  “All right,” I said. “No need for violence.”

  He jerked me forward and then twisted my arms behind my back and pushed me into the hallway. Flickering light now appeared from the staircase and I saw the count coming down with a lantern. He had clearly dressed in haste and his face looked pale and anxious as he peered towards us.

  “Where is Zosimos?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “the dear little thing has come to no harm.” And Zosimos went running towards him yapping with smug triumph.

  The count bent down and patted him and then looked back me. “What have you been doing?” he said, sounding every bit as pleased as his dog.

  “I was just exploring,” I said. I twisted round to look at Gaetano. “Could you let go of me now? I’m not going to run away.”

  “Don’t trust him,” said the count at once. “Keep hold of him.

  Gaetano gave a grunt which made it clear that that was his intention.

  “So how long are we going to stay here like this?” I said after a few seconds, during which Zosimos darted at my feet and yapped daringly.

  “Until his Excellency returns,” said the count. “And then he will decide.”

  “And how long will that be?” I said
. “Why don’t we wait somewhere more comfortable?”

  Even Gaetano seemed to recognise the sense of this and shoved me towards the table where Garzoni had been sitting when I first entered the palace. He pushed me on to a chair and then took a seat by the window as before. The count took the chair furthest from me and picked up Zosimos, making soothing noises, as if the dog had been engaged in some life-and-death struggle. I drummed my fingers on the table. Conversation languished.

  It struck me that I could try to establish a rapport with the count without Gaetano’s following our conversation by speaking in English. “So what do you think is going to happen now?”

  “I don’t know what is going to happen now,” he replied in deliberate and careful Italian, to make it clear to Gaetano that he was not going to engage in any subterfuge.

  That put an end to that. We sat and waited for a long time, possibly as much as an hour and a half. I toyed with various possibilities, like suddenly springing towards the window and diving into the Grand Canal, or grabbing Zosimos and hurling him into Gaetano’s shaggy red tangle of hair before sprinting to the staircase. But in the first case I would not have time to look before I leaped, and there were obstacles like poles down below which could prove painful if not fatal, and in the second case the outcome would hardly be fair on poor Zosimos no matter what he had done to deserve it.

  So we continued to sit there and this time it was only Zosimos who fell asleep. Lucky brute.

  At last we heard noises below: the water gate being opened from without; scraping, slithering and sloshing sounds as Garzoni and Luca stepped ashore; and then Luca’s voice calling for Gaetano. Gaetano called something back in indistinct Venetian – probably “I can’t come down” or words to that effect – and stood up to move to my side.

  There was a buzz of disgruntled voices; they clearly could have done with help in bringing in the gondola. A minute or so later their lantern-light appeared at the top of the stairs and they entered the hallway. I stood up, as did the count.

  Garzoni was wearing his nobleman’s cloak while Luca was swathed in some shapeless dark garment that did not add to his dignity. Giorgio was behind them, holding a lantern.

  “What is the matter?” said Garzoni sharply.

  Gaetano put a hand on my shoulder. “In your room,” he said to Garzoni, clearly enough.

  “Explain,” said Garzoni.

  The count spoke up. “We caught him snooping in your room. It was Zosimos who sniffed him out. He broke something as well – Umbriel did, not Zosimos,” he added hastily.

  “Is this true?” said Garzoni, addressing me.

  “It’s true,” I said.

  “He’s clearly not to be trusted,” said the count. “I can also tell you that I first met him –”

  “Silence,” said Garzoni.

  I had guessed that reticence on my part would provoke the count into ill-judged volubility. He fell silent, but it was clear that an accusatory torrent was waiting to burst forth. He resorted to making further soothing noises to Zosimos.

  “You may return to your room,” Garzoni told him.

  “Very well, but –” Then he thought better of it and choked back whatever he had been going to say. He put Zosimos on the floor, picked up his lantern and set off towards the staircase, Zosimos by his side.

  Garzoni called out after him: “Please leave your dog with us.”

  The count turned round, looking puzzled. He was clearly about to ask why, but again thought better of it. Bending down he nudged Zosimos in our direction. The dog gave a puzzled whimper but did not move. Giorgio strode forwards and grasped him by his collar and jerked him round. Zosimos gave another whimper but then resigned himself to the situation. The count walked towards the staircase and gave just one last puzzled look back at his pet before disappearing. Giorgio forced the dog to sit.

  “Now let us hear what you have to say,” said Garzoni. He walked towards the table and sat where I had first seen him, his back to the window. I remained standing before him, like a student at an oral examination. Luca, Gaetano and Giorgio were presumably the professor’s research assistants.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Is that all?”

  “As I said before, I am a conduit. I can’t always claim responsibility for my actions.”

  “That sounds very convenient.”

  I spread my hands out. “I know it must sound like an excuse. But there is little I can do when I am summoned. Your chamber is charged with great spiritual energy; as I lay in my room upstairs I could feel the call. I could not block it out, I could not ignore it. Even now the objects you keep there are speaking to me, as they did before, when your small statue communicated its secrets to me.”

  “Do they frighten you?”

  “My gift frightens me at times,” I said. “But I know it is also a privilege.”

  “But does this palace frighten you? Is the spiritual energy intimidating?”

  “It would be absurd bravado on my part to say no. I’m sure you have used your own spiritual powers to good ends, but…”

  “To achieve good ends we usually need to instil fear. In fact, I would say that we always need to do so. Do you think a parent can bring a child up properly without making him afraid?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. I was beginning to get quite frightened myself – or, to be more honest, more frightened.

  “Do you know what is wrong with this city?”

  I presumed he was not talking about the sanitary regulations or the price of coffee. “There are many things…”

  “The people are not afraid.”

  “Ah.”

  “They are not afraid of their rulers. Oh, they may fall quiet when the Inquisitors walk through the Piazza, but that isn’t real fear. Moments later they laugh about them. The Doge is the subject of popular jokes. Indeed, the Doge is himself a joke.” There was an exceptionally bitter tone in his voice as he mentioned the Doge. I wondered if there were some personal reasons behind this contempt.

  “I am rather ignorant of politics,” I said.

  “That is as it should be, for most people. Most people have no reason to know anything about politics. It is better that they should not. All that is needed is that they be afraid of their leaders. In Venice no one has been afraid of their leaders since the thirteenth century – since Doge Enrico Dandolo.”

  “Ah yes,” I said. “The taker of Constantinople.”

  “That was true authority,” he said. “The Venetians feared such a man. The Crusaders feared him. And the effete inhabitants of the Eastern Roman Empire were terrified. He understood the need for authority – and for the symbols of authority. The four bronze horses that he brought back to this city from Constantinople were such a symbol: the ruler holds the reins of the chariot of power and rides where he wills over the subject peoples. It was fitting that those horses were first placed outside the Arsenale, where our city’s aquatic chariots were created – the ships which guaranteed our sway over the peoples of the Mediterranean. It was a mistake to move them to Saint Mark’s Square, where they became just another item of picturesque décor.”

  “I see what you mean,” I said. An occasional nod of agreement was clearly all that was required; he was certainly not looking for debate.

  “Only one man after Dandolo showed anything like the same capacity for leadership, the same understanding of the need for authority.”

  I murmured: “Doge Marin Falier.”

  “Exactly. He saw how the true authority of the Doge – necessary authority if the Venetian state were to be respected – had been eroded. And when he himself became the subject of mockery he understood that drastic steps must be taken to re-establish that authority. Yes, it would have been a bloodbath if his plan had come to fruition. But in that bath the Venetian state would have been purified, the Doge would have become once again a formidable figure of authority, feared and respected by his subjects and by his enemies – not like the pathetic drooling figure he is toda
y, dressed up for parades and processions. The beheading of Marin Falier was a tragedy. It showed how the city panicked when confronted with one who held the true gift of authority.”

  He liked that word. I remembered that it had appeared over and over again in the booklet on Marin Falier.

  “Maybe it’s time for a new Marin Falier,” I said.

  He looked hard at me. “Your drawing contained allusions to Marin Falier. Did you know I was an admirer of the man?”

  “I was inspired to draw symbols of power, that is all. And the moving spirit undeniably came from this building, as I passed it on the Grand Canal.”

  “These emanations are strong then?”

  “Overpowering,” I said. I glanced at Luca, whose expression was growing peevish again.

  “It is likely,” Garzoni said. “It is a sign that our plans are gaining approval in the spirit world. Perhaps it is only meet that you should share in these plans.”

  “Your Excellency,” said Luca, quietly but firmly.

  I expected the usual explosion from Garzoni at the interference. But it seemed that Luca was the one person he would listen to. He glanced at him and said: “Luca is cautious, as ever. That is often a necessary quality. However, there are times when we have to take a decision which also involves a risk. This is one of them.”

  “I am honoured,” I murmured.

  “But I will not forgo one customary precaution. I require of you a test of loyalty. It is something I always insist on. As Luca, Gaetano and Giorgio well know, it was always my practice when I commanded at the Arsenale. I required proofs of unshakeable loyalty from all those beneath me. Disloyalty is to me the unforgivable sin.”

  I suddenly remembered the story of his sister’s dress. Presumably, wearing it had been seen as an act of disloyalty to the family. Members of the Garzoni family simply did not do such things. I had a growing sense of dread.

  He went on: “Luca, Gaetano and Giorgio have recently given undeniable signs of their loyalty to me. They have proved both their commitment to creating a new moral climate in this city and their willingness to go to any lengths to further this endeavour.”