I found the covered passage with a little difficulty, for I was coming at it from the wrong direction, but at last I was in the piss-soaked gloom and walking past the crooked windows and the midden heap to the door of Marcho's inn. To my dismay I was not the only customer at that early hour, for a couple of carters, already drunk, were mock-arguing in the corner and a whore was flirting mechanically with the potboy in hopes, no doubt, of a scrap of free food. I beckoned him over, slipped him a silver coin and asked for wine and meat. When the wine came I enquired, casually as I could, if the master was about. I got a look, sharp and curious, but before I had taken my second mouthful, the ominous form of the innkeeper appeared at my side.
‘I am busy’ he said, shortly. He was radiating annoyance like a brazier.
'Good Marcho Antonio, I am a companion of Captain de Montalhac. Do you not recognise me? I have enjoyed your hospitality often’
'So what?' growled the man, although his countenance seemed to soften imperceptibly.
I was wasting time, and I wished to get things over with one way or another, so I stood up and placed my arm around his shoulder. Ignoring his palpable irritation, I leaned close in and muttered in his scarred ear:
'Marcho Antonio Marso, are you a Good Christian? I mean, are you a credente?
He stiffened as if I had driven a knife between his ribs. I pressed home.
'I am guessing, Signor Marcho. But you have my master's trust, and I am giving you mine. Listen to me: I am about-Captain de Montalhac's business, and the enterprise is in danger. I need your help’
Marcho let out a ragged breath. He glared at me, but he had gone rather white, and there was a bead of sweat working its way out of one eyebrow. Then he gave a twitch of his head, half nod, half spasm.
'In the back’ he hissed. Then, raising his chin, he bellowed over to the pot-boy: 'Eh, Lodovico! I’ll be in the back. Do not bother us, understand?'
I followed him through the door in the back of the room, which opened on to a short flight of stairs. We descended into a low-beamed cellar, earthen-floored, with walls of narrow bricks and hunks of marble. There were barrels everywhere, hams and sausages hung from the beams, and a soft light shone over all from a brace of fat candles that were melting slowly over a battered table at the far end. Marcho halted in the middle of the floor and faced me, arms crossed stolidly across his chest.
What do you mean by all this, boy?' he asked. His voice was cold, and suddenly I wondered if I had made an awful mistake. Nevertheless I bit my lip and pressed on, heart fluttering.
'I have sailed with Michel de Montalhac for two years’ I said determinedly, although I was all too aware of how hollow my voice sounded in this cave of a place. 'He saved my life. That is what he does, is it not? Save people, the unwanted, the persecuted? I am not a Good Christian. I... am nothing, an outcast from my own church, an exile from my home. I meant no offence, and I did not mean to alarm you, for I know
'Ah, boy, enough’ All of a sudden, Marcho looked bone-tired. He pointed to a barrel. 'Sit yourself down. You look ready to fall’ There was kindness in his voice now, at least a tinge. Yes, I am what the people of Toulouse call a Good Christian. My brothers and sisters call ourselves Patarani. There: you have the power to burn me now, as my brothers were burned six years ago in front of Santa Maria Maggiore. You see, they still make human sacrifice in Rome’
'I am sorry for it’ I said, sinking down on the barrel.
'Do not be: they made a good end, despite the baying of the mob’ He shrugged, that fatalistic shrug that I had seen Gilles and the Captain give a thousand times. 'Now, what is your trouble?'
'Captain de Montalhac has been in negotiation for a .. ‘ 'No! I do not need to know the details. It is business, yes?' I nodded. 'Then tell me the trouble that afflicts you now’ 'I am being followed. I have something that the men .. ‘ I closed my eyes for a moment, and saw yellow hair and sharp eyes. 'They are Venetians, I believe. I am carrying something they want. They will probably kill for it. It would be better if they killed me and lost this, than the alternative. As far as business goes, that is’ I added. He did not laugh, and I could not.
‘In the valise?' I nodded again. 'Give it to me.'
I made to open the satchel, but Marcho shook his head. 'Do not. Again, I do not need to know. I will not open it. What will you do?'
'I need to give this to the man it is intended for, but failing that, to the Captain himself’ I said. ‘I will ride north to Venice, for that is where the Cormaran is headed. But Rome is deadly to me now.'
'And you cannot leave today?'
I explained, as briefly as I could, that my lodgings lay in the Borgo, together with my horse and the money that Gilles had entrusted to me. They would be sure to have the Pons San Petri watched, and perhaps my rooms as well, though I doubted they knew where those lay. I would have to grab my belongings and my horse, and make a dash for it.
Marcho grunted when he had heard it all. 'You will have to cross to the south’ he said. 'Take the Jews' Bridge or Saint Mary's. Then work your way through the gardens under the Janiculum and round the back of Saint Peter's. They'll be watching the city side, not the country.'
'But I'll have to come back for ...' I nodded at the valise.
'No. I doubt you will be safe coming back over here, even on a horse.' He squinted at me, as if worrying a broken tooth. 'I will bring it to you’ he said finally. 'Ride north along the river. I will meet you at a place called Saxa Rubra, just beyond the Milvian Bridge.' He must have seen my look of shock, for he smiled for the first time. ‘I owe Michel a turn or two. Do not concern yourself about me: I will amble up the Via Lata with the rest of the bumpkins, as I do whenever I go to look over my vineyards. I’ve got a nice little farm picked out for myself when I leave this game, away over in Tolfa. No one will blink if they see me leaving town’
This was beyond hope, and I was so moved that I doubt I could have found enough words to thank him with had he not bustled me out of the cellar and walked with me to the door of the inn.
You are armed: know how to use it?'
'A bit’ I said.
'My advice? Do not. If they catch you, they'll be wanting this.' He tapped the bag. 'They will not harm you unless you give them reason. I know ... and you must know, boy, that there are men who are glad enough for a reason to spill blood. Right then. Tomorrow, the Saxa Rubra, around eight bells.'
What manner of place is that, Marcho?' I asked.
'Just some red rocks beyond the bridge. Don't you know your history, boy? In hoc signo vinces. Let us hope that they will mean victory for you. One more thing. Do you know what is in there?' He nodded at my valise. I hesitated, and shook my head.
'A ... a letter, for someone else’ I said.
'If you are risking your liver for it, I would read what it says, if I were you,' he said. 'Might not be worth it.' With a gruff nod he left me there and shut the door behind me.
I thought for a while, and then drew out the letter with the great leaden bull. It was sealed with wax, and I opened it carefully with Thorn, taking care to keep the seal intact. The candles threw their yellow light over illuminations and letters in a beautiful, snaking hand. There was much courtly and legal stuff, and I searched impatiently for the meat. It was a decree all right, a mandamentum, and it had to do with
Baldwin. But it was not addressed to him. It appeared - I could not entirely make sense of the legal curlicues - to be made out to the Captain himself, or to the company of the Cormaran.
It is the business of the pope to look after the interests of the Latin empire of Constantinople, I read, since it was taken from the schismatic Greeks with the approval of the papacy, and since it is the papacy s bulwark in the East against the Greeks and the Infidel.
There were more niceties, and then:
In support of the eastern province, in addition to the forgiveness of sins which we promise to those who, at their own expense, set out thither, and beside the papal protection which we give to tho
se who aid that land, we hereby decree by the paternal love which we have for you that whosoever offers for sale, sells, seeks to purchase or does purchase any and all of the holy relics of Our Lord and of His saints yet remaining in the city of Constantinople and its territories under the aegis of this decree shall have, by the power vested in us, dispensation to make any such transactions and absolution from simony, that the eastern province may accrue such riches as will shore up its defences and so carry out Gods will.
And there was the signature of Pope Gregory. I leaned back against the cobwebby bricks, my heart pounding. No wonder they were after me. I found an awl and heated its tip in the lantern flame, melted the wax and resealed the letter. Marso was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. He studied my face, but took the valise without a word and stood aside to let me pass.
As I crept south through the narrowest, stench-plagued alleys I could find, I sent up a thousand wordless prayers - to whom I knew not, for the god of the Cathars was a puzzle to me, and the god I had once served had ceased to listen to my prayers some time ago - for Marcho Antonio Marso. I had no doubt that he would be waiting for me in the morning with my valise and the papal bull. But whether or not I would make our rendezvous was another matter entirely. My predicament was now beginning to reveal itself to me, although I was still guessing as to the details. It was plain that something bad had befallen the hapless Baldwin de Courtenay. I doubted that he was dead: one did not kill an emperor, however petty, and stay to clear up the blood. So he might have been taken, against his will: hence the blood.
The man in the shadows had been Venetian. What had Baldwin said that day? I racked my brains, and fought my way down through hazy memories of the Captain aloof in his chair while Baldwin squirmed, and how young the emperor had looked, young and frantic. There: I had it. 'Very solidly in debt to Venice’ he had told us. Very anxious that the Republic did not know he was in Rome - or perhaps he had meant Italy. So the man was a creditor. But why abduct Baldwin, unless ... I sighed. He meant to hold the emperor as security, or ransom him. Christ's foreskin: Venice had repossessed Baldwin de Courtenay.
By this time I was drawing near to the fish market again, for I was back in the Jewish quarter. It was a good place to hide, for there was much to and fro of people, much noise and commerce. I found a rag-pickers' market set up in a little piazza and let myself fade into the corner. I needed to think. There was a stone bench on which two old men were sleeping, spittle crusting on their bristly chins. I sat down next to them and leaned back against the brick wall behind me.
The bull: there was no reason to believe that the Venetian knew anything about it. Baldwin had not been expecting any such thing, and the Captain had not known of it until Gregory had entrusted it to us. But to Baldwin's captor, any document from the pope might signify money, and that was why he had sent his creatures to pursue me. Or perhaps he believed I was a witness to his crime, whatever it had been, and had decided to silence me. If so, I was in mortal danger, for they would kill me out of hand. I preferred to believe that the document was drawing them on, if only to quell the icy fear that had settled in the pit of my belly.
It was late in the afternoon, and the little square had fallen into shadow. I had been keeping watch on the main entrance, but no one worrisome had come in or out. The rag-sellers were packing up now, but I realised that in my bright Venetian costume I was an easy mark and so I bought a ragged old traveller's cloak for a few pennies and threw it about my shoulders, much to the amusement of the gimlet-eyed merchant, who offered me silver for my cycladibus and tunic, and more if I would strip off my hose into the bargain.. I hesitated, though, for they were Anna's gift, and left the man shaking his head in disappointment.
So I lurked in my cloak, which carried the whiff of night-soil in its folds and made me feel somewhat unlike myself: a true disguise, I suppose, for as I slunk about, stinking, I began to feel as if I were sinking down into the understorey of the city: the human detritus that lies, like leaf mould in a wood, unnoticed underfoot as the better sort of folk go about their business with their noses turned up. I wandered the streets, keeping to the shadows, pausing once to take a cup of wine at a fisherman's tavern near the river, but not yet daring to step out on to the open ground that lay between the buildings and the water. I had already decided that I would take the Jews' Bridge, for the bridges over to the Tiber Island were less crowded, and I did not like the look of the towers that guarded them. I found another tavern, barely worthy of the name and haunted only by broken-down folk to whom my vile cloak no doubt seemed like a king’s ermine. It stank of unwashed tripe and forgotten fish-heads. I was served wine, of a sort, by a young wench with limp whitish hair and a double chin who made sheep's eyes at me and dangled her tits in my face as she poured out my vinegary drink. But I could, by craning my neck, see the end of the Jews' Bridge and the traffic going to and fro upon it, still busy as dusk came on with folk going back to their houses in Trastevere. I thought I would cross with the crowds, but as I watched I knew I had missed my chance for that. Courage would have seized the moment, but instead I had skulked in a dead man's cloak. Tra-la. I would have to wait until dark, then.
I pretended to drink my wine, but then bought myself some more time by draining my cup of its foul contents and suffering a second helping. The wine was scouring my insides, and as my guts were already roiling in fear and anticipation I was starting to feel quite horrible. But the sun was setting at last behind the Janiculum and now the shadows on the banks of the Tiber were growing. Another cup of infernal wine and I could leave.
My stomach was beginning to feel as if it were filled with burning coals, and the pain was making me wince. A wave of it struck me and I screwed my eyes shut against the raw agony. When I looked up I was staring into the face of the woman from the White Hound.
You going to finish that?' she enquired, nodding at the cup which I was gripping with pale knuckles.
What?' I said, surprise making a mooncalf of me.
'Because I wouldn't. Finish it. Honest.' To my mangled wits came the information that she was speaking English, London English.
Why not?' I stammered
'It'll kill you. Now then, time to go. Come on, love.' I looked at her, bereft of words.
'Has this stuff burned your tongue out? Because you don't say much. I took you for a clever one.' With cool fingers she prised my own from the cup. 'Makes no odds. Time to go outside.'
I stood up, for it struck me that one woman could be overpowered, or merely run from. But she followed me with those eyes. Where is the bag?' she asked, mildly curious, or so it sounded. I watched her for an instant.
'I took it back to the Lateran,' I said. 'After the Pantheon. I thought you meant to rob me, and it was not enough of my affair to ...'
'Have I put you to any bother?' she asked, sweetly. 'Come on. You are not in the pay of the Curia. You are Jean de Sol's man.'
What makes you think so? And who is this Jean de Sol?' I added hurriedly.
'The man in whose company you visited His Majesty Baldwin of Romania a couple of weeks ago.'
'I don't know—'
'Please. Put a stopper in it. Innkeepers talk. Servants never stop talking. And surly Frenchies, even, if you ask them nice enough. We know, all right?'
You don't. You cannot. And what have you done with Baldwin, for God's sake? What was that blood you were scrubbing away?'
'Not that you care, of course, for you know nothing, do you? Someone had a nosebleed, my sweet. Do not worry: Baldwin is our guest. And now, out. We are upsetting these nice people.'
I saw no evidence of that, save for the looks that the serving girl was giving us, enough to curdle milk. I stood up. We would walk to the door, and I would run. This girl would not catch me in her skirts. And I still had my knife.
Well done - oh, don't forget to pay!' she scolded, blue eyes flaying me. Flustered again, I threw a handful of pennies on to the table, turned on my heel and made for the door. I heard her chair sc
rape behind me, but I was pushing past the fat serving maid, now positively squinting with displeasure, and lifting the latch I stepped out into the warm dusk. Except that it was not dusk. While I had sat there in the tavern the sun had departed and night had fallen. I hesitated, confused, trying to get my bearings. A fisherman's fire burned on the river bank to my left, and torches flickered in the street. I took off, heading for the river, thinking to sprint for the bridge, but as I rounded the corner of the tavern wall I slammed into something and fell back hard on to my arse.
‘Pick him up, Dardi,' called the blue-eyed woman in broad Venetian. I looked up into a broad, bearded face, smiling nastily. Hands like farriers' tongs grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me upright.
'Salve’ said Dardi, not letting go. A hand snaked round my waist, fingers just brushing the top of my groin, and relieved me of Thorn. The woman took the knife and admired it.
'Ooh, how pretty,' she exclaimed. 'Thank you, gentle sir!'
'Don't cut yourself,' I said in English, through gritted teeth.
'I'll try not to,' she whispered back. She stepped in front of me. I saw that she had two companions: the man called Dardi, who released me, and another man, tall and slim, who in the same moment produced a long, slim, double-edged dagger.
‘Please give us the pope's document’ he said pleasantly. We have no quarrel with you, boy.'
'I don't have it’ I told him, hoarsely. 'Ask her.' Well, Signora Letitia?'
'He claims he took it back to the Lateran. I don't believe him. In any event he does not have it now’ said the fair woman.
The Vault of Bones Page 15
