***
It had been probably the worst journey anyone ever had to endure. Slinking out from the Horn at night, with no choice but to trust that the drunkard of a helmsman would not sail them onto the rocks of a Marmara island in the dark, Paolo Barbo had slept not a wink.
Then on the first morning, while refilling his water jars, the shore party had been set upon by Turks, and in his haste for the safety of the ship, Barbo had dropped those jars, so that by the time they stopped again at Lemnos, he had felt almost dead from thirst.
It took a week to cross from Lemnos to Negroponte and another two until Barbo found a suitable berth aboard a galley heading for Venice.
By then the March storms were at their worst, and he had felt almost dead from terror by the time that ship had stopped at Gaidouronessos – Donkey Island – to wait out a particularly violent tempest.
Donkey Island was a notorious nest of pirates. He might have feared kidnap but there was no brigand alive who, assaying him just then, could have divined the patrician gold of his soul.
The storm blown out. The boat sailed on and reached Fitzkardo before more bad weather forced them to seek refuge once more. That was when the bora started blowing, unceasing, for six days and nights, pinning them to shore.
Of course, the moment it dropped and they were clear of land, another storm had pounced. This one, stronger than any Barbo had ever encountered, tore the rigging from the yardarm and pitched the deck with such violence that the crew could not stand upright.
Then the wind had swung around and driven the boat back to Fitzkardo, where it lay anchored for four days while the tempest continued to howl and the crew lay about, as if dead, with dizziness and torpor.
That had been the nadir for Barbo. But now, some two months after departing Constantinople, the boat was gliding between the twin Castellia, and he knew they would shortly disembark at Venice and then he could begin to forget the entire Greek misadventure had ever happened.
A true son of the Serenissima, Barbo always said, could judge the mood of the city as a mariner senses the weather; those instincts began to prickle at the sight of several war galleys lying at anchor.
Once ashore he felt an edge too in the hubbub around the canalsides. Something significant was underway, he thought, and the best place to learn anything in Venice was at one of the vera da pozzo – the ubiquitous wellheads scattered across every sestiere – around which the women would congregate to gather gossip with their water.
Accordingly, Barbo bent his walk through the many calli and campi of the San Polo district, eavesdropping in on well-side conversations until he found a crowd with something worth discussing.
In the shade of a sycamore, three women sat on the lip of a wellhead, deep in discussion.
‘It’s a waste of everyone’s time,’ complained one old woman to two companions. She was holding a distaff to allow the woman beside her to draw out a length of thread from it. ‘Even the fastest boats would take weeks to get there. If they wanted to send help, the time was months past.’
The woman on her left shrugged as she passed the twine through her hands to measure out a desired length. ‘It’s politics. The Senate sends help now so they can at least say that they tried.’
‘The fleet’s not for Constantinople,’ said the third woman, reaching into her apron pouch. ‘Not really. Of course, Admiral Loredan will make for the city, but as you say, it is already too late. What comes next though? The Turkish wolf will move on from the Byzantine corpse and his greedy eye will fall upon Venetian cities soon enough – Negroponte, Modon, Candia. It’s these places that the fleet is for. Should Constantinople fall, the whole Levant becomes open to challenge.’
The second woman nodded as if she judged the twine’s length appropriate, then held out an open hand. ‘That’s no lie,’ she said as a pair of shears were placed into her palm. ‘The old fence between two paddocks is about to break. Now we’ll see if it’s our bull or the Turk’s who proves the stronger.’
Aware that he was a stranger loitering in a communal courtyard, Barbo did not stay further. He slipped away towards the family home and as he approached the door of Ca Barba thought of the parable of the prodigal son. But instead of a calf, a fatted cardinal greeted his return – the Bishop of Vicenza, his brother, Pietro.
Heaving like the Adriatic beneath the silk folds of a black robe, the bishop rose from his seat, wrinkled his nose and proffered a hand on which the jewelled rings stood proud as coral fans. ‘You smell like week-old mackerel.’
‘It has been a taxing voyage,’ said Paolo Barbo, bristling a little at his brother’s luke-warm welcome. He was still a little confused to find Pietro here and not in Rome – where he spent most of his time – or his diocese of Vicenza – where he spent very little time indeed.
Sweeping his greasy, matted hair back behind his ears, he added, ‘Were you already aware that I had escaped Constantinople – that is, before the siege cut it off?’
It had not been until reaching Parenzo, the final stop of the voyage, that Barbo had heard it confirmed that the Turks had begun to invest the city walls.
‘You would be surprised at what matters I am informed on,’ said Pietro with a sly parting of his thick lips. ‘Take a seat.’
Again, his brother’s manner made him bristle. This was as much his home, regardless of Pietro’s elder years and ecclesiastical rank. He would sit as he pleased.
‘News sometimes travels faster than men,’ said the cardinal-bishop, slumping back into his chair. Despite his weariness, Paolo Barbo remained on his feet. ‘While you were bobbing around Cape Sounion, news was galloping here in the saddlebags of couriers. The Holy Father, naturally, had great interest in learning the contents of bailo Minotto’s reports. One of the Senate officers was kind enough to draw to my attention the appearance of your name in them.’
The hairs on Barbo’s skin began to stand proud. He had believed the sailing of Davanzo’s boat – at a time when no more vessels were permitted to depart – and the subsequent siege, would ensure word of his crimes remained there.
Smarting from the coldness of his reception and further stirred by the superciliousness of his consecrated brother, Barbo responded with braggadocio, ‘Who ever called himself a true champion of Venice without whetting his blade with Genoese blood?’
‘Well, you shouldn’t expect thanks from the doge for that unwanted diplomatic headache,’ said the cardinal-bishop tartly. ‘But I’m not talking about killing the podesta. Champions of Venice certainly do not get themselves mired in debt to the Garzoni Bank.’
Paolo Barbo’s heart gave a single, blacksmith’s strike. He sat down and ran his hands once more through the tangle of his salt-frazzled hair. ‘What exactly did these reports have to say on that?’
The cardinal-bishop shook his head. ‘You appear to have displayed even less acumen than usual. Ruinous sums thrown away in pursuit of an ikon that I could have told you in the instant was a fantasy. If you think Badoer didn’t send a record of your letter of credit back to Venice within an hour of your signing it then you really are the simpleton you appear to be.’
‘Oh Pietro, what am I to do?’ said Barbo. For once his voice was full of contrition.
‘That,’ said the cardinal-bishop, ‘is none of my concern.’
‘What?’
Pietro Barbo, Bishop of Venezia, Cardinal-Priest of San Marco, scowled down the long sweep of his nose. At Paolo’s age he had been carmalengo to their uncle, Pope Eugenius, winning plaudits for his administration of the Church’s vast, complicated estate. Paolo Barbo, forever the featherbrained, feckless younger brother, had never been asked to administer anything more difficult than his own toilet.
It had been the thought of escaping his brother’s dark shadow, of proving to everyone that he was the better Barbo, that had propelled him after the mirage of St Mark’s ikon. Instead, he had merely confirmed the family doubts.
For a while the bishop toyed with the hem of his gown between his fing
ers and avoided his brother’s gaze. Then, preceded by a theatrical sigh, he said, ‘I assume, from the smell of you, that you have come directly from the boat. In which case it may be that your return to Venice is not yet common knowledge. I think it would be in your interest for that to remain so. From all reports, the end is nigh for Constantinople. Who could say for certain that Paolo Barbo did not perish in the conflagration? Your debts to the Garzoni would die with you.’
The cardinal-bishop’s voice, which was never the deepest, climbed an octave. ‘Take another name, find another means to sustain yourself, because I shall no longer play hound to your flea.’
‘What…’ stammered Barbo, giddy with despair, ‘what could I ever do?’
‘You can kill,’ said the cardinal-bishop with undisguised contempt. ‘The ghost of the Genoese podesta can attest as much. In your boots I’d try my luck as a mercenary. If Constantinople really does fall this time, then the future will be a violent one. Nameless men can win fortunes under such circumstances. A bit of Turk killing, a little looting in the east and you might even be able to pay off the Garzoni and reappear in Venice as Paolo Barbo.’
‘A mercenary?’ Paolo said quietly. He was thinking of John Grant. He was remembering moonlight and ruins and his wayward affianced wife. It had all unravelled in that moment, he told himself – conveniently forgetting the ikon. He hoped the pair of them were feeding the flies.
XXVII.
Anna Notaras had not left her bed for four days, and her handmaiden was quite content for her to remain safely there. Zenobia, who had pieced together enough of a picture to understand what had happened with the general, fussed and coddled her mistress and found her own nerves soothed by this diversion of her attention.
That noon, when she brought a bowl of soup up to Anna, Zenobia saw the first hint that the usual brightness of life in her eyes, which she had feared forever snuffed, was stirring from ember to flame once more.
‘I have been thinking about those deaths,’ Anna said as Zenobia set the tray with its steaming bowl on the counterpane. ‘Perhaps we have approached the matter from the wrong angle.’
Zenobia, who ordinarily would have preferred the matter not approached at all, now saw anything that took Anna’s mind away from her ordeal as a sainted blessing. The diversion of this mystery might be curative, so long as it remained a mental pursuit and they did not go poking around monastery gardens again. She took a seat at the edge of the bed.
‘We have been trying to see a connection between the victims,’ Anna continued. ‘We have assumed that who they were has significance because Baltus was significant to us, but what if his person is not significant at all?’
‘What do you mean, Despoina?’
‘Perhaps we should focus on the manner of death and not the victim. Think back to the monastery,’
‘I try very hard not to,’ said Zenobia. ‘I’ve trouble enough sleeping.’
‘The cross, the olive grove, the blood sweat; we both said immediately “Gethsemane.”’
‘Horrid,’ said Zenobia, trying not to see the pair of eyes, rigid with terror.
‘It was as something from a mystery play,’ said Anna. ‘It was almost like a tableau of Christ’s suffering.’
‘Are you saying it was not a murder then?’ said Zenobia. ‘A performance gone too far? An accident? Then what of Baltus?’
‘I’m not sure, Zen,’ said Anna, lying back into the pillow with a sigh. ‘If only we had seen properly how he was found.’
‘Perish the thought!’ said Zenobia, feeling queasy at the notion.
Anna stared up at the ceiling beams. ‘All we saw was a drowned body and the rock it had been tied to. There’s no mystery play I know like that.’
‘Perhaps then Baltus did end his own life,’ said Zenobia. ‘Perhaps the other death is unrelated.’
‘But that symbol,’ said Anna. ‘That links them. That apparently is all that links them. What does it mean?’
‘I might say I wish I knew, Despoina, but the truth is I do not wish to know at all.’
‘I’ve pushed it all about my head for days until my mind is dizzy,’ said Anna. ‘I think it’s time we sought assistance.’
Zenobia felt a relief at this admission. ‘I already told your brother and the watch all about the monastery death. The matter is in hand, no doubt.’
‘Not assistance from them,’ Anna said scornfully. ‘I told you they’ll not care a fig for either victim. No, we need a sharp intellect to cut through this Gordian knot. We must go and see Plethon.’
Zenobia tried very hard to suppress her groan.
***
The city, cloaked in the May sunshine, basked in its beauty: proud marble pillars glowed beneath acanthus capitals; carved eagles leered imperiously across byways that had seen centuries of seasons come and go. The spring blossom had begun to drop from the trees, and every gust of wind brought a waterfall of petals cascading down on the veiled heads of the ladies as they made their way towards Mangana. Beautiful, but in Zenobia’s state of mind, the splashes of red and purple petals on the cobbles looked too much like congealed pools of blood.
The first inkling Anna had of trouble, as they approached the old monastery, was the sight of the workshop doors hanging limply on their hinges. The wood was splintered in places where something heavy had battered it open.
She stopped in her tracks. Beside her, Zenobia stiffened as she saw it too. The ground about the doorway was dappled, but the spots of dark crimson were not Judas tree flowers.
‘Don’t,’ Zenobia pleaded as Anna made to push the doors further ajar. Anna shook her arm away.
From the doorway the workshop appeared a battle site with apparatus toppled and tables overturned. The many wood and metal contrivances lay smashed and broken across a floor made roughcast by the shattered glass shards of aludel and alembic.
There were no bodies to be seen, but beyond the wreckage, daubed on the brick wall of the towering athanor, the dreadful symbol stared back at them.
‘Holy Theotokos!’ Zenobia moaned and shrank back into the street.
‘We must find him,’ said Anna, stepping carefully across the carpet of glass.
She made straight for the athanor, the tower furnace around which so much talismanic alchemy revolved.
There was no heat coming off the heavy iron door, but her heart still climbed up her throat as she depressed the handle to open it.
She hardly dared look, but the interior, which resembled an oversized bread oven, contained no charred human remains.
Before she had drawn another breath, the boards of the wooden staircase groaned in protest as three sets of feet came slowly down them together. Zenobia screamed in shock.
‘I had a visit,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Thank all the saints!’ said Anna. She lent against the brick furnace for support while her heart tried to remember how to behave.
The old philosopher reached the foot of the steps, followed by his two sons, Demetrios and Andronikos. There was a bandage wrapped around Andronikos’s middle, spotted with the soak-through of blood.
‘Thank all the engineers,’ said Plethon. ‘There is a trick or two still up this old sleeve.’ He casually tugged on a cord as he spoke, and a crossbow bolt spat from an unseen nook and embedded itself in the panel of the broken doorway. Zenobia almost fainted in shock.
‘We came to speak to you about this very symbol,’ said Anna, pointing to the paint above her head. ‘We have seen it twice before. What does it mean?’
She thought she heard the boards of the staircase groan again, but no one appeared and both Plethon’s sons were already in the workshop.
‘It is Hebrew,’ said the philosopher.
‘Jews! I should have known,’ said Zenobia clapping her hands.
‘A Hebrew verse? What does it say?’ asked Anna.
‘Well, I must admit I had to look it up,’ said Plethon. ‘But it appears to be just a single word. A name: Michael. The thugs were splashing it on
the wall when Andronikos disturbed them.’
‘Thugs? So there was more than one of them,’ said Anna.
‘There were five at least,’ said Andronikos with a proud grin.
‘There were four,’ said Demetrios, rolling his eyes. ‘And most of them scrawny.’
‘It is not safe here!’ Zenobia said. ‘The Jews might come back.’
‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘They might. You should seek protection.’
The broadest of smiles melted over Plethon’s face. ‘But I have already, my dear,’ he said.
The wood of the staircase had begun once more to talk. ‘Who?’ she asked, but the expression on her old mentor’s face was too clear a sign. The heavy tramp of a boot had reached the foot of the stair and she already knew without turning; already knew before the voice began to speak in its low foreign burr.
***
‘Well, you do indeed describe a tableau in the garden,’ said Plethon. They had moved from the fractured workshop into the old monastery and were sat about his roomy cabinet. ‘So, let us consider then that those ruffians were here to undertake something similar. A ritual killing, and if the position of their mark is a guide, we might deduce that it involved my athanor.’
‘The Book of Daniel. The fiery furnace!’ said Zenobia.
‘My mother’s favourite psalm,’ Anna said. ‘Three holy children in the fiery furnace.’
Zenobia, eyes closed, began to recite, ‘Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever. For he has delivered us from Hades and saved us from the power of death; He has freed us from the raging flame and delivered us from the fire.’
‘Yes!’ said Plethon and took up the recital. ‘Nebuchadnezzar was startled and rose in haste, asking his counselors, “Did we not cast three men bound into the fire?” “Certainly, O king,” they answered. “But,” he replied, “I see four men unbound and unhurt, walking in the fire, and the fourth looks like the son of God.”’
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