He thrust, I parried. His sword did not come back with its customary swiftness to the guard position. I saw an opening, thrust forward in perfect balance with feet perfectly placed – and felt my weapon twisted easily from my hand and sent skittering across the stone flags to the furthermost corner.
‘You’re much improved, young Carlo,’ complimented Godfrey, of a sudden not out of breath at all. ‘Though your attacking passes still tend to come in a sequence rather stereotyped. But, give me a few more years, I’d make you the best swordsman in Europe, no doubt of it.’
‘Take them, take them!’ I urged eagerly.
‘I almost wish I could,’ he said sadly. ‘But there is too much now between us to make a return to trust ever possible. Oh Carlo, Carlo, if only you had stayed faithful to me.’
With which extraordinary hypocrisy he thrust his point at my heart. I managed to half turn so the blade slid off my left shoulder. Laughing, he swung his edge at me in a blow that would have taken off my head if I had not ducked almost to the floor, rolled beneath the table and came up at the other side grasping the only weapon I had encountered en route, my umbrella.
Kicking the table aside, Godfrey advanced on me. I retreated to the wall and held out the umbrella before my body like a shield.
‘Carlo,’ he said in the kindly tones of a father to a silly son, ‘that is for defence against the burning sun while what threatens you now is eternal night. Soon you shall cast your own shade for ever!’
And with a few brutal strokes he destroyed the thin circle of stretched leather and then came close so that his point was at my throat and his belly against the end of the harmless cloth-bound holding-staff of the umbrella.
‘Carlo, good-bye,’ he said. ‘My friend.’
‘Good-bye,’ I replied. ‘My friend.’
And thrust with all my might. The fine-filed tip of the old cutlass sliced through the cloth that bound it, sliced through the rich material of Godfrey’s doublet, sliced through the layers of muscle and membrane, grated against the knobs of his backbone and emerged into air again in a spurt of bright blood which stained the floor once more where Sabino’s had already dried to darkness.
He stepped back three paces, looking at me in disbelief.
‘You told me yourself, Godfrey; give up a woman if you must, but a weapon never,’ I said. ‘So when I surrendered my fine toledo blade at a city gate, I kept your old cutlass with me as the handle of my umbrella. For I knew for certain when you entered a town, no laws of God or of man would have rendered you weaponless.’
He slumped to his knees now and looked up at me with a cross between a smile and an agonized grimace.
‘I have been a good teacher,’ he said in a low, strained voice. ‘Oh Christ! The pain. … Carlo, in God’s name, pull the blade out, I beg you, so that I may lay me down and die like a gentleman.’
Touched by his plea, I moved forward to pluck the cutlass from his belly. But as soon as I was within range he swung his sword at my throat with all the force he could muster.
Fortunately it was not much. I evaded the blow easily and the impetus of it carried him over on his side.
‘I had thought to see England again,’ he said clearly.
And died.
At times like this it is fitting that a man should behave in the manner best suited to the circumstances. I pondered a moment on what to do next, then went in search of the booty from St Mark’s Treasury.
I found it all neatly packed in saddle-bags in an upper bedchamber. It all seemed to be there – give or take whatever Godfrey had used for expenses. I regarded the precious spoils, the jewels, the ornaments, the gilded relict casket, and wondered if it was worth any man’s life. Perhaps. It certainly wasn’t worth poor Priam’s.
The door opened behind me and I started nervously. It was no ghost nor any enemy that entered, but Felicia. Though in a way she was both enemy and ghost. It struck me that no word had I heard from her lips since she urged Godfrey to be quick about killing me.
And it also struck me that Godfrey had been right – I had scarcely known the girl when I asked her to elope with me. It was my own youthful imaginings which had created our great romance. I was not so foolish or forgiving as to want to shoulder all blame for what had passed, but I was man enough now to carry my share of it.
‘Did he speak true?’ I asked. ‘Was it you who told your father I should come to the house that night?’
She nodded.
‘So. And did he speak true also when he said it was your plan to kill me and thus divert any pursuers?’
‘No!’ she protested. ‘He alone thought of it. There was no late change. He it was who sold information about the Spanish plot to the Englishman, Wotton, who sold it in turn to the Senate. So he knew in advance there would have to be another kind of diversion.’
I nodded. I had guessed it before.
Picking up the saddle-bags, I made for the door.
There I paused for one last backward look.
A man should never look back. Felicia had seated herself on the bed, or rather collapsed there. She was slack as a Shrove Fair marionette when the Lenten bells sound. And like a marionette she wept as though water poured through holes beneath her eyes, with no sobbing, no convulsion of breast or shoulders.
’Tis taught in my country that a herb grows there which will make a man’s skin hard so that he may not be shot. I half believe it, but no herb exists that can harden a young man’s heart against his lover’s sorrow. Only long sowing and bitter reaping in the world’s stony soil can bring him acquainted with that most secret herb-lore.
So I went to her and took her in my arms and joined my tears to hers and was almost ready to ask her forgiveness for my unkindness, forgetting that in the last hour I had heard that childish voice urging my death!
There I sat, ready to be seduced by virtue, and so would have remained in a kind of holy ecstasy for God knows how long, had not Felicia, mistaking my nature, drawn me down beside her on the bed and began kissing and fondling me.
I had had no experience and scarcely any thought of love since I had taken Margharita against the chimney of Gasparo Valier’s house. It was as if Godfrey had taken my manhood as well as my girl. And now as I realized what was happening I felt at the same time horror that this holy moment should be so defiled and shame that my flesh could offer so little response. But Felicia, as if challenged by my coldness, now applied herself to the work with those chafing wiles I had not known since Maria last brought them to my bed, and so I was in a moment haled up and cast down for ever.
When finally I rose, Felicia lay there still and looked at me through half closed but wholly triumphant eyes.
‘How liked you that?’ she murmured caressingly.
I could not speak. I was betrayed twice over, and this was worse than what I had felt in that misty convent orchard. My eyes were full of tears as I took a handful of gold pieces from one of my saddle-bags and scattered them around her disbelieving face on the pillow.
Now she sat upright and began to scream foul abuse and my tears spouted in earnest. Well, this was a sign of softness in me, but Godfrey’s dog-lock, new loaded and spanned, was in my fist, and though the abuse never ceased, she made no attempt to follow as I left the room and went down the stairs.
Thus we parted in pleasure and we parted in pain and we parted from more than either of our young hearts could begin to guess.
One grief dulls another. Outside in the sunlight I knelt by poor Priam’s body for a while and suddenly what had happened in the house seemed already less cause for sorrow. I was ready to depart.
In the stables I found two horses, Godfrey’s and Felicia’s I assumed. I chose the better of these to ride, a fine deep-chested dim stallion, and the other I loaded with the saddlebags.
Sometimes in life a man must make his own decisions but often they are made for him and that is generally the less painful. I had not yet finally decided which way I would turn when I reached the road. One way would ta
ke me back to the Passo di San Marco, the other to Switzerland. And both ways held their dangers. How far would Venice pursue me to regain her treasure? Far enough to make my nights uneasy for a long, long time, I thought. Yet if I took it back myself, what reward could I hope for? Perhaps just such as Basadonna had already tried to bestow on me!
I had almost resolved to leave it to God and my horses, following the direction they should turn when we reached the road. But as I rode out of the stables I saw God had picked another method of solving my problem.
At the junction of the farm track and the road two horsemen stood as if uncertain whether to enter or not. I set the dun walking slowly towards them and as I drew near, I recognized one of them as the big sergeant of the Ducal Guard who had escorted me to my final interviews with the Three. His companion had that look of shifty knowingness which is the mark of a corporal in almost any army in the world. They were not in uniform, of course, but I could see from their demeanour that they were very much on duty for both rested a hand on the pistol butts in their saddle-holsters.
‘Good day to you, Signore Fantom,’ said the sergeant courteously. ‘Sergeant Pitagliano, at your service. We have met before.’
‘I recall it well, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘And I am most glad to meet you again. I guess our errand must be the same and I will be pleased to hand over my responsibilities in this matter to an officer of the Republic.’
So saying, I urged the laden horse towards him.
He did not take his eyes off me but said, ‘Corporal!’
The other man dismounted and unbuckled the saddle-bags, letting out a long covetous whistle at what he discovered there.
‘And it is all here, Signore Fantom?’ inquired Sergeant Pitagliano politely.
‘Alas, I cannot say how much that most notorious villain, Godislav the Uskok, may have disposed of before I recovered it from him, but all I found is there.’
His eyes moved slowly over my own person and impediments. My garments had little space in them for much to be concealed. And for luggage I had but a pair of leather sacks slung over my saddle. When his gaze came to a halt on these, I started, as if at a sudden memory, and said, ‘Forgive me; this too is the property of the Republic.’
Unhooking one of the sacks, I handed it to him.
‘’Tis fortunate you remembered,’ he began sarcastically, then stopped as he pulled loose the leather thong that bound the sack.
‘In God’s name!’ he cried, dropping it.
Curious, the corporal approached and grasping the sack by its bottom, he spilled its contents on to the dusty track, then leapt back like a startled rabbit as Godfrey’s bloody head rolled at his feet. That golden hair glinted in the golden sunlight and those bright blue eyes directed their honest, sincere gaze at the heavens whose colour they stole. Alongside the head lay the jewelled box that had contained the saint’s bones.
‘Is this Godislav the Uskok?’ demanded the sergeant, recovering his poise.
I nodded.
‘And the casket is one which the custodians of St Mark’s Treasure use for the storage of such holy relicts as most become the State,’ I added. ‘I felt these things went well together.’
He half grinned in reply.
‘Truly this is the property of the State. Pick it up, Corporal,’ he commanded. ‘Now, what of Signore Basadonna?’
Briefly I told him what had happened, altering nothing but the truth here and there. I could not, for instance, see much point in revealing my prior connection with Baroja, so I suggested he was one of the local banditti whose intervention had been quite fortuitous. The sergeant seemed very willing to accept my version of events and indeed he showed surprisingly little sorrow at the passing of Giacomo, but then these Venetians are trained to contain their emotions.
‘And Signorina Molini, what of her?’ he asked finally.
‘Still in the house,’ I replied. ‘She seemed uncertain whether she wished to return to Venice or not. I thought it best to leave her for a while to her devotions so that the Lord’s will might be manifest to her. A word of advice, Sergeant. Her terrible experiences have naturally upset her, both mentally and, I fear, morally. She may say strange things, and suggest even stranger. A wise man will make allowances and do his duty.’
‘That’s what I’m paid for,’ he said. ‘Well, I will speak to her. Then I hope we shall all travel back together. Shall we go up to the house now, Signore Fantom?’
‘Not I,’ I said.
‘What?’ His voice was as menacing as mine had been casual.
‘No. I have done my duty to the Republic, Sergeant,’ I answered. ‘All contracts between us are fulfilled. To you I resign both my charge and also any rewards that may accrue for the return of these goods to the Senate.’
He pondered for a while. The corporal and I regarded him, the corporal with the hope of greed in his eyes and myself with as much indifference as I could muster. But my hand too was now at my pistol butt.
Then the sergeant finished whatever private arithmetic was going on in his head and smiled.
‘In the Republic’s name, I thank you, Signore Fantom,’ he said formally. ‘You will always be welcome on our shores.’
‘I’m sure,’ I said, suppressing my sigh of relief.
‘Just one thing more. The other sack ….’
I opened it to show a flask of wine and a loaf of bread.
‘Provisions for my journey,’ I said.
He reached in and took out the wine, holding it to the sun so that light danced in sparks of red through the rich unclouded liquor.
‘It looks a good vintage,’ he said, returning it to me. ‘Where will you go? What will you do?’
I shrugged.
‘God always has destinations and duties for his true servants,’ I said. ‘Give my regards to St Mark!’
And I spurred my horse to the north, not letting him ease to a walk until I was well out of sight of the house and the sergeant and the two bags of treasure and my dead friend’s bloody head.
I should perhaps have felt tired and depressed after all that had taken place that day. I had killed my friend, debauched my love, surrendered a treasure and lost a horse. But for all that I felt a lightening of spirit almost religious in its intensity.
A man must weigh profit and loss all the time. I had lost much, but what had I profited? Well, to start with I had a fine steed between my legs. At my side was my Spanish sword and in my saddle-holster was the English dog-lock pistol I had always coveted. And of course, though wealth has never meant much to me, I was also the fortunate owner of a loaf of bread stuffed with as many diamonds and rubies as it would hold. The Treasury of St Mark would never miss them and man cannot live by bread alone!
Besides I had not been niggardly in rerurn. The jewel-encrusted relict box was not going back empty. Into it I had put a bit of poor Priam’s bullet-shattered breast bone, several of Sebastian’s teeth and Godfrey’s little finger. With a bit of luck they would be venerated in the great basilica from now till the end of time, or at least till the end of Venice.
Venice! Perhaps I would go back there one day. Perhaps. Meanwhile the world lay before me.
I knew not now how old I was then any more than I had known when I left home. But I was beginning to realize that Croatian farmers are not the only ones who judge a man by how much he can lift, how far he can carry, how long he can endure. This is how the world shares out its rewards.
Well, I felt able to lift whatever was necessary and carry it as far as I saw the need. As for endurance, I was still young enough to know that I could live for ever.
And I was still foolish enough to think this a comfort.
I stood in my stirrups and cried to the crowding hills, ‘What man on earth shall o’erthrow Carlo Fantom?’
And the hills answered back, Carlo Fantom!
But I paid them no heed and rode merrily on my way.
About the Author
Reginald Charles Hill FRSL was an English crime writer and the
winner of the 1995 Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1979 by the Estate of Reginald Hill
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5973-2
This 2019 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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REGINALD HILL
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
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