“No smiles, my lord?” I asked.
His black eyes burned with hatred.
“You seek death, I’m told.”
“Your death,” he said.
The wolf-like teeth were obscene. I wondered which was worse, a minor alteration or something like goat-men?
“My death,” I said, “by which you gain restful oblivion for yourself.”
Several of the dead-faced men swiveled their heads so they watched me with cold eyes.
“That is a poor choice,” I said. “Here I offer you oblivion, and you try to be sly. No, Lord Cencio, you should consider my offer.”
“The Lord of Night will simply reanimate me,” he said.
“Even if you’re chopped into small pieces, each burned into greasy ash?”
His dark eyes lost some of their intensity.
“I will vow to do this,” I said.
The dead-faced men sheathed their swords. Signor Fangs for Teeth arched his neck. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Ah, signor, first you must earn it.”
Hatred tightened his face.
“Tell me something of interest,” I said.
“…Of what nature?”
“Where are my wife and children?”
He frowned, and I think I understood why.
Even though I hated to say it, I asked, “Where are Erasmo’s wife and children?”
He blinked several times. “It is odd you should ask that, signor. His daughter returns from aboard. She lands at Cape Lodovico in several nights.”
“How do you know?”
“I overhead him tell the satyr.”
“Why would Erasmo tell him?” I asked.
“We were to keep you from heading that way.”
“And now you tell me this?”
He bared his hideous teeth. “Look at me, signor. I did not bargain to become one of the living dead, urged to hunt with infernal hate. I have accepted your offer and now demand that you keep your vow. Slay me, and burn this body. Do it. Or my soldiers will slay you instead.”
Swords slid from scabbards.
I pressed my full weight onto his chest. I grabbed a handful of hair, stretched his neck and cut with furious strength.
The soldiers collapsed as before. I took one of their swords and used it for the grisly task. The pieces I faithfully burned in a fire. They smoked with a foul stench. Before I finished, the once dead-faced soldiers stirred. There was fearful animation in their faces now, terror. Whatever spell had held them in thrall was broken. Most slunk away, several ran. One picked up his sword and charged. He died swiftly. I concluded that each had made bargains with the darkness, and had become ensnared. Maybe for them this was a second chance.
All I knew was that Francesca, my daughter, came by galley from wherever Erasmo had sent her. Why did he want her now at the Tower of the East?
I wiped my hands on the leathers of the slain soldier. Then I strode into the night, headed for Cape Lodovico.
***
Two nights later, I reached the coast as the moon wobbled past stars and as surf crashed against rocks.
I climbed slippery boulders. I crunched across sand. Crabs feasted on a washed-up dolphin. Cape Lodovico was an unhealthy place, and I wondered who would be foolish enough to sail so close to shore in the dark? The answer soon revealed itself. A galley swayed a quarter mile from shore. The captain had thrown out anchors. Lanterns burned fore and aft, and I saw movement on the decks.
Galleys were finicky vessels, low in the water and narrow. Rough seas demolished them or such seas made life miserable for those aboard. The galley’s purpose was speed. That speed was gained through oars. Masses of poor men supplied the muscle. In Genoa, a seaman with rations was paid 18 soldi a month or 30 soldi without rations.
Every time the wind blew toward shore, I smelled the stench of packed humanity. Normal galley practice called for pulling ashore each night. The men stretched their legs. Cooks built fires for hot food. Rowers and sailors dug holes instead of defecating over the rail.
Once, Venice had been queen of the waves. Her trade ships had gone everywhere in the Mediterranean. I still found it incredible that the plague had slain the city. Had Erasmo built his tower there out of arrogance? Perhaps there was a strategic reason. Maybe he allowed trade ships at the tower. Maybe he used it as a port. Maybe instead of an army, Da Canale’s lords should have built a fleet.
Rocks rose here like fangs. Sea spray drifted inland with each crashing wave. Recalling the pond, I considered wading into the sea and to the anchor. I would shimmy up the rope, onto the galley and find my daughter. I discarded the idea because I realized it would be too dark underwater for me to find the anchor.
I studied my surroundings and noticed caves. The shore over there was a thin ribbon of sand and then jagged cliffs. The caves struck me as ominous. Or was I simply being superstitious?
Why would they land my daughter here instead of heading straight for Venice-the Tower of the East? Had Signor Fangs for Teeth lied?
Maybe a half-hour later I heard the clink of chains and spied movement in the largest cave. I ducked behind a boulder to watch.
Shambling…men emerged, men and women. They wore tatters for clothes or went stark naked. Each wore an iron collar, with a heavy chain that linked one to another. Several recoiled as they stepped into the moonlight, and they made keening sounds and whimpered with utter dejection. Behind them strode a huge man, nearly a giant. He wore rough leathers and boots and held a whip. He cracked it. The whimpering stopped on the instant, and they cringed in abject terror.
The near giant had long hair and cruel scars along his cheeks. The face was wide, almost square and the nose mashed.
I recalled dark tales of the chained dead. Did those wretches belong to the Forgotten Ones? Lorelei had spoken about someone called Anaximander who marched to Erasmo’s aid. Is that why the galley had anchored here?
Two big men in crude leathers appeared. One held a lantern. He waved it back and forth.
I glanced at the galley. A lantern waved there. Soon, a rowboat splashed in the sea. It was a vacchette or a “little cow,” with eight oars. Men slipped over the galley-side and into the vacchette. They picked up oars as a sailor shoved off.
The chained wretches in the cave began to shriek. Whips cracked and the leather-clad men shouted harsh commands. Those in the chain-gang began a grotesque jig.
“Faster you scum!” a whip-master roared.
Another of the leather-clad men rushed forward with a white-hot brand. He burned one of the wretches, melted flesh. The prisoners danced with greater zeal and their chains clinked more often. Whenever I spied a face, whenever he or she entered the moonlight, their twisted features and haunted eyes told the story.
Had Erasmo forced my daughter to witness such horrors? A grimmer thought speared me. Had Erasmo sent my daughter to the Forgotten Ones and only now, he sent for her? A fierce rage took hold of me.
The big men in their crude leathers roared with mirth. They slashed their whips and bellowed lewd curses. One shoved a package at the near giant. Unlike the others, he wore a cloak. He handed over his whip and accepted a club. The one who might be Anaximander hooked the knotty club to his belt. As the wretches danced, he took his leave and began to work down the cliff.
To my relief, no one joined him, no terrified girl. But I had become too enraged to easily become calm again. Where was Francesca?
The vacchette could have moved faster. Several times, the rowers stopped. I imagine the awful noises from the cave terrified them.
Whips cracked from the cave. The leather-clad men roared, and they drove the chained wretches into the darkness. I didn’t want to think about how deep the cave went or where it might lead.
The thump of oars soon grew louder. The man in the prow held up a lantern. He wore a black corselet and helmet. He had a narrow, evil face and reminded me of a snake. There was something odd about his hands.