Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  I would win no prizes for sartorial elegance but there was no reason why the authorities should refuse to speak to me, I thought, as I headed back down the stairs.

  As I stepped out into the street two squat revellers moved towards me. They were wearing masks, and waved their hooded cloaks in vaguely antic movements.

  “Looks as though your friends have come to meet you,” said Giovanna, with a benevolent smile.

  I turned instantly to run back upstairs but the nearer of the revellers grabbed my arm and jerked me back.

  “Siora,” I shouted, “they’re not my friends – they’re not –”

  “Go on with you,” she said, and laughed. “I know you young people.”

  A gloved hand was put across my mouth as I continued to yell and struggle. The two men – and their lithely coordinated movements, together with their broad bulky shapes, told me they were Giorgio and Gaetano – flanked me and my arms were pinioned behind my back. I felt something prick into my side and total panic seized me. Behind me I could hear Giovanna laughing. However, as I was carried away, with my legs barely touching the ground, I heard her laugh become uneasy and she called out, “What are you doing to him?”

  But then they had taken me round the corner. I made one last squirming attempt to free myself and out of the corner of my eye I saw the figure to my right raising his arm. Then there was a crashing blow on my head and blackness swallowed me.

  26

  I was vomited from the belly of blackness some time later. I had no idea how long it had been. Time and space had become indistinguishable entities in which I spun dizzily, my body and mind pulsing and throbbing, with shafts of pain stabbing repeatedly into my skull. I was aware that a boat had taken me across water, that numerous rough hands had grabbed and jostled and heaved me about, like an inert but pain-receptive sack of coals.

  Then I found myself in a familiar place: dark, musty-smelling, gently rocking on water – even though the last sensation could just as easily have been the effect of the pain. A lantern approached me and the light was like another explosion inside my skull; I squeezed my eyes tight and moaned. The light was withdrawn.

  A voice spoke: “Can you hear me?”

  I said, “Yes.” Or at least I attempted to say it. My tongue had apparently been replaced by a slab of uncooked meat, which had no wish to be disturbed. I managed a spray of saliva, I think, but they seemed to take that as assent.

  “Have you spoken to anyone about what you saw here?” The voice was Garzoni’s. I felt proud of myself for having recognised it.

  “Excellency,” I attempted to say. And I must have been trying to say it in English, because it became another spattering surge of sibilants.

  The question was repeated and I tried again to indicate my awareness of his social status, with no coherent result.

  “Lay him on the floor. We will have to wait until he recovers sufficiently to question him properly.”

  I found myself stretched out on the wooden floor, next to the wall, with a folded cloak underneath my head. I presume this solicitude was connected with the need to extrapolate information from me, which they would be unable to do if I died on them. I was lying on my left side, since it was the right side of my head that had received the blow.

  Time passed. I closed my eyes, paying grateful homage to Pluto for the gift of darkness. However, even with my eyelids lowered a display of pyrotechnical effects seemed to be constantly manifesting itself before me, and I began to wish for simple oblivion. This did not come but I did fade in and out of consciousness; occasionally I was aware of footsteps and lamplight approaching and of people looming over me. I also grew aware that the darkness out of which these light-bearing figures emerged had grown thicker. Night had come on.

  The throbbing had grown less intense and I found I could open my eyes and even contemplate the distant lantern-light without feeling as though it were ablaze inside my head. I did not yet care to do anything too rash, like moving my head. That would have to come with time. Perhaps by Christmas, if things proceeded well …

  The thought of Christmas reminded me that there was some other festivity approaching. Easter? Shrove Tuesday? The Feast of Saint Mark? The Salute? The Redentore? No shortage of holidays in Venice.

  The Sensa … that was it. Charming festival. All those boats. The splendid Bucintoro. The Doge and the wedding ceremony … The submergible boat …

  The what? That was not right.

  No, that was not part of it. But it was connected somehow … I must think.

  A few more fireworks scattered spangled light in my skull as my brain did its best to focus on this intrusive presence.

  Yes. I had seen this boat. I had even climbed inside it. Maybe I was in it right now and that was why things were so strange and fluctuating.

  No. That had been earlier. Before the explosion.

  Explosion. Gunpowder.

  Someone was waiting for gunpowder. To blow up my brain again. No. To put inside the submergible boat.

  Yes. It was a boat for the Sensa. And it was going to be filled with explosive. And then the Varangian Guards were going to take over.

  The Varangian Guards? Where did they come in? Intriguing name …

  “Oh my God,” I said. I think my tongue even formed the words, even if they did not emerge audibly from my lips.

  It was all coming together. The submergible boat was going to be used to blow up the Bucintoro. That was the plan.

  As simple and as spectacular and as murderous as that.

  I got no satisfaction from having put these scattered fragments of knowledge together, just a sudden sickening sense of urgency and panic. I was the only person who knew about this conspiracy and I had just had my head blown to pieces and replaced with a jar of maggots.

  Or maybe not. I gently tried moving my head to left and right and found that it functioned as a head. I could even use my eyes to see where I was and who was there with me.

  I was underneath the stage on the floating platform where the submergible boat was concealed and with me were Nobleman Garzoni (sitting in a chair near the aforementioned boat and gazing into the darkness, presumably dreaming of unlimited power), Luca Sartori (pacing up and down) and the two brothers, sitting on a bench by the door. There was a lantern on the table near Garzoni’s chair. It provided the only light.

  Given that my head was apparently still attached to my body, maybe I could make a sudden dash for freedom. Well, if not a dash, a steady crawl.

  I attempted to move my legs – and was unable to do so.

  The panicky thought that I was paralysed was swiftly dismissed, to my great relief, as I realised that there was a constricting force of some sort around my lower ankle. Just the left one, I realised after another experimental wriggle. I lifted my head a few inches (by no means as easy as it sounds) and peered down my body; despite the darkness I thought I could make out a chain, snaking away from my ankle to a hook in the wall.

  I was going to have to think very, very hard about all this. Such a pity my brain had been blown up. I winced. Why these constant images of explosions?

  Unfortunately, the answer to that was all too easy. Less so, the answer to the question of how to prevent the explosions – both from coming to my mind and from taking place. But I had to persist. My mind was the only thing that I could rely on. My shattered mind. I would have to piece it together again, just as I would have to piece together all I had learned so far.

  Normally I liked to walk around when thinking hard about problems. This time I was denied that option and so I had to find a substitute. I must walk up and down mentally: pace up and down past all the facts I had learned, and scrutinise them thoroughly, from all angles … including all I had learned about the various participants in this whole affair, and their likely role.

  I do not know how long I spent in this mental activity. I know that I saw that Garzoni had fallen asleep in his chair and that Luca stood gazing down at him. The lamplight was behind him so I could
not see the expression on his face, but there was something supercilious and almost proprietorial in his stance as he stood over the older man. It suggested quite a different relationship from the one I had presumed to exist between the two of them. One can learn a good deal from the way one person looks at another when the person observed is oblivious of the fact.

  Some time later there was a stir of movement at the door.

  Gaetano and Giorgio had seen something outside and they summoned Luca, who picked up the lantern and walked briskly towards them. I could hear the sound of a boat bumping up against the platform. All three men walked out into the open air. Now was the chance for me to –

  I did not know what. To inspect my bonds perhaps. I managed to crook my body and stretch one hand down to my foot.

  There was a shackle around my left ankle, not so tight as to chafe me but not loose enough for me to remove it without a key. The chain that snaked from it to the wall was about ten feet in length.

  I heard noises of strained physical activity – heaving, scraping and grunting – together with a murmur of voices. Then lantern-light approached the doorway, together with heavy footsteps. Gaetano and Giorgio came in carrying stout barrels, their arms wrapped around them and their bodies leaning back with the weight. Luca followed close behind with the lantern.

  They set the barrels down on the ground near a table some fifteen feet from me. Garzoni gave a twitch in his chair but did not awaken.

  I saw Lucas’s head turning in my direction and closed my eyes just in time. I saw no advantage in establishing communication – at least not until I had worked out what my strategy might be. That could be a very long way off.

  It seemed the three men had enough to occupy themselves with in any case. Even without opening my eyes I could follow most of their movements for the next couple of hours. They continued to busy themselves in and around the submergible. I could hear buckets of water being carried to and fro, and when I half opened my eyes I saw Giorgio standing by the side of the craft and handing a bucket up to Gaetano, who was leaning out of the hatch at the top of the craft to receive it. The boat seemed to be very thirsy.

  The heavy barrels they had brought in from outside remained where they were on the floor; presumably they would be the last thing they loaded, so as to avoid any dangerous mishandling.

  It had grown light outside, I realised, although the oil lamp remained alight on the table a few paces from where I lay.

  Luca glanced towards me and clearly realised that I was conscious again. He approached.

  “Can you hear me?” he said in a low voice.

  “I need water,” I said. That was what I intended to say; it’s possible that the only distinct word was the last one. I propped myself up on my elbow; I felt slightly less vulnerable in that position.

  “We brought you here just to ask if you have spoken to anyone. I think it’s clear by now that you haven’t or they would have found us by now. There really is no need to keep you.” As usual his tone was precise and businesslike.

  “Thanks. I’ll go then,” I croaked.

  “No need to keep you alive,” he said, spelling it out very carefully for me. “Gaetano will be very happy to kill you.”

  “His Excellency will wish to speak to me,” I said, as loudly and distinctly as I could. It was still a spluttering croak but it seemed to work. I saw Garzoni twitch in his chair again. “Excellency!”

  Garzoni sat up and turned in my direction. He was instantly alert. There was no senile grogginess or confusion. He knew where he was and why he was there. And he knew why I was there. A look of irritation flickered over Luca’s face, but only for an instant; then he became his usual deferential self.

  Garzoni rose and moved towards me. “Have you recovered sufficiently?”

  “For what?” I said. I needed to get myself into a more suitable position. I heaved myself up and sat with my back against the wall. My head started throbbing again at the movement but the pain faded as soon as I had settled back.

  “For our questions.”

  “I think so. I need water.”

  Garzoni bade Gaetano, who was standing by the submergible with an empty bucket, bring me a mug of wine. They had not brought any drinking water with them, it seemed. Gaetano obeyed, but from the expression on his face it was clear that there were many other things he would rather do to me.

  The wine proved restorative. Against my instincts and my desires, however, I restrained myself to a few sips. I needed all my wits about me. I put the mug down beside me, still half full.

  “So, Signor Umbriel,” Garzoni said, pronouncing the name sarcastically, “it seems you were not what you claimed to be.”

  “My name is not Umbriel,” I admitted.

  “Why the lie?”

  “It was expedient,” I said. I felt quite pleased with myself; if I could produce a word like that without drowning myself in spittle then perhaps I was going to be able to manoeuvre my way through this very tricky conversation.

  “Clearly,” he said. “But for what purpose?”

  “To gain an audience with you,” I said, as if this were obvious.

  “And why was your real name not good enough?”

  “I feared that you might not be so welcoming to a mere cicerone from Castello.”

  He did not attempt to deny the well-founded nature of my fear. “And that is all you are?”

  “Excellency,” I said, “you saw what I can do. My powers are undeniable.”

  “I saw that you have access to certain knowledge. But what good is that if you do not have the courage to put it to good use?”

  “Excellency, I will admit that I was afraid.”

  “And I trust you are even more afraid now,” he said.

  “Have no doubt of it,” I said truthfully.

  “You failed the test.”

  “I failed that one. It was unexpected.”

  “I do not usually allow second chances,” he said. “Do I, Luca?”

  “No, Excellency,” Luca said, with intense satisfaction. “Never.”

  “Excellency,” I said, “you see that I am still drawn to your circle of power. Why else am I here?”

  “That is what I wish to know. How did you know to come here?”

  “As I said to you in your palace, the places associated with you are charged with great spiritual energy. I could feel the pull.”

  “Did you speak to anyone about what happened in the palace?” he said.

  They were all waiting to hear my answer. Until that moment I had not decided on an answer. The only reason to answer affirmatively would be if I thought that the fear of being arrested would make them give up their plans. While that might be true for Luca, perhaps, it certainly did not apply to Garzoni himself, who by now had too fully committed himself. Whatever happened he was not going to apologise meekly to the Doge and go back to his cabalistic games in the privacy of his palace.

  And so, on the strength of that argument, I decided to answer in the negative and see where that would take me.

  “No, Excellency.”

  I sensed rather than heard a general expulsion of breath. There could be no possible reason for me to lie about this, I imagine they were all thinking.

  “Excellency, there is no reason to keep this man alive,” said Luca. He sounded too eager, which was unusual for him.

  Garzoni at once frowned. “That is for me to decide.”

  “Of course,” Luca said. It sounded as though he was on the point of adding a but … and then thought better of it.

  “Excellency,” I said, and was surprised that I managed to say it not only without spluttering but also without a tremor, “I can make a forecast, one that you cannot afford to ignore.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “This is not a small matter, Excellency,” I said. “You will need to listen most attentively. I believe I know your plans – but I also see a potential flaw.”

  “There are always potential flaws,” he said, “for any man who
dares something truly extraordinary. But there comes a point when one has to believe that destiny is on one’s side and take the necessary risk. That moment has come for me – and for Venice.”

  I must be careful not to sound too damping or I would get no hearing. This was going to be the performance of my life – quite literally. The two little shows I had put on in the palace were mere conjuring tricks by comparison. I felt the throbbing in my head returning but I forced myself to ignore it.

  “Excellency, this is a flaw that can be eradicated, once it has been identified. It would be absurd to fail out of an excess of pride.”

  His face grew dark and I wondered if I had gone too far. I could tell that Luca thought so and was almost rubbing his hands in glee. But Garzoni said quietly: “Go on.”

  “You will need to listen to me to the end,” I said.

  “Go on,” he said again.

  At that moment Gaetano gave a grunt from the doorway. “Eccoli,” he said. Here they are.

  Luca and Garzoni at once turned towards him. These must be the arsenalotti: the Varangian guard.

  Garzoni said: “Your story will have to wait. I must greet these men.”

  He gathered his cloak around him and went towards the sunlight. Luca gave me a grim look as he followed him out but said nothing; he presumably thought that a little mime of my imminent strangulation would be too vulgar.

  I sat back, feeling absurdly relieved. Or perhaps it was not so absurd: I needed the pause to gather my forces. My heart was beating hard, my head was throbbing and I could feel my shirt growing damp with sweat again. How could anyone ever envy the life of an actor?

  I listened hard to what was happening outside. I heard Luca’s voice, suddenly brisk and firm, issuing orders. This must be the part of the work he most enjoyed. There was clearly a whole troop of men out there, who had presumably disembarked from a barge of some sort. I could hear them clumping on the planks, and the platform was swaying slightly to their footsteps. As Luca continued to issue orders their footsteps became regimented. They mounted the two staircases at either side of the stage and suddenly their marching feet were above my head.