“It isn’t s-safe.”
“Bianca, we must go,” Alessandra said.
Tears streamed down Bianca’s cheeks as she turned to her mistress. “My lady, what has happened?”
“I don’t know, but I fear a trap. We must leave at once.”
They got back into the gondola and Paolo rowed them outside, into the canal.
“Signorina Rossetti.” A man’s voice came from out of the fog. A gondola blocked the canal; through the mist she saw that it was filled with the red-and-blue-liveried soldiers of the Missier Grande, the Council of Ten’s special police force. “Signorina Rossetti,” the voice said again, “you must come with us.”
His attire marked him as Venetian, but he was unlike any Venetian Antonio had ever seen. The man who faced him in the Crooked Alley of Secrets reminded him of the Mongol slaves he’d seen in Sicily—except for the blue eyes that peered out from his wide, angular face with an intensity that chilled Antonio’s soul. This man was no one’s menial, clearly, but a confident swordsman of his own age or thereabouts who advanced toward Antonio with a long, shining rapier pointed right at his heart.
At first Antonio had thought that the five men who’d set upon them at Giovanna’s house were thieves lured by the sumptuous chest they carried in their gondola. He’d killed two of them, but once Nico had fallen, he’d made his escape rather than face three alone. He had imagined that the thieves would stay there, to carry off the goods, and hoped that he would be able to find and warn Alessandra before she arrived at the house. He’d had the surprise of his life when they followed him instead.
He’d dispatched one quickly, and had given the slip to another, but this pale-eyed creature had dogged his steps all through the back alleys of San Polo. At the very moment Antonio had thought he’d finally lost him, the ruffian had dropped down right in front of him, as nimble as an acrobat, and as menacing as a snake.
“Antonio Perez,” he said, with a slight accent that gave a sinister edge to his voice. “I have long been desiring your acquaintance.”
“And who are you?” Antonio raised his sword.
“Batù Vratsa. I’ll be taking you to the Doge’s Prison.”
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
“If you insist.”
Antonio stepped back as Batù advanced, looking for a place that would give him more room to maneuver but finding none in the narrow passage. His opponent held his sword with confident grace. The air whistled as he slashed it back and forth, equal parts threat and opening sortie. Their gazes locked and Antonio saw the intention in Batù’s eyes a split second before he sprang forward, anticipating his attack with a rapid parry. The clanging sound of clashing steel echoed off the stone walls. Antonio lunged, aiming for Batù’s chest. His foe dodged the rapier easily, with a sudden twist and a leap to the left that brought the point of his sword even closer to Antonio.
What Antonio had seen of his challenger already, in his first attack at Giovanna’s house, had been impressive, but now he began to understand just who he was up against. Batù moved with a sure-footed skill and an extraordinary agility, unlike any sword fighter he’d ever seen. Antonio surpassed him in size, but he perceived that this wasn’t likely to help him much. This was no brawling, bludgeoning combatant—this was a man who could slip a sword into a man’s side with such lightning rapidity that he’d be dead without ever seeing the blade.
This time Batù made the first strike. Antonio realized how close he came to feeling the blow, barely shielding himself with the flat of his sword. Don Gaspar had taught him always to look into his opponent’s eyes, but with this one, he found himself also following the deadly blade as it flashed in the air around him. As his own rapier clashed with the other, he felt as though he were fending off two attackers instead of one.
They parried the length of the alley. Antonio went on the offensive, lunging with his weapon held high, and sliced in a downward curve. His blade connected with his adversary’s left shoulder, stripping away the sleeve and leaving a deep cut. It was a wound severe enough to make a man cry out and back away—but Batù seemed to feel it not at all. Instead, a smile flickered across his mouth and he countered the blow with a ferocious rally that pushed Antonio’s back against a wall.
He could not gain an advantage where he was, so rolled to his side and Batù’s sword came into contact with stone instead of flesh. The setback threw off his antagonist for only a second, but it was enough for Antonio to rebound with a powerful thrust that Batù evaded with only inches to spare.
“I see your reputation is justified, Viscount,” Batù said. “But mine will be greater when it is known that I am the man who brought you to your knees.”
“You speak precipitately. As you see, I am still on my feet.”
Batù came back at him with fury, repulsing Antonio’s next thrust and whipping his thin rapier in a figure-eight motion that suddenly and surprisingly left a red, horizontal slash along Antonio’s cheek. His eyes were instantly stinging and his face burned as though it were on fire. He could feel blood running down his cheek, as if the skin had been stripped away like a glove peeled from a hand. He clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to touch his face; he suspected the wound felt worse than it actually was. And anything that distracted his attention from the task before him would surely bring about his death. It would require all his skill and every faculty he possessed to best this monster.
They were both breathing heavily now, their chests heaving, their breath rising like steam, mingling with the foggy air. They circled each other slowly, looking for advantage. Batù’s blade flashed again, a furious, slashing razor. Antonio deflected his jabs and parries, but he couldn’t deny that his attacker was getting the better of him.
I cannot die, Antonio thought grimly, strengthening his resolve. If I die, who will protect Alessandra?
Batù attacked once more, pushing Antonio back along the alley. Then, with a running start, Batù launched himself, pulling his dagger from his waistband in midair, and flew at Antonio with a blade in each hand.
Antonio’s first impulse was to back away, but a sudden intuition told him that to do so would place him exactly in his attacker’s range, where the knives would find their intended mark. So he stepped forward instead, ramming his left shoulder into Batù’s chest. His foe’s dagger came down in a slashing motion that scraped Antonio all along his back, but the move had been effective in keeping him free of the rapier thrust, and the force with which he crashed into Batù sent him reeling back to land on the ground. But even this setback did not deter his deadly opponent. Without missing a beat, Batù threw his dagger straight at Antonio’s chest. With a slash of his sword, Antonio intercepted the flying blade; an equal motion to the left engaged Batù’s rapier and disarmed the prone swordsman. In one final, fluid move, Antonio thrust his sword into the vulnerable indentation at the base of Batù’s throat, running him through the neck until he felt the tip of his weapon connect with stony ground.
He stayed long enough to watch his adversary’s body buck in its death throes, to see those strange blue eyes open wide with a look of terror, and then, slowly, to see the light in them fade and go out.
Antonio glanced up and down the narrow alley. Which way had he come? Blast these Venetians and their tangled streets, he thought as he set off to find his way back to Giovanna’s house and Alessandra.
The Tower
5 March 1618
IT WAS A setback, certainly, but perhaps he could find a way to turn it to his advantage, Girolamo Silvia thought as he climbed the Giants’ Staircase leading up from the courtyard of the Doge’s Palace. La Celestia’s murder implied that all his best-laid plans had come to nothing, but he couldn’t be sure until he found out what had happened to Bedmar’s code book. Perhaps the girl had retrieved the book before La Celestia had been so unhappily dispatched. If she’d returned it to the ambassador’s room, then he might still be able to decode the ambassador’s correspondence, as long as Bedmar had not disco
vered the deception. If the marquis had gotten wise, then the copy he’d had made of the book would be no use to him now, of course, as the ambassador would never use the original again.
But who had killed La Celestia? Already Silvia feared that he would never know for sure. She had too many enemies: lovers jealous of the loss of her affections, courtiers angry about their gambling losses, courtesans looking to rid themselves of their greatest rival. Of course Silvia suspected Bedmar—hadn’t La Celestia been afraid of the ambassador’s reprisals?—but his inquiries had revealed that the marquis had been at his terraferma villa for the past two days. The damned Spaniard certainly knew how to keep his hands clean, removing himself from the city like that. That, combined with the ambassador’s diplomatic immunity, meant there was little chance that Silvia could implicate him. No doubt the marquis had sent one of his bravi to do the job, but Bedmar was no fool; the murderer would be gone from Venice by now, or dead himself.
Silvia gazed across the courtyard, watching the senators who gathered around the two bronze wellheads in the center, the scurrying figures of magistrates, lawyers, secretaries, and scribes. Batù should be here already, he thought, and his quarry locked up.
The previous night, Batù had shown up at Silvia’s palazzo with the news that Antonio Perez had been spotted in Cannaregio. The senator had told his disciple that the viscount’s arrest was critical: Utrillo-Navarre was known to be Ossuna’s most lethal swordsman, and he had met with Bedmar at the Spanish embassy only a month ago. His capture could provide the necessary link between the duke and the marquis. He’s slipped through our fingers before, Silvia had said, and Batù had promised to bring him in. But where was he?
Silvia looked to his left and saw Ottavio, his personal secretary, hurrying along the colonnade to greet him. The very sight of the pale, chubby-cheeked young man irritated him, as always. The little favors required for political gain are often more irksome than the large, Silvia reflected.
“Good morning, Senator.”
“Where’s the whore?” he barked.
“Which one, sir?”
Silvia sighed. Face like a turnip and a brain to match. If Ottavio weren’t his cousin’s son, he would have tossed him out on his ear ages ago.
“The courtesan Rossetti.”
“She’s in the pozzi. Number eight.”
“Have her brought up to the Sala dei Tre Capi,” he said. “I’ll be along in a while.”
He hoped that the girl could provide some answers. But even if she couldn’t, Silvia had already thought of a way in which she would be very useful.
Silvia stood outside the Sala dei Tre Capi and peered through a peephole. The courtesan was seated in a chair that sat alone in the center of the room. This room was usually reserved for meetings of the Three, not interrogations, but Silvia disliked going down into the ground-floor prison; he suffered too much from the cold and wet.
Alessandra Rossetti was a handsome woman: thick gold hair, a fair countenance and figure. Younger than he’d imagined, though he could see the wear and worry in her face. She hadn’t slept, of course. No one slept well in the Doge’s Prison. After a few days, prisoners were usually so debilitated by anticipation and fear that confessions were easily achieved. But the courtesan had been here only one night. Unfortunately, Silvia couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
He entered and made his way to the riser at the back of the room, where three chairs sat on a dais, and settled into the middle chair. The courtesan looked at him warily. She’s no fool, he thought; she’s guessed that this room belongs to the Three. Her intelligence would work in his favor—he could use her fear to obtain her compliance.
“Signorina Rossetti, I am Senator Silvia. I’ll be the only person speaking with you today.”
She relaxed a little. “Why am I here?”
“I ask the questions. You answer them.” She looked chastised, but not afraid—not yet, anyway. “Where is the book?”
“What book?”
“The book you stole from the Spanish ambassador.”
She started with surprise. “It was you who was behind it?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“You did not put it back in the ambassador’s room?”
“No.”
“And why not, when you were told that this was an essential part of your task?”
The girl was silent. He could see the confusion in her face. “Answer me.”
“I could not put it back because…because La Celestia did not have it.”
Silvia rose from his chair and approached the girl. “La Celestia was discovered yesterday in a very unfortunate condition—her throat was cut so deeply that her head was very nearly detached from her body. But I see this is not a surprise to you. Did you kill her?”
“No, of course not. She was my friend.”
“And when did you see her last?” The courtesan did not answer. “After she was killed?”
Reluctantly, Alessandra gave a little nod. “I was meeting with her in order to retrieve the book. When I got there, she was already dead. The book wasn’t there.”
“You looked for it?”
“Yes.”
By the bloody Virgin. Silvia took a moment to collect his thoughts. Bedmar must have gotten wise, he realized. Who else would have stolen the book, once he’d killed her? Damn him to Hell. Silvia knew he couldn’t implicate the marquis in La Celestia’s murder, but he could pursue another path to the ambassador’s ruin, perhaps an even better one. And this young courtesan would help him do it.
He turned back to her. “So your friend, as you call her, was brutally murdered, and yet you did nothing—did not call for help, nor alert the authorities. Why is that?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That whoever killed her would kill me, of course.”
“You could have at least written a letter for the bocca di leone—”
“Do you really believe that would protect me?”
Silvia studied the set of her mouth, the way her shoulders rose with tension. He could see that she was not telling all. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not a good liar? You may be able to fool a dimwit, but I will have nothing less than the truth. Trust me when I say I have ways of getting at the truth that you would not like at all. Now, why did you not tell anyone of La Celestia’s murder?”
“As I said, because I was afraid.” No, she was not a good liar.
“Do not toy with me. I think you protect someone.”
The girl dropped her eyes from his face.
“Yes, I think that’s it. The Spanish ambassador has bought your loyalty, has he not, in the same way his Spanish gold has bought up half the Venetian army?”
“That is absurd.”
“That is the truth, I am sure. Bedmar plots to overthrow the Republic. I think you are as deeply involved in his intrigue as the mercenary captains whose service he has purchased. You will hang along with them once your treason is known—”
“No!” She rose to her feet, her eyes darting, her cheeks flushed. Silvia smiled a little as he saw the panic take hold. “How can you accuse me of such a thing? I am a loyal Venetian citizen, the daughter of a citizen. I would never—”
“Sit down,” he commanded. “Another outburst and the guards outside will take you back to your cell—or to someplace worse.”
She sat. Silvia could see that her panic had turned to fear. Good. Very good. Now maybe he would get somewhere.
“Are you familiar with the punishment for treason?” Silvia asked. “As you probably know, traitors are hung in the Piazzetta by their feet, but that is the least of their sufferings. By the time that happens, they are already dead. What transpires before that is slow and agonizing. In fact, you would probably go mad with pain long before you died.”
He stood up and walked closer to her. He noticed a strong, rapid pulse at the base of her throat. He could feel her anxiety, smell he
r fear. “I see you’re beginning to understand the position you’re in,” he said. “You are luckier than most, however. I’m going to offer you a way out.”
She didn’t speak, just stared at him, wide-eyed.
“All you must do,” he continued, “is write a letter outlining the ambassador’s plot.”
“I have already told you that I know nothing of this plot except what I was told by La Celestia.”
She’s dissembling again, Silvia thought. Why? “That matters little. My information comes from other sources. I’ll tell you what to write.”
“If you have other sources, why do you require my assistance?”
“First of all, because Bedmar is known to be your lover. And because, as you said, you are a citizen, and the daughter of a citizen. A courtesan, yes, but one who is known for her piety, her charity, and her discretion. I’ve heard you are educated, if that is possible for a woman. A letter from you will be far more persuasive than one from one of the wretches who has revealed the conspiracy among his compatriots. In fact, as they are all illiterate, I don’t think it would be believed at all. They can’t even write their own names, much less the names of those men who will be identified in this letter.”
She turned pale. “Are you asking me to implicate men who may very well be innocent?”
“Innocent? To a man, they are rogues and scoundrels and worse.”
Her face grew paler still. “But surely you cannot condemn men until you are certain they have committed a crime.”
“It seems to me that a loyal Venetian citizen such as yourself would care more about securing the safety of the Republic than the fate of a few Spaniards and Frenchmen.”
“I do. I do, but you are asking me to be a party to the deaths of men I know nothing of.”
“Tell me, are you protecting your Spanish lover? Is he just too good to give up?”
She gave a start, and for a moment looked as though she might be ill, then recovered. “You mean Bedmar.”
“Of course.”
“I do not love him, if that is what you think.”
The Rossetti Letter (v5) Page 34