by Rehan Khan
She and the Commander followed other dignitaries along the canal bank, forming an orderly line to cross the bridge. Everyone stopped as the Doge waited at the foot of the bridge. He turned to the Patriarch, who led a small prayer. The guests bowed their heads. The blessing given, the Doge led the visitors across the stone structure, accompanied by roars of approval from the ordinary Venetians watching from both banks.
Awa approached the bridge with some caution, as her dress made it difficult to ascend the stone incline. She urged Konjic to go on ahead. Soon she found herself next to a man who was clinging to the side of the bridge, looking down at the Grand Canal with a great deal of trepidation.
‘Sir, are you all right?’ Awa asked.
The fellow shot her a look. ‘Madam, how can anyone be all right? This bridge will collapse at any moment. I predicted it, when they gave that amateur da Ponte the contract to build the new Rialto.’
‘And you are?’ asked Awa.
‘Vincenzo Scamozzi! Venice’s number one architect.’
She watched him scurry across the bridge as quickly as possible. He seemed genuinely convinced that the bridge was unsafe. Konjic was waiting for her when she reached the other end.
The Commander beckoned her close. ‘Awa, you and I have more people to meet and questions to ask. We will listen and we will learn. Remember - no one can be trusted. We must keep our wits about us at every moment.’
28
GHETTO
LIGHT AND LAUGHTER FLOWED OUT of the inn. Will had followed the Knights from the Basilica of St Mark’s to a wine house and was now hanging around outside, waiting for them to reappear. Twice so far, he had sneaked up to the narrow windows to take a peek inside. The men were seated at a corner table, their backs turned to the entrance. On the third occasion, Will saw that they had been joined by two more Knights.
Finally, after spending more than an hour at the inn, the men departed. When they left, they appeared remarkably sober.
Their next stop was at a guesthouse; they vanished inside and came out only moments later, wearing black cloaks and hoods. Will could see swords concealed beneath their clothing, strapped to their belts. He was mulling over how to get word to Commander Konjic when he spotted a sprightly young lad sitting on a crate.
‘Here, lad,’ said Will. ‘Can you deliver a message for me?’
‘Right away.’
‘I need you to find a man called Konjic. He is staying at the Blue Flag guesthouse, off St Mark’s Square. I need you to tell him: Will Ryde has found the Knights. Not sure where they are going, but is in pursuit.’
The lad peeked at the four burly men, disappearing down the street. He repeated what he had been told, took part payment from Will and scurried away. The Knights marched at a brisk pace, but kept a constant lookout, forcing Will to stay further back than he would have liked. Once or twice he thought one of them had spotted him, so he lingered before hastening to catch up with them. The four men stopped at the Chiesa dei Santi Apostoli; the church was still open, and they entered. Will assumed they had gone inside to pray. Afterwards they continued north-west, following the curve of the canal, and then summoned a boatman to row them down the Rio dei Servi. Will followed suit.
The Knights alighted and made their way to the upper tip of Venice. As the buildings and roadways grew dilapidated, Will realised the men were heading to the ghetto, the Jewish quarter. He pulled up, uncertain about entering an area which after dark had its gates shut. He observed the men speak with the Venetian guards on patrol outside. One of the Knights paid them, after which they were allowed entry. Will checked his pockets: he had coin, but what was he going to tell them?
As he pondered what to say, he noticed a young man walk by, one arm steadying an awkward load stacked up above his head. With his other arm he was pushing a wheelbarrow containing curious glass globes, the insides of which were hollowed out to reveal intricate metal lattices. Will took him to be an apprentice of some kind, possibly to a metal-worker.
‘Shalom, my friend,’ said Will, coming out from his hiding place.
The startled young man spilled what he was holding, before nearly tripping into his own wheelbarrow. Will dashed forwards, helping him to collect up the items he had dropped.
‘Sorry, my friend,’ said Will. ‘Allow me to lend a hand.’
The fellow eyed him with suspicion. ‘Are you going to rob me?’ he asked nervously.
‘No, of course not. You looked like you were about to drop your load and might need help,’ Will said.
‘Well, I did drop it, didn’t I,’ the young man said resentfully, ‘having borne it successfully for the past mile.’
‘That was my fault – I do apologise. My name is Will. You are?’
The fellow sighed then cocked his head to one side. ‘You do want something, don’t you? Come on, speak up.’
Will scanned the entrance to the ghetto; the Knights would be well on their way to their rendezvous with the Sicarii. He must be swift. ‘I need to go into the ghetto, but . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m not Jewish.’
‘No one’s perfect.’
Will did a double-take, then noticed the young man was joking.
‘Come on, who is the Jewish beauty who stole your heart? She had better not be a cousin of mine!’
Will hesitated. ‘Um, it’s meant to be a secret, but . . . if I tell you her name, will you help me enter?’
‘No,’ said the young man, taking his items from Will.
‘Wait,’ said Will. He saw he had no choice but to be honest. ‘I’m following four men, they’re part of a group called the Knights of the Fire Cross. They’ve just gone into the ghetto. I think they’re meeting with the Sicarii.’
The apprentice inhaled sharply. ‘Not good.’
‘No, not good at all. I need to follow them, because they are in possession of something which doesn’t belong to them. Something so precious that I’m not permitted to tell you what it is, but if you can help me get in, then I’m sure my master will be very satisfied and will offer you any assistance you might need,’ said Will.
‘What is your master’s designation?’
He didn’t have time for this, but if it got him into the ghetto . . . ‘He is a very prominent merchant of Istanbul who is in Venice conducting business with the Doge himself.’
‘Really? Where was he this evening?’
‘At the opening of the Rialto Bridge. He was a special guest of architect Antonio da Ponte,’ said Will.
The young man considered. ‘Very well. My name is Anver. Stick close to me, keep your head down, don’t look the guards in the eyes and play along with what I do.’ Anver dumped all of the metal objects into Will’s arms, then told him to follow. They approached the entrance, Anver striding ahead, leaving Will to push the wheelbarrow as well.
‘Hurry up, you fool,’ said Anver, motioning for Will to keep pace.
Will could barely see where he was going in the evening murk, but he succeeded in passing the guards without incident. Once inside, they turned a corner and Will handed back the items to Anver.
‘Not so fast, Will,’ said Anver. ‘I’m coming with you. This is a Jewish quarter and I don’t want you stumbling into some kindly old couple’s house with your talk of crusading Knights.’
Will thought Anver seemed a decent enough fellow. He needed a guide, and this peculiar lad with these metal contraptions was likely better than most.
‘Thank you,’ he said simply.
‘First, we need to drop my belongings off,’ said Anver.
‘But the Knights are going to get away!’ Will fretted.
‘Everyone knows the Sicarii stay in the kosher butcher’s house, in the western quarter. Besides, my place is on the way. Come on, we don’t want to be late.’ And Anver zipped off with the wheelbarrow, leaving Will to trail after him, his arms still full of junk.
Crumbling buildings loomed over them. The pathways were empty as the hour was late. Anver cut into a nar
row side street, the wheelbarrow barely fitting as he trundled it along. There was an open drain on one side, which stank. Will was shocked. The ghetto was a far cry from the grand walkways of St Mark’s. It was difficult to believe they were in the same city, barely half an hour’s walk from the Basilica.
Anver opened a door and piled his wheelbarrow in, took the items from Will and stacked them inside.
‘Wait a minute,’ the young Jew instructed, before disappearing further within. Will could hear metal objects being lifted and moved about, before Anver resurfaced with a sack slung across his shoulder, saying, ‘Let’s go.’
They moved more quickly without the wheelbarrow, running along deserted streets before approaching the kosher butcher’s house, distinguishable from the outside by its arrangement of terracotta pots containing sea grass, as well as goats tied to one side, inside a locked enclosure. The animals were silent. Lamplight illuminated the interior. Will crept closer to the structure, Anver beside him, the sack on his back rattling with the sound of objects clanging together.
‘Who are the Knights?’ whispered Anver.
‘I don’t know, but they’re about to take possession of the . . . of an item which belongs to my employer.’
Voices could be heard, but not clearly, and visibility was poor. Will moved around the edge of the building, considering a way in. There was only the main entrance. Cautiously, his heart in his mouth, he nudged the door open. The voices grew louder. Keeping low, the young men padded along the corridor, lit by a solitary lamp at the end. When wooden panels creaked, Will clutched Anver and made him stop. At the end, the corridor turned right and led into an open courtyard with rooms branching off on either side. It smelled of meat: this must be where they sacrificed the animals. Herbs were planted in the ground at one end, otherwise it was partially-paved with cracked slabs.
As they crept around the corner, they saw the four imposing figures of the Knights standing not too far from them. On the other side of the courtyard was a large group of the Sicarii, including the two Will had encountered in Alexandria. Throaty was gripping the Staff of Moses, holding it with reverence before him.
‘It is with a heavy heart I hand the Staff of Moses to you,’ he announced.
Anver jerked with shock beside Will, and for a moment he thought the young man was going to keel over. Will grabbed him, looking him in the eye and placed a warning finger over his lips.
One of the Knights, wearing a red glove on his right hand, removed a bag of coins and held it out.
‘Count it,’ said Throaty, motioning to one of his companions. A thin man stepped forward and poured the coins out on a table. Gold glittered, as he fingered his way through them. Eventually he nodded.
‘Here, take it,’ said Throaty, handing over the Staff to Red-glove. ‘And treat it with care.’
Before Will could react, Anver leaped from his hiding place. ‘No!’ He still had his sack flung over his shoulder and it clanged about.
‘Who are you?’ cried Throaty.
The Knights drew their blades, pointing the weapons at Anver, who stumbled, stepped back and tripped.
‘An imbecile,’ snorted Throaty. ‘Take him away,’ he instructed the Sicarii around him.
Gripping his weapon, Will revealed himself and drew the blade from its scabbard. He came to stand by Anver.
‘Janissary!’ said Throaty, his eyes widening. The Knights spun, searching for others.
‘We have the place surrounded,’ said Will in a ringing voice. ‘Hand back what belongs to Sultan Murad III, custodian of the religious treasures of the Topkapi Palace, and we will let you live. Defy us, and face the wrath of the Ottoman army.’ Will was bluffing, but he hoped the Sicarii and the Knights would fall for it.
‘You idiots, you’ve alerted the Janissaries and brought them here!’ Red-glove barked.
‘No, of course we haven’t,’ Throaty growled, furious.
Red-glove motioned for one of the Knights to go and look outside. Only moments remained before the game was up. Whatever Will was going to do, he needed to do it now.
29
MESSENGERS
THE RIALTO BRIDGE CEREMONY HAD passed triumphantly: the patrons were lavished with praise, the guests replete with fine food, and the public delighted at having a new crossing over the Grand Canal. Only the Janissaries were down-hearted, for they were no closer to solving the theft of the Staff of Moses.
The boatman dropped them off close to the Basilica, since their guesthouse lay nearby. The piazza was vacant but for a drunk staggering back to his lodging and a couple rendezvousing under cover of darkness. Awa spotted an evening patrol - two uniformed members of the Venetian guard, circling the Basilica.
‘I found the Spanish Ambassador much too full of himself,’ Konjic was telling Awa and Mikael. ‘All he spoke about was their kingdom’s conquests over the Inca and Aztec peoples in the Americas. The conquistadores have plundered gold and silver from these societies and to be quite frank, I fear the effect such an influx of gold will have on Ottoman trade. But despite his self-centred view of the world, I doubt he has anything to do with the theft of the Staff.’
Awa thought of Tome, who had been her trainer, jailer and in the end her would-be rapist. Because of him, she would forever hold a grudge against the Spanish, though she knew it was irrational to condemn an entire race of people on the basis of the depravities of a few.
‘What of the Portuguese?’ asked Mikael.
Konjic shook his head. ‘Still recovering from the humiliation of losing at the Battle of the Three Kings. They are no more than a vassal state for the Spanish. Their fleet has seen some action against the plucky English, but they are in no position financially to acquire the Staff, nor do they have the resources and influence.’
Konjic turned to her. ‘Awa, what was your impression of the Venetians?’
‘It seems to me that buying and selling is in their blood. Their aim is to keep all parties happy, which in turn keeps trade buoyant. Why would they want to anger any commercial partners, especially the Ottomans, by stealing the Staff? It does not make business sense.’
‘Well put. I agree with you,’ Konjic nodded.
‘But,’ Awa added by way of a caution, ‘there was a Cardinal in attendance, and it occurred to me that the Vatican may have an interest in acquiring the Staff.’
Konjic said thoughtfully, ‘They certainly have the money and influence. They might be using the Knights of the Fire Cross through one of their proxies, but we don’t have any evidence for that, so it’s merely conjecture. Let’s do some more digging - there might be a lead to follow.’
In truth, Awa wasn’t sure how useful she had been at the big event, since she was rather reticent about approaching people she did not know. The most fascinating conversations of the evening had been with the Africans from the continent’s interior, who described the lush fauna of their homeland, the wild beasts and colourful jungle creatures. Had she not had work to do, she could have listened to them all night long.
Their route took them past the Basilica, now an imposing shadow looming large behind them. They strode across the Piazza in the night chill.
‘Mikael, what did you observe?’ asked Konjic.
‘Not much, Commander. I located a couple of handlers of stolen goods, but these were freight gangs who specialise in avoiding taxes set by port authorities. No one seemed to know anything about religious artefacts being traded in Venice.’
‘Let’s see what Kostas has to say. I asked him to follow Sir Reginald Rathbone.’
‘That fellow we met on the Misr?’ asked Mikael.
‘The very same. My suspicions were aroused when he said he was here to collect something which was “one of its kind”. What is his role in this game, I wonder.’
When they turned into the alley where the Blue Flag guesthouse was located, they found a boy dozing in the porch. Mikael shook him. ‘Wake up, laddie.’
Startled, the boy sat up, stuttering, ‘I’m waiting for a man name
d Konjic.’
‘I am he.’
‘I have a message.’ The boy screwed up his face, remembering. ‘Will Ryde has found the Knights. Not sure where they are going. But in pursuit.’
Konjic exchanged glances with Mikael and Awa. ‘Was it Will himself who gave you this message?’
‘Yes, sir, I believe so, sir. Tall. Fair hair, pale white skin.’
‘Yes, it’s him. Where were you when he gave you the message?’
‘Over by the San Apostoli Church.’
Konjic paid the lad generously and sent him on his way. He then turned to Mikael, saying, ‘If the Knights and Sicarii are getting together, we will need the support of Gurkan and Ismail. Go and fetch them from off the La Liona; ask them to be hooded, faces hidden. It’s dark so they should be all right, but I don’t want to take any chances and cause a diplomatic incident when Turks are not permitted in Venice at this time.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mikael, scooting out.
‘Awa, you need to get changed for action.’
Awa nodded, pleased. What a relief, to struggle out of these restrictive garments and get back into the comfortable attire she had purchased.
Awa and Konjic were both back downstairs, armed and waiting for Mikael to return when there was a knock on the door. Mikael had the other set of keys to the front door - so who else would be calling at this hour of the night? Awa’s hand went to her weapon. Could it be Odo and Ja, intent on snatching her again?
‘Who is it?’ Konjic enquired, approaching the door.
‘Message for a Signor Konjic.’ Another young lad.
The Commander pulled open the door to reveal a scrawny freckle-faced boy with an untidy mop of hair. ‘I am he.’
The boy scanned him up and down. Konjic pulled his cape around him, concealing his weapons.
‘Message from Kostas: Rathbone has gone to the ghetto. I am here. Come immediately.’
‘Describe Kostas to me, lad.’
‘Greek chap. Curly black hair. Was wearing a grey cloak. Mighty fine piece of clothing for the ghetto.’ The boy made a face.