I could not find any way of opening, but Godfrey took it from me and ran his fingers lightly along the bottom. There was a click.
‘There we are!’ he said. ‘They like their little games, these wops!’
Carefully I lifted up the lid and gasped in horror.
The casket was filled with small bones, mainly fingers and toes.
‘Let’s see,’ said Godfrey. ‘Hello! we’ve got ourselves a saint here, I reckon. Perhaps one or two unless you know of one with five thumbs!’
‘Not Mark!’ I said tremulously, taking a step back.
‘Oh no. He went up in smoke a couple of centuries ago, though they claimed he rose up from the ashes and doubtless they’ve got something they say is him buried in the crypt. This could be anyone. Isidor, Donatus, a bit of Nicolas. They “borrowed” them all! Still, whoever it is, we don’t want him.’
And, so saying, he tipped the bones onto the floor and handed me the casket.
‘Fill it up with those pearls,’ he commanded. ‘Mustn’t waste space.’
I looked with horror at the tiny bones which strewed the floor which, when he saw, Godfrey mocked, saying, ‘Are you afraid they’ll join and pursue you, Carlo? You silly Croat! Look.’
And he stamped upon them, grinding most to a dust which he then kicked all over the room.
‘Good-bye, saints!’ he said. ‘Now we’d best get moving. Felicia will be catching her death of cold in that orchard.’
Mention of Felicia made me swallow my scruples and I hastily concluded my part of the packing. But I was mightily relieved to get out of the church without divine retribution striking me down, and as we moved as swiftly through the darkened streets as our plunder would permit us, I thought unhappily that God must be either powerless or a fool if He let me get away with what I’d done that night. First I’d broken my solemn pact with Him by screwing my loved one’s sister; then I’d helped to break into His Treasury and steal His holy treasure; and finally I’d stood by and watched His holy saints’ bones scattered on the floor and ground into dust.
But instead of retribution, He seemed bent on smoothing my path. We met no one at all in our passage through the streets and we reached the quiet rio where Godfrey had his gondola moored without even the threat of incident.
Godfrey was as expert at the gondolier’s oar as he was at all other things physical, and he drove us swiftly and quietly through the quiet waters, except when there was a movement on the side and a small patrol of soldiers appeared bearing lanterns. Then our motion along the canal became more erratic and Godfrey crooned a gentle drunken song, replying to the soldiers’ challenge with a formal bow which almost tumbled him into the water. Someone laughed, a command was given, the lanterns moved on and the danger was past.
Soon aferwards we entered a narrow canal with no path along the bank and I came out from beneath the canopy.
‘Godfrey,’ I hissed.
‘Yes, my sweet, my love,’ he replied archly.
‘Who are we collecting first?’ I asked. ‘Felicia or Zanetta?’
There was a pause then he answered with a laugh, ‘Felicia, I think. For I do believe, Carlo, that your need is greater than mine.’
I did not care much for this lightness and in fact my feelings generally were very confused as I came nearer to this rendezvous which had been the focus of my life these past weeks. I longed to see my love, but doubted if I still had the right so to call her. Should I perhaps confess what had passed between me and Margharita? No, young though I was, I had sense enough to realize that in love as in law, confession is the last child of necessity.
Now we had turned once again into a stagnant dead end on both sides of which ran a high grey wall. Straight ahead was a door with a flight of steps running down into the water and moored by these was another gondola. As we drew along-side, Godfrey leapt lightly onto the steps and tied our craft to the same ring as the other.
‘Is this the convent?’ I whispered.
‘Aye. Behind these walls lies the Prioress’s orchard,’ he said. ‘Rest here but a moment and I will pluck its juiciest apple for you.’
‘What of this other gondola?’ I inquired anxiously.
‘Doubtless ’tis one left here for the Prioress’s own use,’ he answered negligently. ‘Never fear, young Carlo. All will be well.’
So saying he went up the steps, fitted a key to the well-oiled lock and next moment had passed from sight.
I sat in the gondola in a fever of anxiety and expectation. And so I would have remained had not the sound of another vessel on the water disturbed me. It was passing along the canal which we had just turned off and the chances were that whoever it was would have no reason to turn up this back-water. But suddenly a little wind blew up and the orchard door which Godfrey had left ajar swung wide in the draught.
I leapt out of the gondola in a trice and caught the door before it could bang against the wall, then I froze on the steps till the dark silhouette of the passing gondola had slid by the mouth of the rio.
Sighing with relief I stood up. Through the doorway I could see trees still bright with the blossom of early summer, which shifted and rustled in the breeze like brocaded gowns on a ballroom floor.
I could wait no longer. This was a place more fitting for my reunion than these slippery steps without. Silently, eagerly I moved into the orchard.
The blossom seemed to catch and reflect what light drifted down from the stars and I could see quite well. Also I could hear voices softly murmuring and towards these I made my way. Against the far wall ran trellis-work arched from time to time to form little arbours, entwined with roses and climbing lilies, and it was in one of these that I at last located them, or at least I guessed it was them, though the outline was single. Godfrey’s tall shape I recognized and by it, clinging so close it might have been part of it, another shape.
My first thought was the only possible thought for a young man looking on a man he regarded as at least half a god.
Zanetta! I thought. She has arrived here also. That explains the other gondola. God’s lust! is it so long since they met that they must couple on greeting, and in this place too! Aye, and doubtless in the presence of my sweet, my pure Felicia.
Where is she? I asked myself, part angry, part anxious. There was a movement in the trees behind me and to my left, and my night-sharp eyes picked out a figure through the blossomy branches which trailed the ground. Certain that this was my love, I moved quietly in that direction. As I drew near, I could see that it was indeed a woman, cloaked and hooded and staring with the fascination of (I assumed) disgust at the hot pair in the arbour.
‘Felicia!’ I murmured.
Slowly she turned, and my heart, fast beating with pure passion, seemed to rocket up my gullet and explode like a grenado in my head. I speak in pictures, but these have meaning for, certes, since that time neither my heart nor my head have been the same. For this was not Felicia, my love, my leman, pure as the nun should be that they had tried to make her.
This was Zanetta.
I knew what was happening straightaway, but I tried to ignore it.
‘You are most punctual, Zanetta,’ I murmured inanely.
‘Not so,’ she whispered. ‘For I should not be here at all. But I am one of those fools who must see for herself.’
‘See what?’ Such foolish words!
‘See that she is cozened by the gay plumes of a midden cock. Well, I have seen it. I will not give him the pleasure of knowing I have seen it!’
She turned to go, then hesitated.
‘Carlo,’ she said, still keeping her voice low so not to disturb the close-clutched pair in the arbour. ‘Did you know of this?’
‘Nothing,’ I said brokenly. ‘I know nothing. Stay, Zanetta, we are all going away together. The plans are laid. Did not Godfrey….’
My voice gave out on me.
‘I knew nothing but what I guessed and what you let slip today,’ she said urgently. ‘It was easy to guess which orchard, and
there have been rumours. … Carlo, come with me now! Here it is most dangerous for you, I know it!’
But I could not admit danger, for that meant admitting everything, and still in my mind there struggled a last forlorn hope that all might be explained, like some half-witted hero in a rout running towards the enemies’ guns!
I pulled free of Zanetta’s restraining hand and, slow as a man haled to the gallows, I advanced towards the arbour. I made no effort now at silence and they heard me when I was still a dozen feet away.
‘Carlo?’ said Godfrey. ‘Is that you, friend? Have you grown impatient for your love? Why then, advance and claim your bride!’
I saw his hot hands come from beneath her gown and her slender white arms from around his neck, yet my mind still tried not to believe it. And when she looked at me and smiled as I drew close to them, I saw not the whore’s smile it was but the pure welcoming joy of my virginal Felicia. And Godfrey’s arm which curved around me I still felt as the safe and loving embrace of a brother.
When his fist chopped down into my neck, I believed someone else must be attacking me! He followed it up with a blow to the belly which knocked what strength remained out of my body, though it was hardly necessary as final recognition of the truth had completely destroyed my will.
‘Ever the impatient lover Carlo!’ said Godfrey reprovingly. ‘And now we must bear your weight back with us. Come, my lady, will you not assist your eager groom?’
And at last my arm was about Felicia in the embrace I’d dreamt of for so long, as they dragged my unresisting body between them towards the orchard door.
What happened next I saw only as in a drugged vision, where forms move slow and horrors are performed and the dreamer is helpless or perhaps even cares not.
Zanetta – lovely, sophisticated, heartless, betrayed and brave Zanetta – sprang from among the trees, though to me it was as if she floated. Mouthing abuse which sounded like the drawn-out cries of a hunting wolf in a neighbouring valley, she tried to pull me from their clutches. Godfrey released me and I heard the long silvery sigh of steel coming from its scabbard. Then Zanetta was falling backwards into the darkness and the long sigh was coming from her mouth. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, I was in a gondola and Godfrey was thrusting handfuls of jewels and coins into my doublet. Conscience money? I wondered vaguely. I didn’t want it. Felicia, it seemed, agreed with me. For the first time I heard her gentle voice.
‘Must it be so much?’ she demanded.
‘There’s plenty more,’ Godfrey assured her. ‘Remember, it serves two purposes; it makes his guilt clear, and also weighs him down deep. He has a tiresome habit of surfacing, this one. There, that will do. Now your wimple. Wrap it tight round his hand and catch it under his nails so it will hold. There, that will win him some tears, I never doubt, perhaps even a Christian burial! I would not have them think you altogether evil, Carlo. You may have died ’neath the weight of your sacrilegious booty, but at least your last effort was to try and save this innocent virgin’s life!’
Now I felt myself beginning to float away again, to death this time I hoped. And so did Godfrey for, whistling a sad little barcarole, he began stabbling holes in the bottom of the gondola. Satisfied at last, he rose up, and I managed to push myself upright also for one last look at my treacherous love who was paddling the other gondola alongside. But Godfrey mistook my intention and saying, ‘What? Still at it, my phoenix!’ he struck me once more so that I collapsed face down in the water which was already bubbling up through the riven boards.
The gondola shook as Godfrey left it.
‘Good-bye, my friend,’ his voice said sadly. ‘Here our ways must part. Good-bye. Good-bye.’
And so unmanned was I by this, my first experience of such betrayal, that I swear that under the water my mouth opened to give him a bubbly ‘farewell’ in return!
17
IT takes a Venetian gaoler to reckon that the best way of reviving a half-drowned man is by throwing a tubful of water over him.
I was reluctant to come back to life and my wisdom was confirmed when I opened my eyes.
‘Come on, come on,’ growled the wizened turnkey who loomed over me. ‘Their eminences wants to speak with you, urgent.’
I knew even while I was still exhaling as much water as breath that I was back in the pozzi and that ‘their eminences’ were no less than my old friends, the Three. I knew also that my previous contact with them had been mere polite socialization compared with what was like to follow now. But this time I had a weapon they knew not of. Indifference.
The gaoler pulled me to my feet. He was a man of such antiquity that a child might have pushed him over, but I was so weak in body and in will that I made no show of resistance.
He led me like a pet lamb to the same darkened chamber as on my first visit – at least I assume it was the same though on neither occasion could I see a thing. After some minutes or, for all I cared, hours, the whispering started.
I heard them tell me that I had been found with my hair snagged on a pier below the Rialto, ‘like the rebellious Absalom’, with part of a nun’s robe clutched in my hand and my doublet stuffed with precious stones. I heard them tell me that I was guilty of every crime, civil and ecclesiastic, known to man and that, using the Multiplication of Sins, what I had got up to in the basilica that night amounted to something of a record. I heard them ask at the climax of a crescendo of indignation what fate such a miserable wretch as I deserved.
Then, and for the only time, I spoke.
‘Pain,’ I said. ‘Death. Damnation.’
The whispering ceased and shortly afterwards I was taken from the room – to be given my wish, I guessed.
Instead I was taken to a small but well-furnished apartment with a fire crackling merrily in the grate. A suit of new clothes hung on the wall and a pleasant young fellow removed the sodden garments from my nerveless limbs, towelled my aching body and assisted me into the new clothes. Then he served me with a well-cooked repast for which I had but little appetite. But so amiably insistent was he that I picked at the tender meat as best I could and, more willingly in my search for oblivion, drank half a bottle of the fine red wine that accompanied it.
Oblivion did not come, but something else began to stir. Anger. The young servitor was prattling away aimlessly all the time and as his words at last began to penetrate I realized he was talking about his plans for the future, his fiancée, her strident mother, his hopes of advancement, his anticipation of the pleasures of the Ascension Fair ….
At last I could stand no more.
‘Enough!’ I shouted and, seizing his shoulders, I ran him out of the room. But as I turned to re-enter, I in my turn was gripped by the shoulder, not violently but very firmly, and a huge sergeant of the Ducal Guard marched me swiftly along a corridor, down a flight of stairs to an open door. Here he stood back courteously and motioned me to enter, which when I did, he closed the door behind me as gently as though I had been shown into a lady’s boudoir.
But this was no boudoir. There were no tapestries here; no damasked hangings; no thick-piled carpets, perfumed candles and cosseted flesh. No, it was all cold stone and bare brick, ill-lit by a pair of guttering flambeaux. But poor though that light was, I could have wished it worse, for it sufficed to show me the furniture of that room – the rack, the maiden, the boot, all the dreadful instruments which Church and State alike use to hunt out the treachery in a man’s soul.
But flesh there was here too. From the furthermost corner came a groan and tremulously I approached what looked like a tall-sided coffin lying amidst a pile of rocks. So dark was it in that corner of the room that I could see nothing when first I peered into that sinister apparatus, but something could see me for the groan was repeated, then a voice broken beyond recognition said, ‘Carlo?’
I ran to the wall, plucked down one of the smoky flambeaux and, returning to the box, flourished it aloft as though challenging the powers of darkness. The flam
e sent its uncertain light dancing down a huge mound of stones till it touched on a bearded face at their foot, a face almost contorted out of recognition by pain. But I recognized it.
‘Jaraj?’ I said. ‘Oh, Jaraj!’
I never thought the sight of that tremendous villain in extremis could cause me anything but joy.
Yet now I saw him weighed down beneath a weight of boulders, half of which would have killed a lesser man, I felt an uprush of tears as though he had been my brother.
‘What have they done to you?’ I sobbed foolishly.
Incredibly he managed a sort of grin.
‘They tired of their work before I did,’ he whispered slowly each word coming out as a separate act of will. ‘Tell me now, it harms not, what of Godislav?’
Brokenly I sobbed out an account of Godfrey and his doings until the final treachery.
‘Ever he was thus,’ came that low agonized voice.
‘He led you well!’ I was constrained to protest, absurdly in the light of my own experience.
‘He took all our wealth, sold our secrets to the Turk.’
‘No!’
‘Aye! When I returned to Senj, all gone. Our stronghold raided. He never meant to return from Venice. All should have died – you too. Aye, Carlo, you too. ’Tis a dead man who speaks. Believe him.’
Now followed a silence so profound I thought he was indeed dead. My mind ran back over our arrival in Venice. Could it be true? I saw now that I had run all risks of contact with the Venetians. Was I too meant to have sunk with the exploded ship? And afterwards was it only my dog-like fidelity which had saved me from his rapid knife?
‘Carlo.’
It was Jaraj again.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘For my sake, for the sake of your memory of Dusanka, kill him.’
What fond memories did he imagine I had of his gross daughter. I’d never even managed to screw the girl! But this was no time to argue over terms.
‘Not for your sake, Jaraj,’ I cried. ‘Nor even Dusanka’s memory. But my own.’
The Forging of Fantom Page 20
