The woman took a deep breath and drew her hand from under her shawl. She was wearing a silver band topped with a large rectangular garnet.
Sheathing his sword, Niccoli bowed low. 'Please accept my humble apologies, signora.' The boat approached the island of Giudecca across the broad canal to the south of the main islands of the Republic. The two men rowed while Caterina guided them through a waterway running south from the Grand Canal into the open waters of the lagoon. The water was glassy still and pitch black, but out here away from the confines of the sick city, the air seemed fresher. Behind the surrounding wall stood some of the grandest palaces in Venice, each nestled in lush grounds, home to many of the noblest families in Italy. These people were rarely seen by most Venetians. With the first news of plague they had disappeared completely, believing they would be safe here.
It was very dark, but, as they passed a promontory, lights glimmered ahead and gradually a ship's mast emerged from the gloom. Drawing closer, they began to make out the shape of the hull. It was a caravel of around fifty tons. Two triangular sails were unfurled, limp in the oppressive stillness.
Behind them a large bireme approached, propelled through the water by a score of oarsmen. Two archers stood aft with crossbows raised to eye level. They wore the livery of the Venetian Navy, emblazoned with the lion of St Mark, gold on red.
'Hell!' Niccoli exclaimed, as a bolt slapped the water beside them.
The gap between the two boats was narrowing quickly. A flurry of bolts ripped through the air. One hit the side of the boat, the rest flew low over their heads. Then half a dozen arrows whistled past, falling ten metres from the bireme. Their pursuers were under fire from the caravel.
A second volley rained down across the water and an archer at the bow of the pursuers' boat screamed and fell forward into the cold lagoon. A third, larger shower of arrows was fired, and several more bolts shot back from the bireme. There were more screams as arrows found flesh.
With a final desperate effort, the Florentines drew in alongside the caravel. Niccoli lifted Caterina on to the rope ladder dangling from the side of the ship, and, as a hail of bolts hit the side of the ship and bounced off the hull, she pulled herself aboard. Tommasini climbed up the ladder as fast as he could. A bolt missed him by a hand's width. Before the last of the companions was aboard, the anchor was hauled up and the caravel began to move. 'A lucky escape, my friends.'
Niccoli was the first to reach Cosimo. 'The young woman said you were injured.' 'A mild concussion, nothing more.'
Niccoli noticed a nasty gash on Cosimo's forehead. He had a black eye; the sleeve of his tunic had been cut away and there was a large bandage about his arm.
'A little more than that, by the look of you,' said Niccoli and he pulled Cosimo's head back gently. 'But it appears you've been well tended to.' Cosimo slapped his hand on his friend's back. 'So what in God's name is going on?' asked Tommasini. His blond locks were plastered to his face with sea spray and his cheeks were still ruddy with the exertion of their narrow escape.
'I know little more than you,' Cosimo began. He told them the bare bones of what had happened from the time he left the Ducal Palace until he had came to aboard the ship little more than half an hour earlier. 'Before you ask, I have absolutely no idea who my saviour was. But I know I owe him my…'
He trailed off as he saw the expressions change on the faces of his friends. They were staring past him. He turned round to see Caterina. Close behind her stood a figure dressed in white, holding a lantern at shoulder height.
'I think you mean you owe her your life, Lord Cosimo,' Caterina said.
They watched as the figure in white pulled back the hood. Long black locks tumbled over white cloth.
Cosimo crossed the deck in three strides. 'Contessina!' he cried. 'My darling, Contessina…' Then he stopped. 'I don't know whether to pinch myself or to seek a medic Am I imagining things? The blow to my head, perhaps?' 'My love,' Contessina said. 'I am not imaginary.'
The blood had drained from Cosimo's face. 'Gentlemen, if you will excuse us, I think my lady and I need to talk.'
They sat in the captain's quarters, a narrow hutch of a room containing nothing more than a map table, a slender bunk and an uncomfortable oak bench. 'You killed two men tonight,' Cosimo said. 'Three. I could not let the priest go.'
'The Contessina I left in Florence less than two weeks ago could not have killed a fly.' 'Cosi, I'm sorry I was not honest with you.' 'I don't know who you are anymore.'
'I'm still the same woman, your betrothed, the woman you claim to love.' 'Contessina
She leaned forward and placed a finger on his lips. 'Let me tell you the whole story, my love. You know that Master Valiani was Niccolo's teacher. Well he also taught my elder brother, Marco. One day, I was in the library when Marco was having a lesson. Valiani had asked my brother a question about mathematics and he did not know the answer. Valiani tried another. Marco could not answer this one either. It was hopeless.
'Eventually, Valiani grew quite agitated. I was worried my brother might be in for a beating. Then suddenly, Valiani snapped his head towards me and said: "You are a fool boy. Even your little sister could answer these questions." 'I don't know what came over me. Perhaps I was scared for my brother, or maybe for myself. I just blurted out… six and four. Suddenly Valiani broke into a smile. "Very good," he said. "Let's try another." I must have given the correct response because he smiled again.
'The master was fascinated by me. He sent my brother away with some homework and quizzed me further. You see, Valiani is many things. He is a Humanist, of course, but he is also an elder in the heretical sect known as the Arians. They reject the concept of the Holy Trinity. As a consequence, they are anathema to Rome. Valiani is also a master of many Eastern Arts unknown in Italy, a champion swordsman and a man steeped in arcane knowledge. He became my teacher and my guide. He was always gentle, always kind, but I knew I was little more than a specimen for study. He schooled me in Latin and Greek, in mathematics, philosophy and history. He trained me with the sword and the bow. I was taught to ride and to sail.
'It was our secret, and, as I say, I was little more than an experimental subject for the Master. Then, perhaps five years ago, he told me that he was about to embark on what would almost certainly be his final voyage. He had never married and had no heir. He joked that if only I had been born a boy everything would be so much easier. And he pleaded with me never to let my talents go to waste, because he believed that one day something would happen to change things and I would be important to him, important to the Humanist cause, important to the world of learning.
'Two weeks ago, Valiani appeared in my life again. He told me of his discoveries and the secret of the map. He explained how he intended offering you and your friends the opportunity to seek out the treasures of Golem Korab, but he also wanted me to be what he called "his insurance".
'No Cosi, don't get me wrong,' Contessina said quickly, and touched Cosimo's hand. 'It is not that Master Valiani did not trust you or have faith in your abilities, but he was convinced that two heads are always better than one. He knew he could not tell you about me, and he also knew the time was not right for me to tell you this tale, not then, not in Florence.' 'But…?'
'Cosi, I just want you to understand this. I was not sent to interfere in any way. The master knew there would be many dangers for you along the way. He knew that some hint of what you were seeking would find its way to the avaricious and the villainous. He had heard rumours of plague and war; and, thanks to the brave and noble Luigi, he was also suspicious of Father Enrico. But he only learned of all this recently and from Florence he could do nothing about changing the hiding place for the map fragment.'
'And what of your family, Contessina? You could not have simply walked out of the house.'
'Valiani smoothed that over for me. My parents believe I am staying with my brother's family in Padua.' 'You deceived them?' 'We are both capable of that, Cosimo.' 'And how did you get to V
enice?'
'I travelled with Valiani to Ravenna. This vessel, La Bella Gisela, is owned by a wealthy Genoese trader, another former pupil of Valiani's and a fellow Arian. She is making for Ragusa with a cargo of fine fabrics, alum and salt.' 'How did you know I would be attacked?'
'I had no idea, but Master Valiani knows the Doge to be a devious and calculating man. Your assailants were from Steno's personal guard. The priest was also in the pay of the Doge.' There was an icy silence between them.
'It seems,' he said at length, 'that I have been played for a fool. By everyone.' For the next two days Cosimo remained alone in his cabin. This was the way he dealt with problems. He cut himself off and kept his own counsel. His friends knew not to interfere. Ambrogio had other worries; he had spent the whole voyage laid out on the deck with a bucket between his knees. Niccolo was an experienced seafarer whose family had been keen mariners, so, much to Ambrogio's chagrin, he felt entirely at home aboard ship.
Contessina had never seen Cosimo turn in upon himself like this. It upset her, although she could understand how he felt. He had come to believe that somehow she had betrayed him, that she had been wearing a mask more deceitful than any Venetian carnival disguise, that he had been tricked into loving someone different.
La Bella Gisela was hugging the Dalmatian coast. It was a large but fast ship, and with the cooperation of the captain, Cosimo monitored its course as they travelled south. This was a region under Venetian sovereignty, territory held against the Turk. Crossing the Bay of Venice some twenty nautical miles west of Trieste, they approached St Bartolomeo north of the Savudrija peninsula. From the south of Istria, where the peninsula ended suddenly, they skirted the islands of Kvarneric lying to the west of the mainland. Here, many inlets and sheltered coves offered safe havens for ruthless pirates, rival groups who had long ago staked out the waters from Trieste to Split.
It was during the early morning that Cosimo was awakened from a deep sleep by the vessel pitching and rolling. An hourglass he had left loose on the small work table in the corner flew across the room just missing his head. Scrambling from his bunk, he lost his balance and fell against the table, crashing on to his back.
The deck was awash and the crew were struggling desperately to batten everything down. Cosimo made his way slowly to the bridge where the captain was fighting a losing battle to keep control of the helm. The wind was howling, the sails looked fit to burst. Cosimo could only stand upright by clinging on to ropes strung out along the port quarter.
Another wave hurled the ship upward like so much driftwood. As the wall of ocean rolled on, water poured down on the ship, thudding against the sails and crashing on to the deck.
A scream came from the bow. Cosimo caught a glimpse of one of the crew being swept overboard. A huge wave made the ship yaw wildly, flinging him across the deck. There was nothing to hold on to. His eyes were smarting with salt water and he could barely focus on the world around him. Something crashed into his head and another spasm of pain ripped through him. Blood poured into his eyes. Clawing desperately at the air, he caught hold of a loose rope.
All he could see was red. Then he heard a dreadful cracking sound. The main mast smashed on to the deck, crushing two sailors beneath it.
He tried to pull himself along the deck but he could not keep a grip on the rope. He gasped for air as he was hit by another cascade of water. The captain had disappeared and the helm had been smashed to pieces. Cosimo could hear a woman screaming above the roar of the elements. Contessina was clinging to the aft bulwark, her arms wrapped around a vertical strut.
He clawed his way towards her. She saw him and screamed his name. With reserves of strength he didn't know he possessed, he hauled himself forward. Moments later, he had reached her side. She was utterly exhausted and could barely speak. Blood ran freely from a cut above her hairline.
A roar came from the front of the ship and La Bella Gisela found herself perched at the summit of a mountain of water. The black raging ocean crashed down all around, a great primordial torrent, swallowing everything. Contessina gripped him so tightly it felt like they were merging, becoming one.
'So this is it,' Cosimo thought. 'This is what dying is like.'
He felt so small, so insignificant, so irrelevant, a dot, a pinprick, nothing. And as the ship tumbled back, somersaulting like a toy boat in an infinity of water, he felt a strange sense of relief. It would soon be over.
Chapter 20
Venice, present day Situated on a narrow alleyway off Via XXII Marzo, Giovanni Tafani's office was only a short walk from Jeff's apartment. Behind the dull concrete facade, Edie and Jeff found themselves transported back three centuries to baroque elegance and classic Venetian grandeur.
Jeff had been very reluctant to let Rose out of his sight, but she was violently opposed to the idea of tagging along to listen to them ramble on, as she put it, to some boring old man about a long-dead composer. And she was more than happy to go along with Maria who had suggested she take Rose with her to visit her family in Mestre where her younger brother had a smallholding.
Tafani met Jeff and Edie at reception and led the way to his large office on the first floor. His eyes, covered the night before by a delicate gold mask, were weary.
'I'm afraid your call this morning caught me by surprise,' he said showing them to a pair of leather armchairs in front of his impressive oak desk. 'You'll have to take me as you find me, a little worse for wear! So how may I help you?'
'We'd like to pick your brains,' Edie said lightly. 'Roberto tells us you're the greatest authority on Vivaldi.'
'Did he now? Well, that is a wonderful compliment. How is the maestro?'
'A little worse for wear too,' Jeff answered and glanced quickly at Edie. 'We were wondering if you could tell us if Vivaldi had any esoteric interests. Was he interested in any way in the occult?'
'He was certainly a rather odd character,' Tafani replied quickly. 'He was known as 'Il Prete Rosso, "the Red Priest", because of his flaming red hair, and he had an on-off relationship with the authorities at the Pio Ospedale della Pieta where he was Master of Violin.'
'Pio Ospedale della Pieta? What's that?' Edie asked.
'The Devout Hospital of the Mercy. There were four of them in Venice in the late seventeenth century. Their purpose was to give shelter and education to abandoned or orphaned children; quite enlightened for the time. Vivaldi was responsible for teaching music and he was commissioned to write concerti for the orphans to perform in public.'
'So tell us more about his uneasy relationship with the authorities.'
'He was a practising priest for only a few months. There were ugly rumours that he seduced teenage girls in the orphanage, that he dabbled in unsavoury sexual and occult practices, but there's absolutely no evidence for it. I'm fed up with so-called revisionist history. It seems none of our heroes is immune, as though modern society needs to bring down the masters to make us feel better about our own lack of morals. I think it says more about our own age than it does about the great men and women who are responsible for our cultural heritage.'
'I take your point,' Edie gave Tafani a reassuring smile.
'Did Vivaldi stay in Venice his entire life?' Jeff asked.
'No, no, he did travel a bit. In fact, when he was young he was sacked from the orphanage. But they had him back after a year.' 'What did he do during that year?'
'He taught the children of a noble family in Padua. The Niccoli family, I believe.' 'The Niccoli family of Florence?' Edie exclaimed.
'Um, yes. I think they did originate from there. But they had been in Padua for at least two centuries by Vivaldi's time. Why?'
'You don't have any information about the year Vivaldi spent there do you?' she asked.
'You might be in luck.' Tafani was beginning to respond to Edie's rising excitement. 'Vivaldi left a very complex will. He died far from home, in Vienna. He'd applied for a job at the Imperial Court, but the Emperor, Charles VI died soon after he arrived and the c
omposer was stranded, penniless and without a patron. A few weeks later, he was dead. Some of his papers remained in Vienna. Others went to relatives in various parts of Italy, and some ended up with his closest friends here in Venice. There is a rather well-known set of documents, the so-called "Confessional", which Vivaldi gave to his closest friend, the painter Gabriel Fabacci.' 'What's "the Confessional"?' 'Come, I'll show you,' Tafani stood up. 'You have it here?' Edie was incredulous.
Tafani smiled. 'Not exactly. But we have a computer archive with almost everything linked to Vivaldi that's ever been written.'
He led them from the room along a galleried passage. A few moments later, they found themselves in a library, with two rows of computers in the middle of the room.
They pulled up chairs and Tafani clicked a mouse as he talked. 'What I am about to share with you is a particularly fascinating document. Vivaldi contracted scarlet fever in Vienna, and was in a delirious state for several days before he finally succumbed. Most scholars believe he wrote this testament on his deathbed, that most of it is fantasy and delusion from a genuine man of God who was fearful for his mortal soul.'
The words: La Confessione appeared on the screen. 'It's quite long, but fortunately we have it in several languages. We get a fair number of foreign scholars visiting Venice solely to access our database.'
Tafani found the English version and opened the file. Standing up, he said, 'I'll leave you to peruse this. I hope I've been of some help. Come and see me before you leave.'
Before them on the screen was a document called 'The Taking and the Returning'. They began to read. I am dying. What I say now is the absolute truth as I see it, a truth I wish to impart before I meet my Lord God, the Almighty Saviour of All Men. My confession begins with my father, Giovanni Battista. When I was a boy, he was working for an architect commissioned to remodel an old house on Calle della Morte. An odd feature of the house was a metal column that ran the entire height of the building from the foundations to the roof. To this day no one knows why it was put there. My father was a labourer working in the basement of the house. One day he came across a stout metal box lying just beneath a hemispherical compartment at the base of the metal column. He secreted away the box, and when he was alone later he managed to force open the lock.
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