Ascension

by Gregory Dowling

  I started up the right-hand staircase. There was now a stir among the oarsmen and people at the top were beginning to realise something strange was happening. A man who looked as if he must be the captain of the ship appeared at the top of the staircase and stared down at me.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “I come from the Missier Grande,” I said, continuing to mount the stairs. “No time for explanations. You have an assassin on board.”

  “Just stop there,” said the captain, barring the way, as I reached the top. He put a hand to my chest and a burly sailor loomed up at his side.

  I needed to play this carefully. All they needed to do was push me and not only would I fall but I would lose all possible claim to authority. Sprawling on the ground in tattered clothes and an ankle chain never looks impressive.

  I did not attempt to barge past them. I just stood still and said calmly: “You will answer to the Missier Grande.” Strangely enough, I felt calm. Too many infinitely worse things had happened by this point for this setback to disturb me unduly.

  “You don’t look like a representative of the Missier Grande,” said the captain, but I was pleased to note there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  Other people were turning round and staring at me. These included Gaetano, who stared at me open-mouthed. I resisted the temptation to wave at him. I still could not see Garzoni, but a large group of people remained clustered around the rails at the stern, watching the approach of the Bucintoro – and, of course, the fire, which was still blazing merrily.

  “If I don’t,” I said, “it is because I have come from that fire over there, which was set by the assassins.”

  Gaetano turned round and walked away, presumably to find his master. “And that man there,” I said, pointing after him, “the one with the red hair, is one of the assassins.”

  “Come, sior,” said the captain (the “sior” was promising), “he is a priest.”

  “He is wearing a priest’s garb,” I said. “Arrest him now!” And I gave these last words as an order.

  “I will leave you to do that,” said the captain, evidently feeling this was the easiest way out, and stepping aside. “His Excellency nobleman Zanotto welcomed him and his companion aboard himself.”

  I had guessed right. On hearing his name Zanotto detached himself from the people at the stern and came towards me. He was now wearing what were obviously his robes of office as a member of the Worshipful Company of Customs Officers. They were distinctly less shabby than his nobleman’s cloak, as I remembered it, so that his elaborately curled wig no longer seemed quite so ridiculous. His face was extremely worried as he came towards me. He clearly had not recognised me yet.

  “Excellency,” I said, and bowed.

  “It’s you,” he said, with clear dismay. “But what are you doing here?” Looking like an escaped madman, his tone added.

  “Excellency,” I said, “I presume you extended an invitation to nobleman Garzoni to join you on this boat for the ceremony.”

  “And if I did? If I did?” His voice was now clearly agitated and he glanced back towards the people at the stern. Garzoni had still not manifested himself; I could see Gaetano’s red hair amid a cluster of powdered wigs, and I could only presume that one of them belonged to Garzoni. But the faces all remained resolutely turned away from us.

  “Are you aware that he is armed? With several pistols?”

  Zanotto’s agitation increased. “What are you suggesting? What are you suggesting?” Perhaps he thought that by saying things twice he could remove the danger.

  “I’m not suggesting. I am telling you. Nobleman Garzoni intends to murder the Doge.”

  There was a general gasp from those around us. Zanotto’s expression said clearly that he had suspected as much. I almost began to feel sorry for him.

  At that moment Garzoni emerged from the crowd of people at the stern, flanked by Gaetano. He was wearing his nobleman’s cloak, which was well wrapped round him, despite the warmth of the morning. He walked unhesitatingly towards me, his dark pits of eyes fixed on me.

  “What is this ruffian suggesting?” As usual, his voice, although quiet and marred by his sparseness of teeth, somehow managed to cut through the tumultuous noise all around us and cast a chilly spell. At least that was how I felt it.

  “I am telling everyone that you are armed and dangerous,” I said, staring straight into his eyes.

  “I ask you all to look at this poor wretch, who has clearly escaped from San Servolo.” And he made a contemptuous gesture with his right hand in the direction of the madhouse. “Throw him off the boat,” he said, and turned away.

  There was a moment’s pause and I sensed that everything would turn on my next decision. If I did nothing there was no doubt that Garzoni’s order would be obeyed, dubious though his authority was.

  If I attempted violence against him I would look like a madman, attacking a venerable nobleman. If I merely blustered I would lose all advantage. What was needed was some demonstrative action, one that would carry its own authority.

  I raised my left hand in as authoritative a manner as possible (I was remembering a fine performance of Mark Antony’s funeral speech) and with the other I unwound the chain from round my waist. For the two or three seconds it took me to do this people wavered. And then suddenly I began swinging the chain in a vicious whooshing circle. All those closest to me stepped back in alarm.

  “Take this as my chain of office,” I announced, scarcely knowing what I was saying. “I say again that I speak with the authority of the Missier Grande.” This time I said the name as loudly as was possible without sounding hysterical.

  Suddenly Garzoni spun round and this time he had drawn a pistol from underneath his cloak. I had been expecting this and before he had time to level the weapon I lashed the chain forward with a vicious jerk of my arm. The far end caught the pistol and sent it flying into the air, while Garzoni gave a cry of pain and tumbled backwards. There was a general gasp all around at what had probably appeared to be a sudden and brutal attack on my part. This lasted a split second until the pistol fell to the ground in everybody’s sight. And then all eyes swivelled to where Garzoni lay sprawling, with his cloak spread out. Three other pistols were visible, tucked into his belt. Even as he lay there his uninjured hand moved towards one of them.

  Zanotto gave a sharp cry and dashed towards him.

  “Careful!” I screamed.

  There was a loud explosion and Zanotto staggered back, gazing in horror at his left arm. His fine robes of office had been sliced open and a bloody stain was spreading there. Amid more gasps of horror a couple of the more courageous bystanders sprang forwards and pinioned Garzoni before his hand could proceed to another of the pistols. Somebody else pulled the guns from his belt.

  At this moment the Bucintoro came alongside us. The pistol shot had clearly been heard even above the trumpets and drums, and the rails were lined with curious faces. The castle was higher than ours, of course, and the dignitaries massed upon it stared down at us, clearly with some perturbation. The Doge himself could be seen, his usually benevolent face looking a little perplexed as he gazed in our direction.

  I moved towards Garzoni. The people around him stepped back, as if acknowledging my official role in this affair – or perhaps just worried that I might lash out with the chain again. Only Gaetano was now left crouching by his side and Garzoni was speaking urgently to him, his face contorted with rage and hatred. He had seen the Doge, I think.

  “Stop that man!” I cried, pointing towards Gaetano.

  Gaetano had pulled a pistol from his own belt and pointed it unwaveringly towards me. I stood dead still. So did everyone else.

  Garzoni said: “You know what to do.”

  Gaetano gave a grunt.

  My eyes darted to the right, towards the Bucintoro. The Doge was now in plain sight, on a little platform above everyone else, peering vaguely in the direction of his would-be assassins. Gaetano’s eyes flicker
ed from me to the Bucintoro and back again.

  Perhaps he was going to shoot me and then the Doge; I had no doubt that he had another pistol in his belt. Or perhaps he would go for the Doge first …

  I knew that if my hand holding the chain so much as stirred I would be a dead man. I stayed rigidly still and ran a thousand calculations through my mind. None of them worked out well.

  Then Gaetano suddenly swung the pistol, placed the muzzle next to Garzoni’s head and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Gaetano dropped the gun by the side of the bloody mess that had been his master’s head and stood up, his own head drooping in silent surrender. When the screams had died down I moved forward and put a hand on his shoulder, turned to the captain and said: “Take this man into custody.”

  And they did it. Three sailors gripped him and hustled him away. His face remained inscrutable. I wondered if he had carried out Garzoni’s final instructions or acted on his own initiative. Then I realised that the latter notion was absurd.

  Of course, it was always possible he had misunderstood his instructions.

  There was a cry from another boat to starboard. “What is going on?”

  I recognised the voice and moved towards the railings. Below us lay a dodesona, its twelve oarsmen all in splendid white with red trimmings; the Missier Grande was standing bolt upright in the middle of the boat, with two men in white liveries in front and another two behind. Each of the liveried men had a musket by his side.

  I leaned out and said: “It’s a long story, Illustrissimo.”

  Amid all the hubbub – trumpets still playing, drums pounding, excited voices gabbling on all sides – the Missier Grande stood absolutely still, a slight frown on his upturned face. Then he said: “I have no doubt it is. Four of my men will board your boat and restore order. You will join me and give me a condensed version. The celebrations will continue.”

  And once again orders were obeyed – particularly the last one. Such is the Venetian desire for pomp and spectacle that nothing – not even an unexpected conflagration, an assassination attempt, the wounding of one nobleman and the murder of another – could divert the course of events by so much as a minute.

  However, it was the end of my involvement in the festivities.

  28

  I spent much of the rest of the day being interrogated by the three Inquisitors. It was quite surprising that they were prepared to devote their time to the case that same day, since everyone else of any importance was taking part in the grand banquet in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio. The sounds of merry feasting were perfectly audible to us, and I saw at least one of the Inquisitors cast an occasional wistful glance in the direction of the noise. However, the case was clearly considered serious enough to warrant not only their full but also their immediate attention. I imagined that a few spare lobsters and chicken legs would be put aside for them.

  Being interrogated by the Inquisitors is probably most Venetians’ worst nightmare, but I had been through too much by this point to feel any special terror. And it was undeniable that the strange circumstances of the interrogation robbed it of some of its power to awe.

  In any case, as the Missier Grande was there as well, I was able to see the curious relationship that bound them to him: formally they were, of course, his superiors, in rank and prestige, but they clearly depended on him for most of their information and also, it seemed, for a good many of their policies and decisions. He maintained a tone of deferential respect towards them but never at any point did he seem intimidated – not even when they criticised him for the decision he had taken to investigate nobleman Garzoni without first referring to them. He bowed his head respectfully and acknowledged the licence he had taken but it was evident – to me, at least – that he would do exactly the same thing next time round.

  Curiously, they asked fewer questions about nobleman Garzoni than they did about the murders of the gnaghe. I think there was a natural embarrassment on their part about having to question a member of the popolo regarding one of their own rank. With the question of the gnaghe they felt more comfortable, since those murders had clearly been committed by Luca, Gaetano and Giorgio. However, I pointed out that the arcane symbolism of the murders – the references to the legend of Saint Isidore, for example – pointed to the fact that, despite all that Garzoni had said about the aim of creating a general sense of terror in the population, the real aim of the actual perpetrators (or, at least, of the planner) of the murders had been to impress him. It was exactly the same logic that had led to the creation of the wholly impractical submergible. The purpose was simply to keep Garzoni happy – and thus to keep his coffers for ever at the disposal of Luca. Obviously Gaetano and Giorgio had been mere tools (although willingly murderous ones).

  The Inquisitors did not exactly thank me for my intervention but they acknowledged that it had been timely. An excess of gratitude or praise would probably have seemed too much like endorsement of the Missier Grande’s tendency to independent enterprise. I was finally allowed to leave their august presence, but the Missier Grande made it clear that he wished to speak further with me, and so I remained in his private office, in the company of Sior Massaro.

  Nobleman Zanotto was then questioned by the Inquisitors; his arm had been bandaged and it seemed the wound was a superficial one. Naturally I was not present during his interrogation – they would hardly allow a popolano to witness the interrogation of one of their own rank. However, Sior Marasso discreetly let me know the broad outcome of the interrogation. It seemed that Garzoni had asked Zanotto to allow him to join the boat on the day of the Sensa, although he had not specified a purpose; Zanotto had had no idea of Garzoni’s intentions. This last seemed likely enough, even if Zanotto had reason to know that Garzoni harboured no friendly feelings towards the Doge. He had probably thought that the public nature of the occasion would have been enough to deter Garzoni from any open manifestation of hostility, not realising just how seriously deranged the latter had become by this point. In any case, Zanotto was dismissed from the Inquisitors’ presence without charge. He actually walked past me on his way out of the Doge’s palace, and merely gave me a stiff nod of acknowledgement. I returned the compliment wearily.

  Sior Massaro was also kind enough to arrange for the chain to be removed from my leg, for my own wounds to be cleaned and for a simple change of clothes to be provided. The substitute garments clearly belonged to an artisan employed in some menial capacity in the palace; I was left to wonder what circumstances lay behind their ready availability. They were clean enough and more or less of the right size.

  The Missier Grande arrived at last from the Inquisitors’ chamber, looking totally unruffled.

  I stood up as he entered the room. “May I go now, Illustrissimo?”

  “Before you do I wish to remind you that you are a confidential agent. Nothing must go beyond these walls. This vow of silence includes your gondolier friend and your bookseller friend.”

  “Without their help I would have got nowhere,” I said.

  “That may be so. But they need know no more of this business than they know already.”

  “Am I to be allowed to return to my former line of work?”

  He seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he said: “I think the state would have no objections.”

  “That is very gracious of the state,” I said.

  “I have told you before to restrain your impulse to sarcasm. If you have been expecting fulsome expressions of gratitude and rewards, please remember you were acting without due authority and the state can hardly be expected to encourage such behaviour.”

  “I thought the state paid more attention to results,” I said. “After all, no one authorised the lady to drop her stone mortar on Bajamonte Tiepolo’s standard-bearer.”

  “No,” he said. “But neither had she taken a vow of silence before being involved in the matter.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “You can take comfort from the fac
t that you are not to be in any way castigated or reprimanded for having continued to concern yourself in this affair after an explicit instruction not to do so.”

  I remained silent, since I could not think of anything to say that was not sarcastic.

  “I will add,” he said, making it sound like a casual afterthought, “that you showed remarkable initiative. We may need your skills again.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m not sure that –”

  “I did suspect that my warning to stay clear might not prove totally effective. It probably proved a good spur to action, in fact.”

  “Illustrissimo, are you saying…?” I was truly startled this time.

  “Never mind that. You may return to your former employment as a cicerone. That is to say, until such time as we shall require your services again. And Sior Massaro can perhaps find suitable precedent to award you compensation for the losses you have sustained, including, it seems, your wardrobe.”

  Once again I found myself unexpectedly saying thank you. He gave a stiff bow and was about to leave when I said: “And the English gentleman in custody?”

  “We will see to that.”

  “We know that nobleman Garzoni’s staff were responsible for those murders,” I said.

  “They have confessed as much,” he acknowledged.

  Both Gaetano and Giorgio had been arrested. I could not imagine that theirs had been a gushing or a lengthy confession.

  He went on: “Arrangements will be made for the release of the English gentleman. He will be allowed to re-join his relatives and they will all be invited to continue on their way to Florence.”

  “I’m sure you will not have to invite them very hard,” I said.