The count fell silent. On the canal outside, a motor-powered boat chugged slowly through the night. The sound of the engine filtered past heavy shutters into the room, rising briefly, then dying away as the boat turned a corner and vanished.
‘Pietro Contarini,’ he continued, his voice reduced almost to a whisper, ‘brought something else back to Venice along with the body of the saint. He had discovered something which, to him, was infinitely more valuable than the bones of a holy man. Pietro’s discovery was not a relic or a piece of merchandise or a box of treasure - it was the truth. A truth so devastating that he kept it to himself for the next forty years.’
Patrick fixed his eyes on the count’s pale lips as he related his tale. In the shadows of the room, he imagined others crouched and listening.
‘On his deathbed, however, Pietro told one of his sons, a man of over forty himself by then, Andrea. In those days, merchants were still trading regularly with North Africa, in spite of the objections of the Pope and the Byzantines. Andrea took a ship to
Alexandria, then made his way overland to Palestine. To Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre.’
In the room, nothing moved. Even the shadows held still. Outside, all was silent. Patrick could hear his breath coming and going in the stillness.
‘Over five years passed before Andrea returned. He had seen with his own eyes what Pietro had only heard about. And he had met the keepers of his father’s secret. In the few years that remained to him - for he died six years later of the plague - he confided in members of his family and a few, carefully-chosen friends.
‘That, Signor Canavan, was the beginning of our rise to power. Pietro’s secret was, indeed, more precious than silks or spices.’
Contarini paused.
‘But power has a price,’ he resumed. ‘A man cannot have power and riches, yet possess his own soul. No more a family. The Contarinis, the Barbaros, the Grimanis, the Sagredos ... all the noble houses who came to share our secret - all paid their price. Our families, our private affections, our faith, even our souls ... all for the sake of a truth the multitude could neither understand nor tolerate.’
He fell silent, folding his sallow hands together like the wings of a giant, broken butterfly. A tremor passed through them and grew still. Outside, the lapping of water against stone was the only sound.
‘How,’ Patrick asked, ‘does this explain Francesca? Her death, her being alive?’
Contarini sighed. It was a deep sigh, almost a moan.
‘Don’t you see? Francesca was my price. Her happiness was the sacrifice I had to make. And you were her sacrifice - all she had, all she wanted.’
‘For this?’ Patrick rose angrily, gesturing violently at the crumbling damp-stained walls, the broken and rotting furniture.
The count shook his head. The long white hair had fallen across his face like a veil.
‘No,’ he said. His voice had changed in timbre, acquiring vigour from some hidden reserve. He raised a hand and pointed, jabbing again and again at the great fresco.
‘For that, you fool! For that!’
THIRTY-ONE
Patrick left the palazzo in a daze. Contarini’s anger had subsided into a fit of coughing, and Maria had hurried in to tend him and chase his visitor away. He had left quickly, chased by shadows, harried by ghosts, out into the awful night.
The crippled dog still lay crouched in its corner, shivering with cold. Patrick felt torn between disgust and pity. He wanted to throw stones at it or break its neck. Its misery appalled and frustrated him: to drive it away or put it to sleep were the only options he could stomach. But he did neither. He lacked both courage and conviction.
Instead, he turned his back on the dog and the palace of the Contarinis, and walked quickly out of the calle. A freezing mist had moved in off the Adriatic and crept across the city while Patrick talked with Contarini. It had worked its way slowly along the streets, and now lay flat on the surface of the canals, obscuring the rounded backs of bridges and drifting into every calle, fondamenta and rugetta. Like wisps of white smoke, its tendrils wandered through the sleeping streets, curling about the infrequent street-lamps, blurring and softening what little light there was. In archways and sottoporticos, thick masses of it lay like predators, waiting for the unwary.
Patrick turned his collar up against the chill air. In his agitation, he had taken a wrong turning shortly after leaving the palazzo. Now the mist was playing with him, teasing him, leading him further and further astray. His footsteps echoed between the close-packed buildings on either side -a desolate sound that only emphasized how alone he was in this half-deserted city.
He picked up speed, but the further he walked the less familiar his surroundings seemed. Reason told him to knock on the first door he came to and ask the way. But it was after midnight, and the bolted doors and shuttered windows he passed held out no prospect of a warm welcome.
After a while, he came to a deserted square. He found the name on a blue and white plate high up on one corner: Campo dei Carmini. But it meant nothing to him. Along one side of the little square, the dark facade of a baroque church loomed menacingly out of the mist. Its troubled pillars and sinister windows reminded him of the tombs on San Michele, as though the church had been constructed for the dead and not the living.
Leaving the square, he paused to read the name of the street he had just entered. As he did so, he heard a sound behind him. It had resembled a foot scraping against stone. And it had not been an echo.
Pressing himself against the side wall of the church, he listened carefully for the sound to be repeated. He could not be certain, but he thought it had come from the square. Contarini had said that someone had been asking questions about him. Was there someone out there now, following him?
He moved on, walking more slowly now, straining to distinguish between his own footsteps and the echoes they raised, listening for the tell-tale sound of someone tailing him. If he could lead his shadow on, then double back and move in from behind, he might be able to collar him. But the mist and his own disorientation limited his freedom to act.
A narrow alleyway opened out onto a bridge. In a window opposite, a light was burning. He crossed the bridge, then halted, waiting. The silence was thick and oppressive: he wanted to call out, to tear it to pieces without remorse. It came again: a single scrape in the alleyway. Through an arch, he caught sight of another canal: the passage ran down to the water and, as far as Patrick could see, ended there. If he could trick his pursuer into heading that way, he might be able to trap him.
He headed slowly down the passage. ‘Don’t lose me now, for God’s sake,’ he whispered. The mist thinned out a little here, but he had to step carefully lest he mistake the edge of the bank and plunge into the water. His guess turned out to be correct: the passage ended at the water, and there was no path either to right or left.
Intuition had suggested that someone would have left a boat tied up here, otherwise there would have been little point to the small landing area at the end of the passage. Through the mist, he could make out the shape of a small sandolo covered in a heavy tarpaulin. He pulled the boat nearer with the painter and slipped over the side, almost losing his footing on the slippery cloth.
He crouched down in the shallow vessel, thankful for the mist, just able to see the end of the passageway over the edge of the bank. And there, at last, an unmistakable footstep! He felt tension build in his stomach and all through his muscles.
A shadow moved. Patrick held himself ready to spring. Everything depended on how close his pursuer came to the edge: far enough, and he might be able to grab him and pull him over. At least he had the element of surprise. The mist parted and the shadow became a dark figure. Patrick held his breath. ‘Come closer, damn you! To the edge. Come on!’ The figure hesitated, frightened perhaps that he might lose his footing in the mist and fall. Patrick felt the sandolo rock uneasily beneath him: it made a poor platform from which to launch himself at his pursuer.
&nb
sp; The figure paused, then turned abruptly and began to walk back along the sottoportico. Patrick flexed his legs and jumped onto the bank, falling on his knees. As he landed, he saw the figure look round and catch sight of him. He scrambled to his feet in time to see his pursuer stumble into the mist.
‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘I want to speak to you!’
There was a sound of running footsteps. Patrick broke into a trot. He reached the street again just in time to see the mist fold round a moving shadow. Footsteps rang out like bullets in the darkness. Patrick set off in pursuit, following the sound.
He ran breathless through a maze of alleyways, across bridges, along narrow embankments, the sound of footsteps luring him on, deeper and deeper into the swirling mist. Sometimes he thought he had lost his quarry: he would take a false turn and all but lose the scampering footsteps, then suddenly he would come out along a different passage and hear them ahead of him once more. Twice he caught sight of the running figure ahead of him, a dark blur in the mist.
Out of breath, he stopped on a little bridge to catch his wind. Leaning against the metal balustrade, he looked up and caught sight of someone on a second bridge, just yards away. The mist parted momentarily, giving him a clearer look. His head felt light. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, his heart pumping wildly in his chest, making him giddy. Had he been mistaken? He looked again, but the mist had swept back. There was no one on the other bridge.
‘Francesca!’ he called. ‘Francesca, fermati!’
Running footsteps sounded on the riva just beyond
the bridge where the figure had been standing. Patrick felt a new energy sweep through him. He dashed off the bridge, almost falling down a short flight of steps in his haste.
The footsteps were on his right now. Spinning, he hurried down a mist-choked alleyway, coming out onto a wider street just in time to see the figure vanish again. Gasping for breath, he set off in pursuit. A sharp, stitching pain flared up in his side, making him bend almost double. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. His legs were like lead, and his head was swimming.
‘Fran.. .cesca ... Per grazia di Dio!... fermati!’
His breath was coming now in harsh, laboured gasps as his lungs struggled in the damp air. A broken paving-stone caught his foot, sending him sprawling on his face. Winded, he lay for half a minute, his head spinning, fighting for each breath.
Closing his eyes against the pain, he pushed himself up and took a step forward. A pang of pure agony stabbed through his gut. Lights exploded in his head. His legs buckled and gave way. He felt himself falling, his body out of control, then all feeling left him and he was plunging, disembodied, through the deepest blackness he had ever known.
He opened his eyes. It was still dark, but the mist had cleared. His head ached intolerably, and his eyes were painful. Blinking, he thought he could make out stars in a black sky. He was lying on his back against something hard. With an effort, he pulled himself to a sitting position.
On either side, dark buildings slipped by as though in a dream. There were no lights anywhere, but as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, he could make out the pattern of the Grand Canal. He was in
the mysterious gondola again, being rowed alone by a nameless and faceless gondolier. They were further down the Canal this time, heading for St Mark’s. The torches and candles of his previous dream had been extinguished, and the water was empty of other craft. All was silent as before.
It disturbed him that he could remember everything of his earlier dream, that he knew it had been a dream, and that he was certain, as he had been before, that he was not at this moment dreaming. And yet he could neither hear nor speak.
The gondola began to veer towards the left bank. As they drew close, he thought he recognized the twin-arched windows and ornamented upper storey of the Palazzo Corner-Spinelli. The boat slipped into a narrow side canal and made its way slowly through a labyrinth of channels, some only wide enough to permit the passage of a single craft. Unseen, they passed the backs and facades of tall houses. Here and there, Patrick could see a taper in a high window. Once, he caught sight of a woman watching them from a low balcony, her blonde hair combed loose in long, weeping tresses, and pale breasts cupped in tired hands, like offerings.
They slid beneath low bridges, the gondolier stooping down to get through. Once, in the distance, he could see through a gap between tall houses part of a wide campo. A bonfire had been lit, and in the centre of the square, a group of blind men wielding long knives chased a frightened pig in ever-decreasing circles. Then the scene was blotted out by a high wall covered in ivy. The gondola slipped deeper into the maze.
They passed near an embankment on which a crippled dog dragged itself painfully along. Patrick was sure the dog reminded him of something, but he had forgotten what it was. He realized that, although he could neither hear nor speak, he was not wholly cocooned from his surroundings. He could feel the chilly air against his skin, and, if he dipped a hand into the water, it would come out wet and cold. And yet he sensed some sort of barrier between himself and this world. He had been brought here as a spectator, not a participant. But what was it he had been brought to see?
The boat slowed suddenly, and Patrick noticed that they were turning in towards the bank. Out of the darkness loomed the canal gate of a large palazzo. Two torches flared on either side, held fast by iron brackets, and a third was held by a servant dressed in a bauta, waiting just inside the open gate. Above the gate, a large moulding represented a lamb carrying a cross.
They swung in to a low flight of stone steps, and the gondolier tied up skilfully at the nearest mooring post. The gondola twisted round and scraped against the steps. The servant stepped forward, holding his torch high.
At that moment, something happened to Patrick’s ears, as though an invisible blockage had been removed. He could hear the sound of water lapping around him, and the wooden hull of the gondola scraping the steps. Like the dog he had seen earlier, the scraping sound reminded him of something. He stepped out of the gondola onto the first step. The servant bowed from the waist, then straightened. Patrick noticed his eyes, gazing at him from behind the mask: the lids were heavy, the pupils glazed and flecked with tiny specks of gold.
‘Abbiate la grazia di seguirmi. Isignori vi attendono. Please accompany me, sir. Their lordships are awaiting you.’
THIRTY-TWO
‘Can you hear me, Signor Canavan? Please nod if you can hear me.’
The voice sounded muffled and remote, but the words were English. Why were they speaking English?
‘Please try to answer, Signor Canavan.’
He tried to open his eyes, but they felt as though someone had stuck them together with glue. His lips would not move.
‘Is all right, Signor Canavan. Just let me know if you can hear me.’
He nodded, and, as he did so, experienced a wave of intense nausea. The nausea gave way to blackness. Then out of the blackness the face of the servant in the bauta came towards him. The mouth opened as though in speech, but Patrick could hear nothing. The face was swallowed up by blackness.
‘Can you hear me now, Signor Canavan?’
This time his eyes opened. He saw a blurred face staring down at him, a man’s face, wearing a look of concern. The words were English, but the accent Italian.
‘Yes. Who ...?’
‘My name is Doctor Luciani. You are in the Ospedale Civile. Capisce? Do you understand?’
Patrick nodded feebly.
‘You were brought here last night. Una signora ... a lady brought you here after she find you in the street. You were unconscious. Can you remember anything? Did you have an accident?’
Patrick shook his head. He felt as though last
night’s fog had been concentrated and decanted into his skull. His stomach was nauseous. It was like a migraine, only worse.
‘You mean - not have an accident ... or not remember?’
‘Mi ricordo ... la nebbia ... I remember ...
mist... running ... a gondola.’
Patrick had replied in Italian; strangely, he found it easier, as though English had become foreign to him.
‘Ah, parla Italiano. Benissimo.’ The doctor paused. ‘Signor Canavan, I want to carry out some tests. They are merely to establish whether or not you have suffered some injury to your brain. You may have fallen or been struck. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Later, I would like you to have an X-ray. And possibly an EEG. Just to be sure. But at this stage, I only wish to test your reactions to stimuli. There’s nothing to be worried about.’
Patrick’s sight was clearing. His head still throbbed, but his thoughts were less confused. Memories of the night before were beginning to flood back: Contarini in his kingdom of rats, a lame dog whining among shadows, the fresco on the wall of the palazzo.
A nurse came forward to assist the doctor. Patrick was in no condition to argue as she and Luciani began to prick and prod various parts of his anatomy. They flashed lights in his eyes, took his temperature and blood pressure, examined his ears for signs of blood, and tested his reflexes.
He remembered getting lost in the mist, then chasing someone who had been tailing him. What then? Had someone attacked him? Without warning, the image of a bridge formed in his mind, and on it a shadowy figure, half-hidden in mist.
‘Doctor!...’
‘Please, Signor Canavan, relax. We’ll soon be finished.’
‘No, please ... You said ... a woman brought me here. Una signora ... What was she like? What did she look like? Per piacere ... e importante ... molto importante.’
The doctor shrugged.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get a very good look at her. You were my first concern. When I went back to reception, she had gone.’
Brotherhood of the Tomb Page 19
