The Grand Canal is wide – wider than the Tiber in Rome, yet narrower than the Thames in London – and crowded. Its shores are lined with palaces built of red brick and white marble, and churches great and small. To me it seemed as if a whole sea had been squeezed in between the buildings. The little black boats of Venice, the gondolas, were everywhere, darting about like water beetles. Bigger craft loaded with crates of fruit, live geese, piles of mortar, bricks and lumber ploughed up and down, and fishing boats, sails furled, were being rowed by weary fishermen. But I felt horribly exposed, and bit my lip nervously as our own boat sidled closer to the gaggle of striped mooring poles that marked the landing stage on the right bank.
Suddenly the ferryman in the prow cursed and began churning his oar furiously, hurling oaths to left and right. The ferry began to pitch alarmingly, and the passengers to stagger and mutter, and I looked about us to see, as I guessed, if we were about to be run down by a larger vessel. There was no big boat, but it seemed as if we had steered into the middle of a small fleet of gondolas. I counted seven of them, all fitted with odd little hutch-like structures that seemed to be made of half-barrels covered with black cloth. The gondoliers were wearing livery of red and white. The ferryman yelled to the nearest one in Venetian.
The gondoliers said nothing in return, but leaned carefully against their oars until, three on each side and one behind, they had closed in and were matching our pace exactly. I was beginning to doubt that this was an everyday occurrence on the canal when a flap opened in the side of the nearest cabin and I found myself looking at the polished head of an arrow.
What the..’ I gasped, and felt the other passengers go rigid beside me. The ferryman had shut up at last. Very slowly I looked around. Arrows pointed at us on three sides, and now I could see that within each cabin crouched a man, each armed with a small, curved Saracen bow. Their bowstrings were not taut, but I had seen such bows in the hands of Saracen mercenaries when we had put in to port at Messina. They had been shooting at butts, and at the time I had marvelled at the way they had seemed merely to pluck at the string to send their arrows deep into the target. Now it was very clear that, if the archers wished it, we would be dead in the blink of an eye. So I barely noticed that the seventh gondola, bigger than its fellows and rowed by two men, and with its own, larger cabin, had come across our bows.
What is this?' I hissed. I knew, though: but how had they found me so quickly? A man next to me understood my poor Roman speech and whispered back, 'The Doge's men. Someone hasn't paid their taxes.' He jerked his chin towards the ferryman in the prow, but then a black curtain hung across the end of the cabin on the big gondola, which a ringed hand pulled open. The owner of the hand bowed through the opening and stood up. He had the balance of a gondolier, for the boat kept quite still in the water. He was of medium height, very thin, and his austere black robe hung close about him. He might have been a priest, but he stood like a warrior. The lines of his face were deep and precise, and his eyes did not blink. They were eyes that would have been terrifying had they stared out from the slits of a helmet, but even so I found myself wishing I could simply roll out of our boat and sink into the muddy canal just to escape them and what they seemed to promise. He raised his hand and pointed straight at me.
'Signor, in the name of the Serene Republic of Venice, you will accompany us.' He clapped his hands and the arrows were drawn back inside. Then he pointed at the ferrymen and crooked his finger once. Without another word he ducked back inside the cabin and the gondoliers began to row his craft off down the canal in the direction of the Quartarolo Bridge. The ferrymen, white as geese, had brought us to a stop and a gondola had come alongside. Its bow-man had grabbed the side of the ferry, and held out his hand to me. For one moment I considered jumping overboard, but pictured arrows slicing into me as I flailed in the water. So I took the bow-man's hand and stepped across. My host took up his bow once more and indicated that I was to sit in the prow, outside the cabin. As soon as I had settled myself we began to make our way, the boat in front setting a regal pace, and I feeling like a crippled sparrow surrounded by a flock of hungry crows.
The Rialto boat-bridge was opening for us, the bridge-men heaving on their ropes while the curses of indignant citizens rained down upon them. I saw fear upon their faces as we passed by with our escort.
Then followed an eternity drifting in the flat Venetian light, until we rounded the last gentle sweep of the canal and the columns of the Piazzetta hove into sight, the exuberant domes of San Marco behind them; and beyond the church the palace-fortress of the Doges. Now the walls of the palace were slipping past, heavy and glowering. At last we turned and nosed into the narrow canal that ran along its western side. The gondolas fell behind us, all but the leader, which slowed, turned to the left, and seemed to disappear into the wall. The bow-man muttered something under his breath, and the gondolier heaved us around and we glided under a high, massive archway.
We were in a sort of roofless, water-floored room, arcaded on three sides, with steps of white marble that led down to the water's edge. The big gondola pulled up to a mooring pole and the black-clad man slipped from his cabin and jumped lightly on to the nearest step. He gestured brusquely towards us, and the gondolier brought our craft in behind the other and held her steady as the bow-man stood up and nodded to me to go ashore. I stepped out, knowing that I made the gondola rock clumsily beneath me, and feeling the eyes of the Doge's men upon me. As soon as my feet touched dry ground, it seemed, a small company of armed men, all wearing the same red and white livery sported by my escort, appeared from among the columns and stood to attention. I followed the man in black, for I had no choice, as he stalked through a huge, balefully iron-bound door and into a long, torch-lit hallway, something like the hall of the Ca' Kanzir, but far bigger, grander and gloomier. The walls were bedecked with the trophies of war: shields, some very old and archaic in shape, some familiar, others strange and barbarous. There were swords, lances and mail coats, and here and there old banners hung, some torn and stained. It was a display calculated to humble anyone who beheld it, and I felt the last remnants of my courage give way like a walnut in a vice. Behind us marched the men-at-arms. I could hear the leather of their equipment creak softly in the thick, warm air.
The silent man in the black robe led us to the end of this corridor, up a short flight of stairs, down another corridor, this one lit by many windows, up more stairs until we came at last to an ornate stone doorway over which presided a carved image of the winged lion of Venice. The door swung inwards and the man stalked inside. I followed, not before snatching a look over my shoulder at the expressionless faces of the men-at-arms. We had entered a quite small room lit by a long row of windows that faced west. There was a long view of the Molo and the wharfs, the tip of the island and the hazy lagoon beyond, islets dotted here and there on the water. From this height the masts of the ships tied up along the Molo were a dense forest, thick as the bristles on a boar's back. That was my world, down there. I doubted I would ever feel the deck of a ship beneath my feet again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I found myself looking down a long table of dark wood. Three men in red robes sat on either side, and at the end, on a throne of red and gold, sat the Doge of Venice, Giacomo Tiepolo himself. He too wore a long red robe, and on his head perched a strange hat of gold and silver, part crown, part bishop's mitre. He was not a young man, and his face showed the signs of hardship as well as privilege. Indeed all the men at that table had the hard faces of sailors and soldiers and the cunning eyes of merchants. The black-robed man indicated that I should stand at the foot of the table.
'Signor Petroc of Auneford, Your Excellencies’ he said, and stepped off to the side. In truth, I was so dismayed by everything around me that I was not particularly surprised when he spoke my name. Spies, spies everywhere. 'Signor, do you know why you stand before the Signoria of the Republic?' asked one of the seated men. His mouth snapped shut and he leaned back. Seven pa
irs of eyes bored into me. There was no hostility, merely an awful intent, a razor-edged scrutiny, as if I were a stanza of Catullus being analysed by Sorbonne grammarians. Well, I…'I floundered.
Why did you come here? What business do you have with the Serenissima?' enquired another man. It was plain that he knew very well what my business was. I took a deep, queasy breath. I… I sought an audience yesterday’ I stammered, trying to sound calm. 'But I do not believe I gave anyone my name… If I have transgressed or… or broken some protocol, I humbly beg the council's pardon.'
We have your name from a trusted source’ the man interrupted, and made a swift, neat gesture to the guards. I tensed, expecting them to come for me, but instead they opened a door that was cleverly hidden in the panelling of the room. A thickset man in clothes of a smouldering, ruby-red silk stepped into the chamber.
'Messer Nicholas Querini’ drawled one of the councillors. 'Is this the man you know as "Petroc of Auneford"?'
Querini gave me a casual glance. 'No, your honour, I know him as Petrus Zennorius’ he said, his voice making it plain that he cared not one whit about me or my names.
'An alias? Ach, how tedious. Sit down, Messer Nicholas. I am sure you have far more important things to do, but if you might offer a few minutes to the Republic
'I have already offered her my life,' said Querini smoothly, 'and so another few minutes are gladly given.' He took the proffered seat, at the corner of the table next to the Doge's right shoulder, and leaned back, the picture of ease.
'Messer Nicholas has just returned from Constantinople,' said the councillor who had first spoken. 'He brought news that certain interests were at work there, interests with the intent to harm the Serene Republic's efforts to aid the most Christian Empire of the Latins in their struggle against the Greeks.'
Your name was brought up in connection with this’ said another councillor. Your name, but more particularly that of one Michel de Montalhac, known to many as Jean de Sol. You are an associate of this man.' 'I am’ I said, drawing myself up as straight as I could.
'It is our understanding that de Montalhac is no longer a threat to us. Is that not so, Querini?'
Querini nodded, and steepled his fingers upon his chest. He stared at me like a well-fed tomcat. Just so’ he said. 'De Montalhac, or de Sol, will not trouble the Republic further’
I opened my mouth to speak, but paused, for I heard the Captain's voice very distinctly within my skull: 'Pay attention!' I shut my mouth again, and took a deep breath.
'He was seeking to defraud the empire of its most valuable possessions’ Querini was saying. 'Claiming the authority of the Holy Father and of King Louis of France. It was audacious, I will grant you, but if the empire was not in such a lamentable state he would have had no chance at all. As it was
'The situation is in hand’ finished the Doge. You are returned safe to us, for which God be praised. But now, when this Petrus, or Petroc, came to our doors yesterday, enquiring about the Emperor Baldwin, naturally the honoured council thought it more than coincidental. You recommended this man's arrest, did you not, Querini?'
'I did, Your Honour. I observed him in Constantinople, and he is dangerous – not so much as his master, but nonetheless…'
Young man, you face the gravest of charges. This man, Nicholas Querini, who is a person of the highest standing in the Republic, has brought accusations against you of thievery, sedition and fraud. Far more seriously, he has raised questions of simony, a traitorous attack upon the integrity of the Holy See, and heresy. What do you say to that?'
I looked at each man in turn, but they were implacable, unreadable. I thought briefly of charging at the windows and throwing myself out, but then I recalled Querini's words about the Captain, and the smug certainty in them, and a grain of hope began to whirl, tiny as a dust mote, through my clanging mind.
‘I am no fraud’ I said. 'I have spoken with His Holiness in person, and I can attest that Captain de Montalhac's mission was authorised by Gregory himself, and blessed by him too. As for thievery, I have committed no such deed. Sedition? To accuse one man of weakening the empire of the Latins is akin to blaming the fall of a rotten house on one solitary woodworm – and besides, our mission and our intent was to strengthen the empire, not destroy it. We were acting under a commission from Baldwin himself, and he will confirm it. As for heresy
'De Montalhac is a Cathar.' The Doge was patting a sheaf of papers on the table before him. 'He and his lieutenant, one Gilles de Peyrolles, and many others of his company. Do you deny it?'
My bones turned to water and my heart seemed to be made of unfired clay. Christ, what could I do? They would have me condemn my master and my friends, and then doubtless myself. It was hopeless; and yet I had met the pope – that had happened. Surely someone could be sent to Viterbo? Then I remembered jolly Peter of Verona, the Pope's Inquisitor, and how he had railed against Venice.
'Is this the Inquisition, Your Honour?' I asked. We are discussing temporal affairs. I will not be drawn into slanderous accusations of heresy, slanders aimed at souls who are not even present, unless it be before the representative of the pope himself.' I was feeling almost angry now, and I fixed my glare upon Nicholas Querini.
'Of what, specifically, am ‘ accused?' I asked. I almost wanted to hear the word now. If I was to hang for Facio, at least I had had my revenge upon him. With every respect to the honour of this chamber, I have heard only slanders and libels. If you would talk to Baldwin de Courtenay, all your questions would be answered. Happily, he is in Venice’ 'His Majesty is in Rome’ said the Doge, dismissively. 'Ah – I believe he is in France’ a councillor put in. 'England, I thought’ said another.
At any event he is not here, said the Doge, impatiently. 'Messer Querini's word is enough’
'Specifically’ said another man, 'you are charged with attempting to steal from Constantinople a relic beyond price, to whit, the Crown of Thorns of Our Lord's Passion’
'How can that be, Your Honour?' I asked, summoning wounded innocence. For some reason they had not yet cried murder, but that would come next. 'The holy Crown left Constantinople before I did. This man took it.' I pointed at Querini, who smiled coolly.
'Indeed? I am sure that Messer Querini, one of this Republic's most honoured lords, would have mentioned such a thing to this council’ said the Doge, watching me carefully. Your slander is wearisome, but happily we will not have to suffer it any longer.' I tried to keep my face impassive, but in truth it was another terrible blow. I saw now that I must be doomed, for my word counted for nothing against that of Querini, and I would be dead long before anything I said could be proved. And yet still that seed of hope remained, growing, strengthening me with its tendrils. 'Messer Querini acted entirely within the bounds of propriety. He lent a very considerable sum to the Latin Regent, who, honourable man that he is, gave his creditor an exceptionally sound piece of security. And so honourable is Messer Querini that he has allowed the treasure to remain in Constantinople.'
'But we were acting for Louis of France…' I began, but the Doge raised a cautioning finger. 'Louis will have to pay Messer Querini’ he said. You expected, of course, that he would pay you!
Suddenly hope flowered into revelation. I placed my hand to my breast, and felt the crackle of parchment there. They had not searched me – had not even taken Thorn, which had terrified me, for it meant that they feared no resistance, resistance being unthinkable. But now I had something far more dangerous, and it was not the knife.
‘Your Honour, Honourable Council’ I said, your concerns for the safety of your interests in the Latin Empire are unfounded. I sought audience with you on a most urgent and weighty matter of state, although it seems you heard only my enquiry as to the whereabouts of Baldwin, which seem to be something of a mystery’ I shot a look at Querini, but he was gazing, bored, at the ceiling. 'Although I have been taken by force of arms in broad daylight, like a common scoundrel, I am an accredited agent of His Holiness the Pope, and of Hi
s Majesty Louis Capet, most pious monarch of France’ I was spooning on the diplomatic unction a little thickly, but judging by the room's silence, not entirely in vain, so I reached into my tunic and pulled out, first the letter from Andrew of Longjumeau, and then the papal bull itself.
'This’ I declaimed, holding up Andrew's letter, 'appoints me an agent of the King of France.' I handed it to the nearest councillor, who began to study it curiously and a little gingerly, as if he expected something scurrilous. 'And this’ I went on, holding up the bull, with its massive seal, 'is a decree issued by Pope Gregory in person, dated September of last year, and signed by His Holiness at Viterbo in my presence’ That had their attention, for every eye, especially those of Messer Nicholas Querini, were now fixed upon the great, ominous seal of lead. Seizing the moment, I gave a stiff, grudging bow. 'I would guess that this is not the usual welcome accorded to weary ambassadors in your Republic’ I said, coldly. 'But I am young in years and my person does not, I will admit, reflect the gravitas of my commission. Nevertheless…' and I tensed every sinew in my body as I said this, nevertheless, I wish to address the Doge in private, for I have matters of high state that I would rather not speak of in public’
Querini pushed himself up out of his chair. 'How dare you insult the Serenissima, you verminous-' he barked, but the Doge, who was scanning Andrew's letter, took hold of his arm.
'Nicholas’ he said, pleasantly, but there was a taste of iron in his voice. Querini shut his mouth and sat down, his face tight with fury. Around the table, the councillors had their heads together, whispering, but the Doge stared directly at me. I felt myself grow pale, but allowed myself one single blink in return. At last one of the councillors, the man who had first addressed me and who now held Andrew's letter, turned to the Doge and gave him a simple, measured nod.
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