by S. D. Sykes
“Please. Why are we here, Oswald?” said Giovanni nervously. Then his voice fell to a whisper. “We might be arrested.” He nodded into the distance, to where a guard stood at one of the smaller gates to the Arsenale, with his long pike resting at a slant. The man hadn’t noticed us, and it looked as if he was attempting to sleep at his post.
“I met a young man yesterday at the convent. He was Enrico’s lover,” I said.
“What is his name?”
“I told you before. That doesn’t matter.”
Giovanni pursed his lips before speaking to me in a whisper. “Very well then, Oswald. Perhaps you can tell me why we have come to the Arsenale?” He glared at me. “Please, hurry up, and then we may leave.”
I took my time to answer. “The man from the convent told me that Enrico had another lover.”
Giovanni crossed himself. “Another one?”
I ignored this disapproval. “Yes. A man who works here.” I hesitated. “My contact is certain that this is the man who killed Enrico.”
“Oh yes? And why is that?”
I dithered again. “He said that Enrico and this man were involved in something dangerous together.”
“What does that mean?”
“He wouldn’t elaborate.”
Giovanni threw up his hands to indicate his poor opinion of this whole story. “Very well then, what is the name of the man who works here? Can you tell me that, at least?”
“It’s Gianni.”
“Gianni who?”
“I don’t know,” I said quickly. “But I thought we might ask around here about him. Somebody must know a Gianni who works in the Arsenale.”
Giovanni gave an enormous guffaw at my last comment, a sound that was loud enough to draw more attention to us.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Do you know how many men work in the Arsenale?” he whispered.
“A few hundred,” I said boldly, attempting to disguise that this was a guess.
“No, Oswald. It is thousands of men. Thousands!” he said. “How else can Venice rule the seas? Even our merchant galleys are built as warships.”
“Thousands of men. Are you sure?”
He nodded conceitedly. “Of course I’m sure. And do you know the most common name in Venice?”
I shrugged, although I could already predict the answer.
“It’s Gianni,” he said with another sneer, before smoothing down his hair. “You’ve been tricked, Oswald,” he said. “Your man at the convent has given you a very common name and sent you to a place where very many men work. He lied in order to get rid of you.”
“No,” I said stubbornly. “I’m sure he was telling me the truth.”
Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “Let’s just get away from here, shall we? We can discuss this matter when we have returned to Ca’ Bearpark.”
I was embarrassed, but too proud to admit defeat. “There must be somebody around here who we can ask about Gianni,” I insisted. “I know how much you Venetians like to spy upon one another.”
Giovanni stopped dead in his tracks. “Venice has enemies everywhere, Oswald. That is why we watch each other.” I tried to move away, but he had cornered me against the wall, and I could not escape this next sermon. “Oh yes. Our enemies send their agents to discover how we build our ships.” He waved his finger at me in the most irritating fashion. “Or even how many ships we have in production. And this is not to mention the enemies we have among our own people,” he said. “It is only three years since Falier tried to destroy our republic and seize power for himself.” He gripped my cloak and shook it for effect. “And Falier was the cruelest of enemies, for he was our own doge!” He released his hands and dusted down my cloak. “So you must understand then, why we watch each other.”
I straightened my cloak, but would not move. Giovanni had annoyed me with his lecture, so I will admit to taking an infantile pleasure in placing my ear against the wall of the Arsenale and then closing my eyes. I could tell that he was fretting at this, as he then tried to pull me away from the wall, but I would not be moved. Instead I let my mind wander for a while, as I imagined the secrets that were hidden beyond these bricks, and how much they might be worth to an enemy of Venice. As I did so, it was my own guilty secret that came to mind—the purse that I had hidden in my chest. The purse, filled with eight golden ducats that I hadn’t quite got around to disclosing to Bearpark. But there was not just this money to consider. There had also been a second purse, the one containing the three ducats that we had found tied under the bed at the inn, on the night that Adolpho Bredani was killed.
I opened my eyes with a start and pulled Giovanni close. “Something has just occurred to me,” I said.
Giovanni was now very agitated, with his eyes focused on the guard at the gate to the Arsenale. This man was no longer sleeping and appeared to be staring in our direction. “Please, Oswald. We must leave immediately.”
I ignored Giovanni’s plea. “My contact at the convent spoke of Enrico’s involvement in something dangerous,” I said. “And now that I’m here at the Arsenale, I’m wondering if . . .”
“If what?”
“If Enrico and his lover could have been engaged in . . .” I bit my lip, still unsure whether to share this theory.
“Engaged in what?” snapped my companion, now unable to hide his frustration.
I wasn’t sure myself, and yet the feeling came over me again. The walls of the Arsenale were too imposing to ignore, and the secrets they hid were too valuable. “It just seems strange that Enrico chose a lover who works here, of all places,” I said.
Giovanni shook his head. “No, Oswald. I don’t think it’s strange at all. Enrico liked coarse men, and they come no coarser than shipbuilders.” Then he gave a short huff. “That’s if this Gianni even exists.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.
“What do you mean then?”
I drew him closer. “I’m wondering if Enrico and Gianni were involved in some sort of . . . spying?” Before he could object, I added, “If they were selling secrets about the Arsenale, then it might explain the source of those golden ducats that we found under Bredani’s bed at the inn.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Giovanni. “Please. Let’s go.”
“No. Wait a moment,” I said. “Perhaps it was this Gianni who paid Bredani to kill Enrico.”
Giovanni shook his head in exasperation. “But how would Bredani and this mysterious man even know one another?”
“They might have met at Ca’ Bearpark.”
“You think a shipbuilder came to my master’s house?” said Giovanni haughtily. “I doubt it.”
“But Margery saw Enrico and his lover in the storeroom, we know that from her testament. Or are you doubting the word of a pilgrim?”
Giovanni flung up his hands. “No, no. You’re imagining stories that don’t exist, Oswald. The murder has nothing to do with spying or hidden money. Enrico was killed by a man with tastes as evil as his own. He sought out wickedness and he got what he deserved.”
“You don’t mean that,” I said.
“Yes, I do,” said Giovanni furiously. “I never cared for Enrico Bearpark.”
The bitterness of his words shocked me. “So, you’re pleased he’s dead?”
He drew in a great breath. “He brought great shame to his grandfather, so yes. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry at all.”
I threw a punch—the one I had been fantasizing about for days—at Giovanni’s head. Sadly, the reality was not as satisfying as I had imagined, for Giovanni swerved nimbly, and I succeeded only in catching a lock of his glossy hair; nevertheless, it felt good to have tried. I had not expected Giovanni to retaliate, as he had always seemed such a peaceable man, but he threw a punch of his own, and soon we fell into the filth of the street, brawling like a pair of urchins fighting over a crust of bread. A mob of women and children gathered about us almost immediately—shouting and jeering at our squabb
le, but unfortunately we also caught the farther attention of the guard.
As the man strode purposefully toward us with his pike at the ready, Giovanni scrambled to his feet, before bolting into a side street. I tried to follow at his heels, but my companion disappeared from sight, and soon I was lost in a labyrinth as complex as the maze within the palace of Minos. I ran up one dead end after another, and passed the same landmark repeatedly, until I turned a sharp corner to come face-to-face with three guards, one of whom I recognized from the Arsenale. The other two were dressed in the uniform of the doge’s palace. I was cornered, and though I resisted, my capture was inevitable.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I had been imprisoned in a dungeon twice before in my life, and the experience does not improve with familiarity. I was shoved through a door that was only high enough to accommodate a child, and then I fell into a cell that felt as cold as a sarcophagus. The roof was so low that I was unable to stand upright, so I could do nothing but crawl onto one of the miserable benches that lined the chamber and curse the fact that my feet were already sloshing about the flooded floor. This was the Pozzi: “The Wells.” Famed throughout the city as the doge’s prison. The only light came from a small and perfectly circular hole that was quarried through the wall into the passageway and was located next to the door. I tried to speak to the guard through this opening, but the man steadfastly ignored me.
I knew there were other humans in my cell, as I had seen their shapes when the candle briefly illuminated my entrance, but they neither spoke to me, nor even moved to acknowledge my arrival. I knew them still to be alive only by the odorous stink of dirty, sweat-stained clothes that hung in the air like a miasma. These people were not dead yet, but they clung to existence by the frailest of yarns, showing signs of life only when the prison guard shoved a loaf of stale bread through the circular hole. When this happened, they jumped up and fought like dogs, pulling the loaf into a number of fragments and scattering the crumbs across the floor. A man who had been thrown aside in this fight now felt about in the water for a morsel of food, while the others returned to their benches, where they resumed their previous catatonia.
I cannot say how long I was imprisoned, for time does not exist in such places. The Pozzi were like caves—dark and unearthly. They had no conventional rhythm, other than the beat of water dripping from the ceiling. No light, other than the lanterns of the prison guards making their occasional survey inside the cells. No sounds, other than the snoring, groans, and occasional screams of the other inmates.
I felt as if I were trapped in Purgatory, with nobody willing to offer prayers for my salvation, but, after what seemed an age, a pair of guards eventually fished me out of the cell. I was then propelled along dark, thin corridors, through doors that were unlocked and then relocked, before being pushed up a narrow staircase to a room that was above ground. It was a relief to leave the damp murk of the lower floors, but our destination was no light and pleasant hall. In fact, it bore no resemblance to the room in which I had been interviewed on my last visit to this palace. Instead this was a chamber of medium proportions, without windows, somewhere at the center of the palace, I guessed. In the faint orange glow of a lantern, I could see it was unfurnished, apart from a portable set of steps in the middle of the room. Above these steps, a heavy rope hung from the high ceiling—its pale, twisting yarns catching the light. Seeing this rope prompted a last and fruitless struggle against my guards, for I knew exactly where I was and what was going to happen.
I had been tortured once before, a number of years ago in Kent, and on that occasion my torturer had chosen one of those devices that are so popular in England—ostentatious implements, decorated with fiendish spikes and serrated blades. By comparison, these wooden steps and this simple rope seemed rather innocuous, as if it might be possible to withstand this variety of torment. The simplicity of this system was its very cunning, however, for this torture would be every bit as painful as the suffering induced by the more obvious devices that were employed in my homeland.
At first my arms were tied behind my back, and then my bound wrists were attached to the rope. I was then forced to climb the three steps as my arms were pulled upward behind my back. I was not yet dangling from my wrists, as I could rest my feet upon the top step, but if my answers did not please my interrogator, then the set of steps would be pushed away, leaving me to hang in midair until my arms were pulled out of their sockets and my rib cage splintered.
So, as you can imagine, I protested my innocence and then my outrage to the two guards, before pleading for mercy, but I was wasting my breath on this pair as they were merely the foot soldiers of this operation and had no influence over my fate. I needed to convince their superior to release me—a man who eventually strolled into the room and began to pace around me slowly, like a wolf assessing its prey. I could not see his face clearly at first because the light was dim and my eyes were watering with pain, but from the fine cloth of his cloak and the soft, red leather of his boots, it was clear he enjoyed both authority and wealth. This was not a clerk with a self-important chain, who would transcribe our conversation onto a roll of parchment and then listen to instructions through a hole in the wall. This man bore all the condescending, self-satisfied, unhurried hallmarks of true nobility.
I tried repeatedly to plead my innocence until he demanded my silence. He then approached me, and now that his face was close to mine, I found myself noticing the small things about him. The insignificant details that had no bearing upon my fate. His skin was pitted with large pores—not large enough to render the man unattractive, but still visible at these close quarters. The edge of his fur collar was slightly wet and stained with red wine.
He spoke at last. “Oswald de Lacy. Lord Somershill of England. Why were you at the Arsenale today?” He then walked behind me and placed his hands lightly upon the back of my leg, as if he might push me from the set of steps.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My identity is not important. Answer my question.”
I dropped my chin to my chest, as it was becoming too painful to keep my neck raised. “I was just interested in the place,” I said. “Nothing more.”
“Oh yes? Why would you be interested in the shipyard of Venice?”
“I’m just a pilgrim,” I said weakly.
He gave a short laugh. “I don’t see other pilgrims visiting this place,” he said. “So, did somebody ask you to go to the Arsenale?”
“No. It was my own idea.”
“Then what made you want to go there?”
“I’m investigating something,” I said.
“Investigating?” He put a little more pressure upon the back of my leg.
“The murder of Enrico Bearpark.” I admitted, as sweat beaded upon my brow and then dripped onto my feet.
“Why is Enrico Bearpark’s death any business of yours?” he asked.
I tried to lift my head again. “I was his friend.”
Suddenly, without forewarning, he pushed me forward so violently that I fell from the top step and dangled in space momentarily, before being able to just about touch my toes upon the step below. The pain in my shoulders was now searing into my arms and I felt as if I might pass out.
“What were you really doing at the Arsenale today?” he asked me, having walked around to face me again. “Another lie, and I’ll take the steps away.”
“I was investigating the murder of Enrico Bearpark. I told you that before,” I insisted. “Enrico had a friend who works at the Arsenale. I just wanted to speak to him.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m told he was with Enrico, on the night he was murdered,” I lied.
“And what is this man’s name?”
“Gianni.”
“His family name?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I was hoping to find him, but then your guards arrested me.”
The man gave a short snort, stood back, and then clicked his fingers. At thi
s small instruction, one of the guards appeared with a wooden chair that was placed near the bottom of the steps. My interrogator took his time to lift his cloak and then settle himself upon this chair, while I tried to put as much weight as possible on my toes, in order to relieve the relentless, agonizing drag at my shoulders.
As he sat in front of me, he concentrated on his hands—running his nail from one thumb under the nail of the other, not bothering to look up as he addressed me. “Let’s say that I believe this story about your investigation into Bearpark’s murder,” he said at length.
“You should do. Because it’s true.”
“Then tell me what you know about Enrico Bearpark,” he said, leaning back in his chair and placing his red boot against the bottom step—causing the whole set of steps to shift a little across the floor.
“What do you want to know?” I said with a gulp.
“How did Enrico die?” he asked.
“He was killed during a fight at the carnival of Giovedì Grasso,” I said.
He pushed at the steps again. “Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.” My voice faltered, as I became seized with fear.
“Enrico Bearpark was denounced,” he said, staring up into my face. “Did you discover that in your investigation?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know what the letter said.” A long spindle of saliva fell from my mouth, and only just avoided hitting his shoulder.
He jumped up at this, throwing me a look of disgust, before he clicked his fingers and summoned a guard to his side. A man appeared immediately and listened to a long and whispered command before leaving the chamber and returning with a roll of parchment. My interrogator then unraveled the document and read aloud. “Beware Enrico Bearpark,” he said. “He is a deceitful, corrupt liar. Always meddling where he shouldn’t.” The man twisted his head to look up into my eyes. “This was the denunciation. So what does it mean?”