Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  A couple of minutes later he was rowing doggedly in the direction of the Giudecca. As far as I could tell from this distance, he had no sign of injury from his fall and immersion the previous night. But I had no doubt that he had a keen memory of those who had been responsible for the ignominious episode and an equally keen desire to meet them again in less disadvantaged circumstances. And that perhaps helped to explain the ease with which he had been gulled. Of course, there was also the fact that he was, as Giacomo had suggested, immensely stupid.

  “Now, boys,” I said, “for another lira you can row me out to the platform. You can leave me there, and when I wave you can come and pick me up again. I’ll pay you when we get back, all right?”

  They agreed, and two minutes later I was clambering up on to the platform. I told the boys to go back to their game in the boatyard. I did not want to be responsible for anything that might happen should anyone – Garzoni, the brothers, Sartori or any stray arsenalotti – turn up unexpectedly. I told them to keep an eye out and I would wave to them when I wanted to return. They seemed happy enough with this arrangement and rowed back to the boatyard.

  I suddenly felt very lonely and exposed.

  I made my way to the stage; it occupied the northern half of the platform, with its back to the shore, and looked out over the lagoon. Two staircases rose up to it, one on either end. It was a few feet higher than me and presented an apparently unbroken wooden wall. However, I had seen earlier that there was a doorway a few feet from the western end of the stage; it was from this that Gaetano had emerged. I walked towards it. It had a simple handle, which I turned. The door, of course, did not open.

  I would have to use the tool I had brought. I extracted from my satchel the iron bar I had taken from the window shutter in my apartment. It had proved useless at its job there so it might as well earn its keep here.

  Knowing what theatrical constructions are like I did not expect the task of forcing the door to be especially difficult, and so it proved. I had to decide whether to attack the lock or the hinges. In the end the lock proved easier, yielding to the superior strength of the bar after a couple of minutes of wrenching and splintering. I put the bar back in the satchel.

  I pushed the door open, and stepped into the gloom. I had a tinderbox and candle in my satchel, but enough sunlight came through the open door and filtered through gaps in the planks that formed the ceiling to provide a grey half-light. I just needed to wait for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness.

  My first impression was of clutter. There were large dark shapes on every side, and they all looked menacing. Gradually the half-light bestowed more definite contours and removed much of the menace; many of the objects were nautical tools, such as oars, furled sails and forcole. There were also workbenches and a collection of carpentry tools and some stacks of uncut wood. There were coils of iron chain and hanks of rope. To all of these I attributed non-threatening intentions. It was the large object in the centre of the room that remained menacing even after it had acquired clearly visible outlines.

  In shape and posture it was something like an enormous seal. As for size, it was about twice the length of a gondola and the height of a man at its point of maximum elevation, in its very centre. It appeared to be cased entirely in leather and at first I could see no apertures. Eventually I made out a round hole on the side of the craft that I was inspecting, which I presumed was for an oar. The leather around the hole seemed to be loose but I imagined there was some method of pulling it tight from inside the vessel once the oar was in place and thus sealing the hole in waterproof fashion. At the front of the boat protruded two small prong-like instruments like crab claws. I puzzled over these for a while: were they purely ornamental, or were they intended to intimidate, like the dragon prows of Viking ships? But how would that work, if the boat was underwater? Was the intention to scare the fish?

  I put this problem to one side and studied the upper part of the vessel. On the top of the curved roof was a hatch. I managed to clamber up the side and lift it; it opened without any problems and I peered into the darkness. There was little point in entering, since without a candle I would learn very little, so I closed it again and dropped back down to the floor.

  I examined the floor beneath the craft; I could make out the edges of a very broad trapdoor, presumably ready to open and allow the boat to sink into the water.

  One thing I could do was sketch what I was seeing. That would provide some sort of starting point when I eventually managed to communicate my discovery to someone in authority. I pulled out my sketchbook and a crayon and positioned myself near the door, so that I would be able to hear any approaching boats.

  However, I had failed to take into account my tendency to become totally absorbed when at work with a crayon, pen or brush. I may be a mere dilettante, but when I do take up my instruments I have the total dedication, if not the skill, of the professional artist. And so it was that when my rough sketch was only half complete I suddenly heard voices very close to me, and realised I had failed to pick up the noises that must have preceded them: the swish and scrape of the approaching boat and the scuffling, sloshing sounds of disembarkation.

  As soon as I had forced my heart back into its regular position and picked up the sketch from the floor where my startled fingers had dropped it, I looked round for a hiding place. There was really only one, I realised with the dismay of inevitability.

  The voices were calling out for Gaetano; they had begun with puzzled tones and were now becoming urgent.

  I crammed my sketching material into my satchel and scrambled up the side of the craft. I heaved the hatch open, said a brief prayer and lowered myself in. The floor was not as far down as I had expected, and when I had come to a steady standing position I could still reach up to the hatch, which had a handle on the inside, and lower it shut behind me.

  Now I was really in the dark. In so many ways.

  I reached out with both hands to steady myself and to explore my new environment. The walls were of rough wood, curving inwards. As I shuffled forward I encountered a bench set crossways, presumably for the rowers. I sat down. It also had the advantage of being close to the oar-hole, through which came a little air and the voices of the new arrivals.

  I first recognised the fussy clerical tones of Luca Sartori. “So someone has broken in. I don’t think we need fear too much from that. They won’t have understood what they saw.”

  “Gaetano will have to explain his abandonment of his position.” This was the quiet voice of nobleman Garzoni. As usual the low tone of his voice only made what he said sound all the more menacing.

  “Excellency,” came an indistinct growl. That was presumably Gaetano’s brother, Giorgio.

  “Silence, Giorgio,” said Garzoni. “Your brother will speak for himself when he returns.”

  There came a grunt from Giorgio, whether of assent or of protest it was impossible to tell. However, he said no more.

  “Have they stolen anything?” said Garzoni. “Or broken anything?”

  “Everything looks all right,” said Luca. His voice was alarmingly close. Presumably he was inspecting the submergible boat. I hoped my footprints were not visible. And I hoped even more fervently that he would not decide to inspect the interior as well.

  Then I heard his footsteps move away and I released my breath, gratefully and noiselessly.

  “What time are they delivering the gunpowder?” asked Garzoni.

  “Not till nightfall,” said Luca. “We have to be careful.”

  “I suppose so,” said Garzoni. “Soon things will be very different.”

  “Of course, Excellency.”

  There was a pause, and then Garzoni spoke musingly. “It seems a pity that such a well-crafted instrument will have such a short life.”

  “We can make it again,” said Luca. “In fact, when we no longer have to make them clandestinely we can make hundreds of them.”

  “No,” said Garzoni. “The greatest advantage of thi
s craft is that it is unknown. It must remain so even after tomorrow. Those who made this one swore an oath of secrecy. That will remain binding. If we do make more of them, it will continue to be in secret, unknown to the ordinary workers of the Arsenale.”

  “Of course, Excellency,” said Luca, as if no other possibility had ever crossed his mind.

  “Secrecy. Authority. Fear. The three keys to effective government.” Garzoni was clearly saying something he had said many times, and Luca’s response was yet another automatic “Of course”.

  “Together with firmly controlled instruments of fear,” said Garzoni.

  “You mean more submergibles?” said Luca, a little uncertainly.

  “I mean the human equivalent, our Varangian guard.”

  “Ah yes,” said Luca.

  “They will be under your direct control, of course,” said Garzoni, “but I would like to address them before our enterprise begins.”

  “Of course. They’ll be assembling here at dawn.”

  I was thinking hard. The Varangian Guard: if I remembered rightly, this had been the Byzantine Emperor’s personal bodyguard, formed by Vikings. It seemed unlikely that Garzoni had managed to find a troop of Scandinavian warriors in Venice today; presumably this was his way of referring to those arsenalotti who had remained faithful to him. I remembered his admiration for Doge Dandolo, who had taken Constantinople in 1204 and thus more or less assumed the control of the Byzantine Empire, even if he had not taken the title of emperor. The man’s ambitions were becoming clearer – and more frightening.

  I had certainly heard enough by now to have an alarming, if not immediately believable, story to tell. The problem was how to escape in order to tell it. A sudden dash for it would be foolish, with both Luca and Giorgio around, and possibly armed. I put my eye to the oar-hole. I could only see a small section of the room; fortunately it included the open doorway, where I could see Giorgio standing with his customary idle vigilance. Neither Luca nor Garzoni was in sight.

  “I am going to rest for a while,” said Garzoni, somewhere to my left. “Please stay vigilant. We can’t afford to make any mistakes at this point.”

  “Of course not, Excellency,” said Luca.

  Garzoni moved off somewhere, presumably to a seat of some sort. I heard Luca continue to pace nervously. Then I saw him move towards the doorway and talk to Giorgio in a low voice. I could not hear any words.

  It was noticeable that none of them chose to pass the time outside in the sunshine. They presumably did not wish to call attention to their presence on the platform. As they were apparently using it as the base for a conspiracy to overthrow the Venetian state this coyness was understandable enough.

  Luca moved back into the room, walking to the left and out of my sight. Perhaps he too was going to have a rest. I sat still and prayed for a reassuring sound, like a steady snoring.

  Of course, no such noise came. I heard occasional footsteps and some other unidentifiable quiet movements. I imagined him moving around the dark space with his usual fussy precision, as if measuring the room as he walked. Perhaps he was nervous.

  I was certainly not feeling calm myself. Among other things my shirt was being transformed into a wet rag pasted to my skin and sweat was trickling down both sides of my cheeks. I would have to get out of this place or faint from heat exhaustion. I preferred to think of it as that, rather than terror.

  I tried to distract myself from this physical discomfort by getting a better sense of my surroundings. I began to grope around, making as little noise as possible. Underneath the seat I felt something soft and flabby; it reminded me of the innards of animals. Groping further, I discovered that this flabby material ran around the bottom part of both sides of the boat.

  Several minutes passed. Then I heard a grunting noise from Giorgio’s direction. I peered out and saw that he was waving to someone out on the water. He looked back inside and made an utterance that probably corresponded to an announcement of his brother’s arrival, although no consonants were distinguishable. I heard Luca walking with his quick steady pace across the room towards the door. Then he and Giorgio both walked out into the sunshine.

  I guessed I was not going to get a better opportunity. I stood up and pushed the hatch. As I did so the thought came into my mind, together with a sudden sickening surge of terror, that perhaps I would not be able to open it from the inside. Fortunately this proved not to be the case and with just the slightest scraping sound it jerked up and I felt the cooler air brushing my face.

  I heaved myself out, still trying to make as little noise as possible. I slid to the side of the hatch and reclosed it as softly as possible.

  I peered to my left and saw the small dark shape of nobleman Garzoni sitting on a rigid chair with his hands on his lap and his head tilted back. In any other circumstance it could have been a touching picture of the frailty of old age.

  I could go across and simply brain him with one of the large hammers lying on the nearby workbench; that would solve a lot of problems. Of course, it would create one or two as well.

  I did pick up a hammer, but moved swiftly away from Garzoni. Just as I reached the doorway a croaking cry came from behind me. “Stop him!”

  Why hadn’t I brained him?

  I burst out into the sunlight, screwing my eyes against the dazzle, my hammer-wielding arm already raised. To my left I saw the shapes of Luca and Giorgio swivelling round to stare at me; they were close to the southern edge of the platform, presumably greeting Gaetano. Even as I turned to run to the western edge I had a glimpse of Giorgio already lumbering towards me. I dropped the hammer at this point – since my sole aim was flight, it was only a hindrance – and also tore my satchel off, hurling it into the water.

  Seconds later I had followed it, in an embarrassing flat flop of a dive. Elegance, however, was hardly my priority. I was a fairly experienced swimmer, but this was the first time I had done it fully clothed. After the first moment’s sheer relief at the coolness of the water my next sensation was panic, as I realised just what an impediment water-sogged breeches, shoes and jacket were. There was clearly no time to try to remove any of them. I had already heard another resounding splash as Giorgio followed me. Still, the brevity of the time gap between my immersion and his told me that he had not removed any clothing either, so we were equally impeded.

  He, however, had probably twice the muscle-power. By the time I reached the boatyard, where the three boys were staring open-mouthed at me, I could hear his snorting breath just behind me. I scrambled up the muddy slipway and gasped, “I’ll pay you later, boys,” and ran up the nearest alleyway.

  Those few words probably saved me. A few seconds later I heard a fierce protesting grunting noise and I spun round to see Giorgio attempting to get a foothold on the slipway while the three boys pelted him with mud and pebbles. Loyalty to one’s employer is obviously another quality of eastern Castello. Those boys would get a lira each, I told myself, if I lived.

  Their defensive barrage was not likely to hold him up for long but it was just enough for me to turn a few corners in the warren of alleyways and courtyards and get out of the sight and hearing of my pursuer.

  Women in courtyards, busy stringing beads on necklaces, gazed at me in frank amazement. Children in ragged clothes laughed and pointed. I bestowed apologetic and benevolent smiles on all and kept running.

  After I had passed the church of Sant’Isepo I put my hand to my hip, as I felt a stitch coming on, and slowed down to an urgent walk. Continuing at the same pace I reached the broad canal of the Arsenale and walked along its fondamenta towards the lion-guarded entrance. There were a number of gondolas and sandolos moving along with me. The great wooden gates into the dockyards themselves were closed but one could sense the activity going on behind them, as the Bucintoro was prepared for its annual excursion.

  After the Arsenale the crowds grew thicker and now I felt grateful to them, blessing the inhabitants of Mestre and Dolo and Mira and Mirano who had decid
ed to cross the lagoon and fill the streets of the city with their quaint rustic capes and caps, their coloured ribbons and their baskets of garden produce; it all helped to distract attention from my mud-bespattered, soaking clothes, and their chattering voices and occasional raucous songs drowned out the rhythmic squelch of my shoes.

  I reached my own street just as the clamminess of my garb was beginning to make me shiver. I could not wait to tear it off.

  Unfortunately Giovanna caught sight of me just as I made for my front door. Although she was holding three tankards in her hand, for a group of Trevigiani who seemed already to have had quite enough to drink, she paused to chat.

  “Fallen in the canal?” she said.

  “Just a joke with some friends,” I said, with a fixed grin to show how very humorous it had been.

  “You young people,” she said, with an indulgent shake of her head. “I really have to get changed,” I said apologetically.

  “I’m sure you do,” she said. “Dress up nice for the Sensa, won’t you?” I ran upstairs. No kindly fairy had visited in the last few hours and miraculously restored order. The room was the same disaster area, with the torn books still strewn around the floor, and the black garments that I had worn the previous day adding their extra touch of stygian gloom to the chaos. I stripped off my soaked garments and attempted to dry myself with the only small towel I possessed, which was woefully inadequate to the task. At least I did not have the problem then of choosing what to wear next. My only option was to put back on that funereal garb; I stopped short of the dark wig, however. Instead, I pulled from a drawer a bright red Castello cap which I had bought before I had been able to afford the wig. I had no other shoes, unfortunately, so would just have to continue squelching until the last drop of moisture had been squeezed from the old ones.