by James Becker
‘Are there any other pictures showing that woman?’ he demanded. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak her name.
‘That was the last one. All the others have been destroyed.’
Reznik nodded in satisfaction. His work was done. The princess was buried in what amounted to an unmarked grave, and he had done his best to expunge all traces of her life, all reminders of her presence, from the castle.
Without a backwards glance, he walked out of the gallery and a few minutes later passed through the double gates that secured the courtyard of Krumlov Zamek. He knew he would never enter that cursed and wretched castle again.
He just hoped that he had done enough to stop the contagion before it took hold in the district.
But in that regard, Reznik was mistaken. Over the next few years he would officiate at nearly a dozen burials that would require him to use his peculiar and arcane knowledge, though none of these would involve another member of the aristocracy.
And on his own deathbed, nearly twenty years later, he would finally acknowledge the truth he had shied away from for all those years.
Because what happened in the months and years after the burial of Eleonora Amalia proved to him beyond doubt that she was not the source of the plague, as Reznik had always believed, but simply another victim.
1
Present day
‘This truly is a spectacular place,’ Chris Bronson said, looking back at the city of Venice.
It was the first day of November, and he and Angela were standing side by side in the stern of a crowded vaporetto that was ferrying them from the Fondamente Nuove stop on Venice itself across the lagoon to the Isola di San Michele — the island of St Michael — to take part in the celebrations known unofficially as the Festival of the Dead.
There was a stiff breeze blowing from the south-east, sufficiently strong to create dozens of white horses that surged all around the vessel, but the boat carved an arrow-straight wake through the choppy waters. The lights of the city were just starting to pierce the late-afternoon gloom, a gloom made more pronounced by the patches of mist that were forming over the water. Venice looked almost like a huge and improbable cruise ship, floating silently in the cool and shallow waters of the lagoon.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ Angela said, taking his arm to steady herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting this wind though. Is it the sirocco?’
Bronson shook his head. ‘No. It’s the wrong time of year. The sirocco only blows in the spring and summer.’
‘Well, I was hoping for a warm and balmy evening — a kind of last gasp of summer, if you like — but this feels more like the onset of winter.’
‘It is November, you know.’
Angela shivered slightly. She was wearing a pair of black trousers (she’d guessed that a skirt would be much less practical for climbing in and out of vaporettos during the evening), a white blouse and a kind of woollen tunic that Bronson had incautiously referred to as a cardigan, only to receive a loud sigh at his manifest lack of fashion sense. Over this, she was wearing a midnight-blue silk coat. Bronson liked it: it brought out the colour of her eyes. He could see now that it couldn’t be very warm.
Bronson had always regarded fashion as an easy way of separating large sums of money from gullible men — and even more gullible women — who were foolish enough to believe the rubbish spouted by the self-appointed fashion ‘experts’. He invariably dressed for comfort and practicality, selecting a shirt by opening a drawer and picking up the one that lay on top of the others. He chose trousers, socks and underwear using the same simple and, to him, foolproof system. His only concessions to fashion were that he normally wore dark colours, usually blues and blacks, and had never owned a pair of white socks. This evening, he had chosen a dark check shirt, slightly faded blue jeans, and a pair of black trainers. And his leather jacket was proof against even the strongest wind the Adriatic could produce.
Angela buttoned her coat, and snuggled closer to Bronson. ‘With your love of Italy, and all things Italian,’ she murmured, ‘I’m really surprised that you’ve never been to Venice before.’
‘I know,’ Bronson replied. ‘For some reason, I’ve spent my time on the west side of the country. So I know Rome, Florence, Pisa and Naples really well, but this is the first time I’ve ever visited the Adriatic coast. And it really is stunning.’
It had all been Angela’s idea. There had been an unexpected reduction in her workload at the British Museum, and for the first time since the start of her employment there she had found herself with almost nothing to do. She was a ceramics conservator, and spent most of her working day either trying to reassemble ancient pottery shards into something that resembled a recognizable vessel or writing reports and assessments for the benefit of other people who were trying to do pretty much the same thing.
And this lull in her workload had coincided neatly with the dates of Bronson’s final week’s leave for the year. Her ex-husband had planned to do little more than sit around at his home in Tunbridge Wells, watch a bit of television and, if he could summon the energy and enthusiasm, tackle a handful of DIY jobs that he knew needed doing. When Angela had suggested spending the week exploring Venice instead, Bronson had thought carefully about his choice for nearly a second and a half before agreeing to go with her. It was, he thought now as he put his arm round her, absolutely the right decision.
‘OK,’ he said, smiling down at her, ‘you’re the historian. So what, exactly, is the Festival of the Dead?’
Angela rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Do you really want a history lesson?’ she asked.
‘I like hearing you talk, especially when you’re talking about something that really interests you. And you know I’m never tired of hearing about Italy.’
‘Actually, it’s not really Italian history,’ Angela began, ‘because the date — the first of November — comes from a really old pagan festival, and is celebrated over most of Western Europe. Yesterday was, of course, the last day of October, or Halloween, which as everyone knows has always been associated with death and the supernatural. But what’s less well known is that it’s only ever been a kind of taster, a precursor, if you will, for the main event — Allhallows or Hallowmas, which is today.’
‘I thought it was a kind of saints’ day,’ Bronson objected.
Angela nodded. ‘If you talk to a Christian, especially an Anglican or Roman Catholic, he or she will tell you that today is All Saints’ Day, a day that celebrates God and all his saints, both known and unknown, so the Church can cover all the bases. But it’s a little more complicated than that, because the early Christian Church was desperate to try to stamp out all competing religions, especially all pagan rituals and celebrations. They couldn’t simply ban pagan festivals because they feared that people would still observe them in secret, so they did the next best thing: they hijacked them.
‘Some time in the early seventh century, Christians began celebrating All Saints’ Day on the first of November. In 835 AD Pope Gregory IV officially authorized the festival, and it’s been celebrated ever since. Allhallows was once one of the four greatest and most important festivals in the pagan calendar, but most Christians today have never heard of it, because the Church has done such a good job of changing the original purpose and meaning of the celebrations.
‘And, just to ram home the fact that November the first was a Christian celebration, the Church also created another festival day on the second of the month — All Souls’ Day, which is a celebration to help cleanse and purify the spirits of the dead. And you’ll find similar crowds out on San Michele tomorrow, because the Venetians celebrate both days.’
‘But surely the early Christians weren’t celebrating death?’
Angela shook her head. ‘No, not death, but the dead themselves. Allhallows was intended to help people remember the dead, and to say prayers for the souls of the departed. Interestingly, it’s not just in Western Europe that you find this kind of celebration. Over in Mexico
they have a Day of the Dead, which is also on the second of November, and that’s a kind of combination of an ancient Native American tradition and the Catholic All Souls’ Day. The people there decorate their homes with fake skeletons, visit cemeteries to clean and tidy the graves of their deceased relatives, and even leave offerings of food and drink for various wandering spirits.’
‘And I suppose the Venetian Festival of the Dead is something similar?’ Bronson asked.
‘Exactly, but over here they don’t so much tend the graves as wander about the cemetery carrying lighted candles and chrysanthemums. Those flowers have become firmly associated with burial ceremonies in Italy, and it’s a very bad idea to offer a bunch to anyone who’s still alive. But, being Italy, it’s become a social event, too, especially for locals — and because we’re here in Venice, I thought it would be interesting to come along.’
‘So we’ll be spending the evening in a graveyard. How nice!’ Bronson turned his back on the city they had left and looked ahead at the Isola di San Michele, colloquially known as the ‘Island of the Dead’ because it was simply a huge graveyard.
He’d read that the idea of using one of the islands in the Venetian lagoon as a graveyard dated back to 1807, when Venice was conquered by Napoleon and was suffering under a French occupation that virtually bankrupted the city. Burial on Venice itself was deemed to be unsanitary, so the neighbouring island of San Cristoforo della Pace was selected for the task. When that proved inadequate in size, the narrow canal that separated San Cristoforo della Pace from the larger San Michele was filled in, during 1836, and the combined island became known simply as San Michele. For a very short period the island was also used as a prison, but afterwards reverted to solely being a graveyard, which still held some very famous corpses. The bodies of the dead were transported across to the island from Venice on special funeral gondolas.
The edge of San Michele lay only a couple of hundred yards from Venice itself, but the vaporetto stop was at the most northerly point of the island, right beside the Chiesa di San Michele, one of the earliest Renaissance churches in Venice. Bronson could see it now, its stark white Istrian stone standing out in the gloom, and marking it out from the mellow colours that characterized most Venetian architecture.
A couple of minutes later, the vaporetto was stationary alongside the jetty, and the gangway had been opened. The passengers surged off the vessel and started making their way towards the entrance. Bronson and Angela were in no particular hurry to leave the boat, so they waited in the stern until almost all the other passengers had left. Then they too stepped on to the jetty and followed the rest of the crowd who, noisy and gesticulating, seemed to be getting in the mood for the evening ahead.
‘The wind’s dropped, which is good news, but it’s getting a bit murky,’ Bronson said to Angela, pointing at the blanket of fog that was descending fast. They had seen patches of mist forming over the water after they’d left Venice, but what lay in front of them was more like a real peasouper. Within minutes, visibility was reduced to just a few yards, and they were glad that the path itself was visible, though the family in front of them were still making enough noise that following them was very easy.
Angela shivered again. ‘You’re right — it’s quite spooky now. And this mist is exactly the right atmosphere for an evening in a graveyard.’ She took a map of the island out of her pocket and smoothed it out.
‘Well, as long as we can find our way back to the jetty and the boat I’m not bothered,’ Bronson said. ‘But I certainly wouldn’t fancy spending the night out here. Do you see that kind of yellow glow in the mist over to the left of us? Shall we head towards it?’
Angela looked in that direction as well, and nodded. ‘It’s probably from all the candles people are carrying.’
They were now catching up with the people ahead, who had walked along the semicircular path that curved around in front of the church, and had then turned down another path that seemed to be leading in the opposite direction.
‘Where are they going now?’
Angela looked down at the map. ‘This path takes us over towards the centre of the cemetery, and also towards some of the older areas. One slightly odd thing about this graveyard is that, these days, the bodies are removed after about ten years. They’re buried in the usual way in the ground, with the grave marked by a slab or headstone, but because this graveyard serves the entire population of Venice, space is pretty limited. So once the body has been reduced to bones, it’s exhumed and the skeleton stored in an ossuary, or bone box. Apparently, there’s an exhumation timetable posted near the entrance.’
Most of the more modern graves they were passing displayed photographs of the occupants, and almost all of them had been decorated with fresh flowers, giving the graveyard a strangely colourful appearance despite the gloom.
Even through the fog, Bronson could tell that the cemetery was huge, a vast expanse of ground studded with ancient vaults and individual tombstones, some standing erect, others either deliberately placed flat on the earth or having presumably fallen at some point over the centuries.
Walking through one of the older parts of the cemetery, they paused at intervals to look at some of the inscriptions. These varied from the simple to the flowery: from just a name, date of birth and date of death, to elaborate verses written in Italian or even Latin, to glorify or justify the life that had ended.
Angela had been right about the source of the yellowish glow. Almost every person they passed — and there seemed to be literally hundreds — was carrying a large candle, and the combined mass of tiny flames was giving the heavy mist a distinctly yellow or orange colour.
‘So what do we do now?’ Bronson asked.
‘It’s a shame we didn’t think to bring any refreshments,’ Angela replied, pointing at the people milling around them. Many were carrying bottles or flasks, and a few had even brought wicker picnic baskets with them, others clear plastic boxes containing food.
Angela had been absolutely right: it was obvious that Hallowmas or the Festival of the Dead was a major social and family event. Men, women and children were wandering around the graveyard, obviously determined to enjoy their evening in the somewhat unusual surroundings.
‘Well, I’ve got a bar of chocolate in my pocket if you want to share that,’ Bronson said, passing it over.
Angela snapped the bar in two and handed back one section. For a few moments they just stood there, enjoying their impromptu snack and soaking up the atmosphere.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ Angela asked, after a minute or two, looking around at the noisy and cheerful crowds.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Here we are in a graveyard, walking above the decaying bones of hundreds or even thousands of long-dead citizens of Venice. This should be a place of sorrow or sombre reflection, but actually we’re in the middle of a huge party.’
Bronson grinned at her. ‘That just goes to show the importance of atmosphere. In those old Hammer films you used to be so fond of, the director would try to get the audience quivering expectantly just by showing them a couple of polystyrene tombstones with some fake mist swirling around them, while some suitably spooky music played in the background. And here we are, surrounded by the real thing, and everyone’s really happy, laughing and joking. The dead aren’t bothering them at all.’
But then, in the distance, they both heard a distant howl, the sound so faint that the animal — which Bronson presumed was an Alsatian or some other breed of large dog — clearly wasn’t anywhere near the Isola di San Michele.
‘What the hell was that?’ Angela asked, her face white and strained in the darkness.
‘It sounded like a hungry German shepherd,’ Bronson suggested. ‘But don’t worry — it’s a long way off and not about to rip out our throats.’
Angela laughed out loud, then stopped as the sound of a solid thump echoed from somewhere nearby, and a scream of pure, undiluted terror cut across the noise of the revelry w
ith the awful finality of the fall of a guillotine blade.
2
On the Island of the Dead, the mist was thick, and visibility was reduced to a matter of only a few yards. To complicate things further, it was difficult to identify the direction from which the first scream had come. But by now, Bronson and Angela were surrounded by people in a hurry, and who seemed to be moving south, towards the centre of the island. So Bronson and Angela headed in the opposite direction, to where they thought the commotion had occurred.
Moving aside to avoid the sea of people rushing straight towards them, they threaded their way between the tombstones and, moments later, found themselves facing a group of men and women who were standing in a rough circle, staring at one of the larger tombs.
Bronson’s police training kicked in, despite the fact that he was about a thousand miles from his home beat. He switched to Italian and pulled out his British warrant card — he knew it would mean absolutely nothing to anybody there, but it would give him a thin veneer of authority while he found out what had so alarmed everyone in the cemetery.
‘Police. Let me through … Police officer,’ he kept repeating, waving the warrant card like a talisman as he pushed his way through the unmoving crowd, Angela following just a few feet behind him.
Almost reluctantly the people parted to allow him passage. Unusually for any group of Italians, they were almost silent, staring in fascination at something on the ground in front of them. And then Bronson reached the middle of the group, and could see precisely what had sparked the general exodus from the area.
The Festival of the Dead was in some ways a misnomer. The revellers who travelled to the cemetery were not there to celebrate the dead, but rather to celebrate the lives and memories of friends and relatives who had passed away. Absolutely the last thing they actually expected to see in the cemetery was a body. But that was the sight which now confronted Bronson.