Celia looked sulky. ‘Oh, very well, Father. I promise.’
‘And so do I,’ said Ned a little reluctantly.
‘Excellent. Excellent,’ said Master Ashby, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now then, Ned, let’s get these letters written. It’s important they go off this very day.’
-M- 7 2 -y>-
Flying dreams
lhe letters were duly finished and sent. The rest of the day wore on. Though Ned had feared that ‘tiresome business’ would fill the afternoon, taking him away from Celia’s side, it didn’t turn out like that. Dr Leone, who seemed eager to make amends to the two young people for his harshness, took them and his friend Ashby on a tour of his laboratory.
It was a large, airy, light room. In one corner was a small curtained altar, for alchemists started their day’s work with prayer and meditation. Animal skeletons and
bunches of dried medicinal herbs hung from the ceiling, and on the whitewashed walls strange symbols and colourful figures of birds had been painted: a raven, a swan, a peacock, a pelican, and a phoenix. There were two large tables in the centre of the room, covered in retorts, crucibles, alembics, tripods, crystallization dishes, a couple of human skulls, and other paraphernalia of the alchemist’s art. On one of these tables something was distilling: a bubbling liquid of a silvery colour. One wall was lined with shelves, which were filled with vials, bottles, and jars, most of which contained powdered metals and liquids. There were several adjoining rooms: one which housed the furnaces, for the melting and refining of metals, the others where extra supplies and equipment were kept. It was a very fine setup; in fact, said Dr Leone without false modesty, he thought it was one of the most sophisticated and well-equipped laboratories not only in Venice, or even Italy, but in the whole of Europe. ‘It’s not just how it’s set up either,’ he explained, ‘it’s that the work I’m doing is unique. No one else is attempting anything like it.’
Most alchemists spent their lives in the search for the Philosopher’s Stone, the magical ingredient that would not only deliver the method by which base metals could be turned into gold, but also produce the Elixir of Life, which would make men immortal. It was while Dr Leone was still working on these traditional questions of alchemy, many years ago, that Master
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Ashby had first met him. But now, he had branched out into a different field.
‘The practise of alchemy teaches us that in order to free the spirit to perform extraordinary things, we must become as birds,’ he explained. ‘We must ascend from the first stage, the darkness of the mind, represented by the raven, to the light of the swan, then the multicoloured realm of the peacock, and through the sacrifice of the pelican to the triumphant rebirth of the phoenix. We are rebirthed through that flight of the spirit. But for me this is not just a spiritual practise. I believe it can be done in body, in fleshy reality.’ His eyes shone. ‘Have you ever had flying dreams, my friends?’
They nodded.
‘Why is it that in dreams we can fly? When we have flying dreams, we feel it in our bodies, our sinews and bones, as if it were in fact real.’
‘But, sir, how can we know that’s what flying really feels like?’ asked Ned. ‘We’re not birds! I mean, if we’ve never done it. . .’
‘That’s just it,’ said Dr Leone. ‘I believe we have. Through my meditations, I came upon this extraordinary insight: what if dreams of flying are reminders of an earlier time, when we were not yet sinful mortals but closer to God in all things? Not birds, but more like angels. What if alchemy offers some way of recapturing that lost ability, just as finding the Philosopher’s Stone and distilling the Elixir of Life could bring us the immortality of
-M- 7 5 •>->
angels? It is known that occasionally people have attempted to fly, and so I began studying a few proven instances of it.’
‘I’ve heard it said at home that witches sometimes fly,’ said a wide-eyed Ned. ‘They smear an ointment on themselves and then they can do it.’
‘Fern-seed ointment, reputedly obtained from the fairies,’ put in Dr Leone with a faint smile. ‘I’ve heard of that too, young Ned. I’ve also heard that they call on the Devil to help them. But I believe the whole thing to be a lie, a claim made by witches to make themselves seem cleverer than they really are. No, I’m afraid those silly, deluded women have got nothing to teach me. The instances I have studied were of real cases: for instance, a fellow alchemist by the name of John Damian, who last century made himself a pair of wings and took off from the ramparts of Stirling Castle, in Scotland.’
‘What happened?’ cried Ned.
‘Oh, he just fell and broke his thigh,’ said Dr Leone. ‘But that was because he was wrong to look at flight in that manner, as if he were Icarus. Another more interesting case was that of the alchemist known as Mira- colo, right here in Venice, more than a hundred years ago—’
‘My dear Orlando,’ broke in Master Ashby. ‘I remember you telling me what happened to him. I wish you would not invoke his name so freely.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Dr Leone, ‘and people
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were much more superstitious then. Poor Miracolo was a man ahead of his time, a martyr to science. He really did learn the secret of flight. You know, like Serafin, the Kabbalist with whom I’m studying, he was from Alexandria. He wasn’t a Jew, though. His mother was a Venetian who had gone to Alexandria and stayed; his father was a very wealthy Alexandrian merchant—Greek, I think. Miracolo came to Venice to visit his mother’s people and settled in the city for a few years. He was actually seen to take off from the Rialto bridge one moonlit night and fly three times over the city. Without any wings! Or fern-seed ointment either,’ he added, winking at Ned. ‘Mateo is right—he finished badly. His enemies claimed that Miracolo had made a pact with the Devil and that he was guilty of unspeakable crimes. Because he refused to divulge his secret, he was tried on a charge of sorcery and sentenced to death. But before they could burn him at the stake he killed himself in prison. His secret died with him—his servants, taking fright at his fate, burned all his papers, and his laboratory was razed to the ground. But in my studies and my experiments I think I am beginning to reconstruct the steps he took to reach his goal—human flight without fake wings or other foolish mechanical aids. Isn’t that so, Mateo?’
‘From what you’ve told me since we arrived, you’ve done some very interesting experiments,’ said Ashby cautiously, ‘but as I told you earlier, my dear friend,
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I thought you were straying into rather dangerous territory. Take care, Orlando. We do not want Miracolo’s sad fate to befall you.’
‘Oh, as I said, people were much more superstitious back then,’ said Dr Leone airily. ‘Things have changed now.’
‘But if the Countess Montemoro has already tried to accuse you of sorcery . . .’
‘She was just laughed at. She cannot do anything to me. I’m no powerless Jewish girl,’ said Dr Leone tartly, ‘or indeed a foreigner like poor Miracolo. Besides, it is not just me who is interested in seeing whether humans can be enabled to fly. There is interest from the very highest reaches of the state.’ He paused. ‘Imagine if an army could have a squadron of flying fighters? Imagine if spies could wing their way into enemy territory? The state that possessed such a secret could become immensely powerful.’
‘Last century, Leonardo da Vinci had the idea of ships of the air, craft that could sail the skies like boats ply the waters,’ said Master Ashby.
Dr Leone shrugged. ‘Mere fancies, in my opinion. Such heavy, inanimate things could never fly. What is much more likely is that I can unlock the secret that will make us relearn what was once an ancestral ability. I believe it can be done—and in my lifetime.’ His eyes shone. ‘Imagine, my friends, being able to leave the confines of
earth and sail up into the sky! Why, if this works, I’ll be remembered as the man who revolutionized the history of our race!’
Celia said brightly, ‘Oh,
it would be a wonderful, wonderful thing, Dr Leone!’
‘But, Orlando, thousands of alchemists have laboured mightily over the years to create the Philosopher’s Stone,’ said Master Ashby, ‘and yet none has succeeded. This is an even more difficult undertaking.’
‘What of it?’ said Dr Leone carelessly. ‘What’s worth doing is worth risking for.’
‘But, Orlando—’
‘Don’t worry, Mateo, I’m not risking that much,’ said Dr Leone with a smile. ‘Not with the backing of my powerful patrons.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Ned slowly. ‘I can see why a person might want to fly, for the sheer joy of it. But the rest, Dr Leone? Flying fighters? Winged spies? It sounds terrible. How could anybody protect themselves against such monsters?’
Dr Leone shook his head with a pitying smile. ‘They won’t be monsters, boy. They will be humans as we should be—masters of the sky as well as the earth and the sea.’
‘Nobody is master of those except God,’ said Ned, flushing.
‘Of course not—not in that way,’ said Dr Leone
smoothly. ‘But we were given dominion over the world—were we not?—and so this would all be in God’s plan.’ ’
Ned didn’t argue any more. What was the use? Dr Leone was much cleverer than he was. And Celia was looking at him as though she thought he was a narrowminded, blinkered specimen indeed. And so maybe I am, he thought miserably. Maybe I am. She wont miss me when I’m dead.
Bosco Alley
Suppertime came. Not such nice food this time—Dr Leone had rather mischievously ordered what he said was a Venetian delicacy: fried frogs, sprinkled with cheese. But Ned was so worried about time ticking on towards the duel that he scarcely noticed what he was eating.
Time passed. The women left to go back to the Marinetti mansion. The Leone household prepared for bed. Alone in his small room, Ned was wakeful. He had to wait until everyone was asleep, then creep out of the house. Everything would be locked, but his room was
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on the ground floor, and so it would be quite easy to climb out of the window. He would have to take care to dodge the Watch, or whoever it was kept order on the
streets of Venice by night. He could be mistaken for a
*
thief, or some other sort of malefactor. Or perhaps an English spy. And he’d heard Venetian prisons were hellholes and Venetian interrogators hard and cruel. Agh, he thought for the hundredth time that night, what sort of a thrice-cursed fool am I, to have let my reckless tongue run away with me and embroil me in this stupid , stupid thing!
Also for the hundredth time that night, he took his sword out of its scabbard and looked at it. It was a good, serviceable thing, but there was nothing fancy about it. Henri d’Arcy would likely have the latest in deadly weapons. And he had probably been taught fencing, properly, from a real master, not just a demobbed soldier; he probably knew all kinds of dangerous fancy moves.
At last, Ned thought he could not delay any longer. The moon was nearly full that night, and now that the rain had stopped, the night was very clear. He slipped out through the window, left the shutters slightly ajar behind him, and set off through the nighttime streets, back to Cannaregio.
He made good time and proceeded without incident, though once or twice he had to dodge into dark doorways and behind walls to avoid a Watch patrol.
-H- 8 2
Otherwise, apart from the odd cat slinking around, the streets were deserted.
The Bosco Alley was a narrow, dingy little cobbled passage that ran between two streets. A few tall, shuttered houses lined it, cutting off nearly all the light. It was quite deserted, the cobblestones still slick from the rain. Clearly, Henri had not yet arrived. Yet somehow Ned felt very exposed there, nervous. He didn’t want to wait in the open.
Just down from the corner was a deep doorway. He settled into the shadows to wait. And wait. After a while, he realized he had been so nervous that he must have arrived far too early. As the minutes crept by, the nervous tension he’d been under slowly started to relax. Tiredness crept over him. He had woken early that morning, and it was very late. His eyelids began to droop, though he tried hard to keep his eyes open. He must be ready for Henri.
Suddenly, he was jerked out of drowsiness by the creak of a door further down the alley. Then hurrying footsteps from the opposite direction. Ned’s heart thudded. This was it! He was just about to step out and show himself to Henri when the hurrying footsteps ceased suddenly and a voice said softly but clearly, ‘ Capitano?’
Ned was startled. That wasn’t Henri’s voice. It was Matthew Ashby’s! What on earth was he doing here? Has he followed me? thought Ned. But no, it's been at
8 3 ■>>*
least three-quarters of an hour since I got here . What's going on?
He peered briefly from his hiding place, taking care to keep in the shadow of the doorway. The moon had risen, and in its silver light he could see the two figures standing there, at either end of the alley. One was the unmistakeable, stout figure of Master Ashby. The other was tall, broad-shouldered, military-looking. But under his hat, he wore a half-face mask, so that Ned could see nothing of his features in the moonlight, except for a livid scar that bisected the lower part of his left cheek.
Ned’s mind whirled. Ashby had said ‘Capitano .’ That meant ‘Captain’ in Italian. Suddenly, he remembered his employer saying how his move would be to question the Ghetto guards. They were based not far away, near the canal. Yes. It made sense. This man had a military bearing. The scar on his cheek looked like an old sword-cut. He must be a captain of the guard, and Ashby must have arranged to meet him, in secret. That also explained the mask. The man didn’t want passersby to see who he was.
Well! The merchant was certainly keeping his cards close to his chest, thought Ned, rather disgruntled as he remembered the way his employer had made him promise not to go off on private investigations.
Master Ashby came further down the alley, towards the waiting captain. As he passed Ned’s hiding place, Ned kept very still. He didn’t want Ashby to see him.
-H- 8 4 ■>>•
He could surely imagine that Ned had followed him and get really angry.
As he reached the soldier, Ashby said something cheerfully in Italian. The other man said something rapid, in a harsh voice, and Ned heard Ashby say in astonishment, f ScusiV
All at once, the night seemed to erupt, as three, four, five black shapes poured from an opened window, right onto Master Ashby, who gave a little cry and went down with a thump. Without stopping to think, Ned sprang out of his hiding place, brandishing his sword. He threw himself on the back of one of the dark shapes, trying to bring him down. In the next instant he felt a ringing blow to the side of the head. In the flash of time before he crashed senseless to the ground, he saw Master Ashby struggling feebly as the dark figures tied his limbs, threw a cloth over him, and stooped rapidly to pick him up. Faintly, from far away, he heard a shout and running footsteps, then nothing.
The next thing he knew, sometime later, was the sight of a face bent over him. It was a familiar one. ‘Henri!’ he croaked. He tried to get up.
‘Don’t,’ said Henri. He was flushed, as if he’d been running. ‘You look terrible,’ he observed. ‘You’ve got a bruise the size of a pigeon’s egg on your head.’
‘Those men . . . Did you . . .’
-M- 8 5 ■>>
‘They ran off before I could get close to them,’ said Henri briefly. ‘They disappeared into that house over there. I did not fancy tackling them in there; there were rather too many of them. Besides, I didn’t know how many others might be with them.’ He looked at Ned. ‘What happened? Why did they attack you? They didn’t look like ordinary footpads.’
‘Not—not me,’ stammered Ned, struggling to sit up. His head swam and he saw stars. He groaned.
‘I told you, lie still for a moment,’ said Henri. ‘You cannot do anything right now, anyway. Now tell me, what happened? W
hy do you say “not me”? You were the only other person I saw here.’
‘The men—weren’t they carrying . . .’ Ned’s mouth felt dry.
‘I could not see clearly, but they did have a bundle wrapped in cloth, or something of the kind.’ Henri’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you mean to say, Ned, that you chanced upon some dark deed? Robbery? A murder?’
‘Dear God, I hope not!’ cried Ned, thinking of Sale- rio, the agent who’d been murdered by footpads. ‘But he was alive when they took him, I’m sure of that. Oh, Henri, it was Master Ashby—he’d come here to meet someone, but it was a trap. I tried to help. . . .’
‘And got knocked out for your pains,’ said Henri. He looked thoughtful. ‘They did not kill you, though they could easily have done,’ he remarked. ‘That’s interesting.’
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‘Interesting,’ groaned Ned, holding his sore head. ‘Very interesting indeed.’
‘I just mean they obviously were not intent on murder,’ said Henri coolly. ‘Not yours, so probably not the good Ashby’s either, or they’d not have left a breathing witness. So. It follows they were most likely not hired killers, but sent on a specific mission: to capture your employer. Now, who would want to do that? And why?’
‘Oh, Lord,’ said Ned faintly. ‘I suppose it’s because he was getting too close.’
‘To what?’ Henri folded his arms.
Ned hesitated.
‘It’s no use hedging with me, Ned. You’re going to have to tell me what’s going on.’
‘But. . .’ Ned sat up very cautiously, with Henri helping him to lean against the wall. ‘You and I, we were supposed to . . .’
‘We can hardly fight a duel with you in that condition,’ said Henri drily. ‘For me, it would be too easy. Hardly honourable.’
Ned snapped, ‘I can still— Ouch!’ He broke off, wincing. ‘My head really hurts.’
‘We can always fight the duel some other time, if you really insist,’ said Henri lightly. ‘But for now we must try and help your employer. Do you agree?’
The Madman of Venice Page 6
