by Clint Dohmen
Kojiro still had trouble with irony and did not know the proper response to Simon’s comment. “Yes, I will try” was all he could manage.
Although he was a foreigner, Kojiro was allowed to carry his katana and wakizashi on the streets of Venice. He was a member of a noble class, albeit a noble class the Venetians had never heard of, other than possibly Marco Polo’s references to the mysterious island of ‘Cipangu.’ Venice was the hub of fifteenth century world trade, and as such, Venetians were used to seeing strangely dressed foreigners. In order to foster good relations with other nations and thus improve trade possibilities, the Venetians paid proper respect to the nobility of all countries. So while the sight of Kojiro’s simple dress, ponytail, and dual swords drew curious glances, he otherwise went about his business undisturbed. In fact, Simon drew far more attention when he traveled the city without bathing.
Traveling with the three companions were Aldo’s giant Neapolitan Mastiffs: Augustus and Nero. Both animals were two hundred and fifty-pound, muscular monsters with gigantic heads and even larger jowls. They were devoted to their owner, who could not resist feeding them table scraps at nearly every meal. The spoiled gray dogs ate better than many of the citizens in Venice. In looks, they were difficult to tell apart, but in personality, they couldn’t have been more different. Nero, like his namesake, was a neurotic, high-strung basketcase; whereas Augustus, also like his namesake, was majestic, deliberate, and calm. Nero was never seen without at least six inches of drool hanging from his jowls, but Augustus, quite unusually for the breed, rarely drooled. It was almost as if he knew himself to be above such a crude trait, and he willed it not to happen.
The Piazza San Marco, as it opened up before them, was a wonder to behold. At the eastern end of the piazza stood the grand Basilica Cattedrale Patriacale di San Marco, with its Gothic archways, ornate religious carvings, gold inlaid domes, and marble statuary. The statues of four Greek horses, stolen during the Venetian-inspired Fourth Crusade’s sack of Constantinople, stood vigilant guard in front of the grand cathedral, daring anyone to challenge the might of Venice. South of the cathedral stood the Doge’s Palace, its narrow gothic columns and biblical carvings matching those of its neighbor. The Doge’s Palace continued south, where it opened up onto the lagoon which surrounded the island.
Across from the cathedral stood the magnificent campanile, a three hundred-foot-tall lookout tower with a dominating view of the city and all its surroundings. The two-story Byzantine columned buildings that made up the north, south, and west edges of the piazza housed government officials, clergy, and businesses. The businesses ranged from trading houses and banks, to bars and inns. It was towards one of these particular bars that Aldo, Kojiro, Simon, and Augustus strode. Nero didn’t really stride. He sort of loped.
“Do you see that painter whose works I liked last week?” Aldo asked.
“No, but I particularly like this one,” Simon said. He was looking over a painting of a partially clothed buxom woman. “I didn’t know Christian folk were allowed to paint such things,” Simon said as he studied the painting’s ‘details’ carefully. “But why do all the women in these paintings have fat asses?”
“Simon, these dear ladies have ample asses. Some might even say voluptuous or sensuous. I personally find small asses quite unattractive.”
While Simon, Aldo, and Kojiro discussed the merits of various paintings, Augustus sat stiffly upright in the dignified manner befitting a descendent of Alexander the Great’s mighty Molossus war dogs. Nero, on the other hand, took to chasing pigeons around the piazza. It was a fair match. The pigeons were slow and stupid, but Nero, although surprisingly agile for a dog of his size, could not decide which pigeon he wanted to chase and wound up chasing one after another until his master called for him.
Aldo, Simon, and Kojiro took up their usual seats at an outdoor table at their favorite osteria. Aldo ordered Nero to lie down next to Augustus who lay upright on his elbows and haunches, head erect, ready to respond to a command at a moment’s notice. Nero protested this forced constraint immediately and then again every few minutes with a high-pitched whine. This was uncharacteristic of such a large animal, but Aldo held firm. After about fifteen minutes, Nero gave up. He let out a huge sigh, flopped over on his side, and used his eyes in an attempt to communicate to all passing patrons that he was the most mistreated dog in all of Italy.
Jean-Paul de Bailly had worked at the small wine bar off the piazza for a month, as he studied the behavior of the Lancastrian noble and his friends. It hadn’t been hard to get the job at Simon’s favorite spot; Venice was a merit-based society and Jean-Paul knew his wine. He helped the owner select his wines at the market, and his selections had been popular with the bar’s customers. So much so that it was now the most fashionable place on the piazza to quaff the latest imports from France, Spain, and the Italian mainland.
But Jean-Paul was not there to earn a living as a sommelier. He was being paid handsomely to complete a different job entirely, and to do it in a manner that would not create an international incident. He’d surveilled his target, he’d been patient, and he was not going to fail. In fact, as a professional assassin he was a little bit disappointed that it was going to be this easy. The Englishman and his friends drank too much, and that would be their downfall.
“You have shaved and bathed, Simon, but you sweat like a pig. I can’t tell if I smell the swamp or you. Why can’t you be more like this fellow?” Aldo said, pointing at Kojiro. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the man perspire.” Aldo began the evening’s verbal jousting while he ordered another bottle of Burgundy.
“Well, aside from Kojiro here, a man who works, sweats. But then I can see how you would know nothing about that, my pudgy, pig-bellied friend.”
The wine came, delivered by the French waiter who seemed to have a talent for always recommending the right wine. He and Aldo had engaged in more than one long conversation about the effects of temperature, growing season, and irrigation on any number of varietals from all over the world. These conversations bored Simon to tears, but he listened patiently because the Frenchman inevitably served them a delicious libation at their conclusion.
Jean-Paul had chosen the wine that he was going to poison them with carefully. Aldo was a superb wine taster who always sniffed the bouquet before he sampled a wine so he had chosen a wine that he was sure Aldo would never have sampled before. This would ensure Aldo would be unaware of the flavor profiles that the wine was supposed to have. No one other than the Champenois themselves ever consumed the unremarkable wine that they produced.
“Here you are, messieurs. I think you will like this one.”
Aldo recognized the pale pink color of the wine that Jean-Paul poured into his goblet. “Ah, Jean-Paul, good choice! I believe I was consuming this very same product from Champagne this afternoon. We likely got them from the same shipment.”
Kojiro noticed what appeared to be a momentary look of surprise or panic, or both, in the waiter’s narrow green eyes after Aldo’s comment. But why would that be? he wondered to himself. Being immersed in a world of unfamiliar languages, Kojiro had become adept at discerning meaning from body language and facial expressions, and the waiter’s current facial expression concerned him.
Aldo raised the glass, brought it to his nose, and inhaled deeply like he always did.
Jean-Paul watched for a brief instant, bowed, and began making his way to the rear of the bar. Successful or not, he did not want to wait around for the consequences. Damn that man and his voracious appetite for wine! The back of the bar opened out onto a walkway that bordered the lagoon, and Jean-Paul walked hurriedly towards one of the many docks.
In addition to the waiter’s unusual facial expression, Kojiro noticed that Jean-Paul did not stay at the table for his usual conversation with Aldo after the first taste. Kojiro stood and watched as the waiter walked all the way out the back door. Then he looked at Aldo and the glass of wine.
Aldo shook his he
ad and pinched his nose in disgust. “Not as good as the one I chose, that’s for sure. Odd that they aren’t from the same batch. I wouldn’t think many shipments of this stuff come in. But we are paying for it, so it will be drunk!”
Aldo poured some for Simon and Kojiro and was about to toss his glass back when Kojiro knocked the glass from his hands. It shattered on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Nero, awakened by the crashing sound of glass, ran to the spilled liquid and was about to lick it off the ground when Kojiro kicked him squarely in the head. Nero let out a yelp, not from the pain—because Kojiro’s sandals had little effect on his immense cranium—but from his hurt feelings. These humans never kicked him!
Aldo and Simon were bewildered by Kojiro’s behavior.
“Grab the bottle of wine, pour out your glasses away from this greedy dog, and follow me,” Kojiro ordered in a calm, no-nonsense tone. He then walked rapidly through the bar and out the back. Simon and Aldo looked at each other with questioning glances, but they obediently poured out their glasses, grabbed the bottle off the table, and followed Kojiro with Augustus and Nero in tow.
Initially Jean-Paul walked at a brisk pace towards the gondola he had waiting for him near the Doge’s Palace. He knew that running would draw attention to himself, and he had learned not to run unless absolutely necessary. He did not hear the pursuit behind him, but after all the time he’d spent in the game, he could feel it. Eventually, he ceased worrying about drawing attention to himself and took off at a run.
Aldo and Simon quickly put together the facts of the situation and realized why Kojiro was chasing the waiter.
“Pounce!” Aldo ordered his dogs. Nero, neurotic though he was, responded to his master’s guard commands with a single-minded determination that was belied by his daily behavior. Augustus reacted just as quickly as Nero, but of course that was to be expected of Augustus.
Simon watched the two dogs spring forward like they had been shot from a crossbow, shoulder muscles rippling, thigh muscles bulging, and jowls flapping as they tore after the fleeing waiter.
Jean-Paul cursed his bad luck, but he knew he would get another chance. His boat was twenty yards away; the slant-eyed foreigner, while faster than Jean-Paul himself, would not catch him in time. His next attempt could not be as subtle. He would not be able to get as close to the Lancastrian again, but he would make it work. His professional reputation and the second half of his fee depended on it.
Jean-Paul leaned forward in anticipation of releasing the rope that moored his gondola, when he found himself face down on the dock with an enormous weight on top of him. Jean-Paul pushed up with his hands, but the weight did not move. Then the snout of one of those ugly, dirty dogs that the Venetian merchant kept appeared in front of his face. The nasty animal opened its mouth in a warning snarl that revealed a huge jaw stocked full of healthy white teeth.
Kojiro almost laughed out loud when two hundred and fifty pounds of muscular dog sent the one hundred and thirty pound waiter flying onto his face. He was surprised to see that it had been Nero who got there first. The two dogs worked well as a team, though, because no sooner had Nero knocked the man down then Augustus went straight for the man’s face. He was too well trained to bite without being ordered to do so, but it wasn’t necessary. The waiter was scared stiff.
By the time Simon and Aldo caught up with Kojiro and the dogs, Aldo was out of breath.
“Get your filthy beast off of me!” Jean-Paul blurted out, but Aldo was too winded to give the dogs commands.
Simon saved him the trouble by pushing Nero off and sitting Jean-Paul up. “I believe this is the wine you recommended?” Simon offered the bottle to Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul shook his head.
“I will tell you who hired me, if you let me live,” Jean-Paul said with resignation. He had no desire to be a martyr for some English cause.
“Well, unfortunately for you, I’m already pretty sure that the King of England wants me dead, so I don’t see how you have anything to offer me,” Simon responded.
“But I can tell you the name of the man who hired me,” Jean-Paul protested desperately.
“Go ahead.”
“I need your word that I will not be harmed.”
“I swear on the blood of our Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. May I go to hell and be tortured by Lucifer himself and a thousand demons for all eternity if I break my vow,” Simon swore his oath.
Aldo raised his eyebrows.
Jean-Paul had not expected a vow nearly that unbreakable, and relieved, gave the information readily. “His name is Lord Blythe. He said he was acting on the orders of the late King Edward himself.”
“The late?” Simon asked, genuinely shocked.
“King Edward died April ninth of this year. His brother Richard of Gloucester was appointed Lord Protector of Edward’s young children until the eldest son can be crowned. Richard will be running things until then.”
“Don’t see how anything could go wrong with that plan,” Simon said in his very best sarcastic tone (not knowing something had indeed already gone drastically wrong for the princes). Simon was not surprised to find out that King Edward would commission the man who had taken his lands to also take his life. It made perfect sense in fact, because no one had more to lose than Lord Blythe if Simon ever returned to England. Thank God for Aldo and his wine tasting, and Kojiro and his instincts. This Jean-Paul character is a true professional. Jean-Paul had really crossed the line, though; he had forced Simon to be wary of the alcohol that he consumed.
Simon removed the slender blade from his belt and thrust it up through the back of Jean-Paul’s neck at a forty-five-degree angle. Jean-Paul let out a high-pitched scream as the Venetian stiletto worked its way slowly up through the brain. Within seconds, his body went limp. Simon then worked the knife back and forth during the withdrawal, scrambling the brain.
Aldo was not totally surprised; he had already begun crossing himself in anticipation. “Did you really have to swear all of that?”
“Sure. If I had given my word as a knight and a gentleman I might not have been able to kill him. But the way I understand it with this whole Christian thing, I can repent for all my sins when I’m about to die and I’m forgiven. Isn’t that the deal?”
“I believe that’s a very generous reading of the teachings of the Church.”
“Well, it looks to be a beautiful sunset tonight. Back for another bottle of wine?” Simon asked as he kicked Jean-Paul’s body into the lagoon. The four of them sauntered back to the bar. Nero began a hopeless chase of seagulls.
Chapter 23
Venice, One Year Later
A COMBINATION OF the evening tide and underground river flows worked in harmony to flush the gatoli system’s canal deposits and their accompanying smells out to sea, making Aldo’s open porch a pleasant location for treasonous plotting. “You’ll need transportation and some men,” Aldo told Simon.
“Thank you, King Obvious,” Simon responded. From the trading ships that passed through Venice, they had learned that the exiled Henry Tudor was in Brittany recruiting all and sundry to overthrow King Richard III. Although he hated to admit it, the gaudy Venetians had grown on Simon over the last year, but he couldn’t dodge Yorkist assassins for the rest of his life and Henry Tudor presented his best, and perhaps last, opportunity to avenge his mother.
“With an attitude like that, I might not volunteer my ship for transport.”
“Now why in hades would you even consider removing your fat ass from these plush surroundings to transport me to France?”
“Bah, I’m bored. There are only so many ways I can tell the story of how I saved you and my entire crew from those cannibals.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I think the last version where the petrified King of the Cannibals fell to his knees and begged you for mercy still has some legs on it.”
“True, true, or the one where I heroically saved a scantily clad beauty from the cannibals’ pot while you were cowering in a bush somewhere; that still get
s a hearty round of applause from the crowd.”
Simon waggled his eyebrows. “Yes, that’s definitely one of my favorites.”
Aldo sighed and looked out over the canal. “In all seriousness, though, I need more stories, and I have a feeling that a voyage with you will produce some. Besides, when I travel, I trade, and when I trade, I make money, so what is there to lose?”
“Well,” Simon squinted, “your head for one thing. I’ve got to tell you, the odds are this story may not end well; check with Seaman Aversa for exact numbers. I hear he’s back to operating an underground betting parlor again.”
“No, not my head. I cannot afford to involve the nation of Venice in your internal English politics; it would be bad for business. But I will happily transport you so that you may lose your own head bedside your fellow Englishmen.”
“No matter, I should think I won’t need much more than Kojiro here and a few others.”
Kojiro looked squarely into Simon’s eyes and spoke without emotion. “I’m sorry, I cannot.”
“Huh,” Simon said, surprised. “That is actually a very wise decision but not exactly what I was expecting.”
“I did not make that decision, of course. I already pledged my service to you. I spoke with what I believe you call irony?”
Aldo spit the wine he had just ingested out his nose. Burgundy and mucus sprayed the railing of his porch, and he choked on the liquid still caught in his throat.
Kojiro jumped from his chair, startled by Aldo’s sudden difficulties. He moved quickly to Aldo’s side, and his face broke into a look of genuine concern. Simon’s face did not.
“I do not understand. Is he okay?” Kojiro asked.
“Yes, he’s just fine,” Simon answered. “He’s just a little overly amused by your jest, and I have to say I’m quite impressed myself.”
“Did I make a mistake?” Kojiro asked as water ran from Aldo’s eyes. He was trying to learn the ways of these foreigners and he wished to join in their joking, but it was difficult to translate humor.