“The facts…” There were none, only guesses, yet they had now achieved such solidity in my head I knew them to be true. “I believe the facts are she is with child. My child. And the picture that repeats itself in my head is that she uses this in order to resist his advances, with consequences we may both imagine.”
The old man’s complexion turned quite pale. He gripped me by the arm. “Good God, Lorenzo! Are you sure? For this changes things mightily.”
“I believe it to be so, and that she wished to tell me before I left, and instead fell into an argument because I—I—urged her speak to the Englishman for help upon a private matter!”
He groaned and a look of hard determination came upon him. “A child… Well, you know how much he thinks of that. At least you believe you do, though what I set down on that paper was but a tenth of what I saw and learned. Had I told all, none that read it would sleep again for fear that he might pass their door. This man is the very Devil himself. We must stop him!”
“But how?” I pleaded.
Marchese had the plan already set in his head. “It is more than three hundred miles by coach from here to Venice. I shall take the first seat I can find, and be lucky to reach there after midnight tomorrow evening. Can you ride?”
“I grew up on a farm, sir. Show me the saddle.”
“Excellent! My neighbour keeps a decent nag. I’ll pay him well for it. You’ll take the mountain route by Perugia to Ravenna on the coast. Then ride to Chioggia. See if you can get a boat there. With luck you’ll beat me by a good six hours or more.”
I followed him to the door, where already he was yelling for his neighbour to get out of bed and ready the horse. It was a fine Rome morning, with a light breeze and a few wisps of feathery cloud in the sky. A perfect day to ride like the wind. A dark, bearded face appeared at an upstairs window next door and threw a few half-hearted curses down at us.
“Come, Ferrero,” Marchese bawled back. “Out of your pit and help a man do justice in this world!”
Soon the fellow was with us in the street and, to his credit and that of Marchese’s, too, did just as he was told once the magistrate barked out his orders. As the bell of the Pope’s summer palace tolled six, I was ready to depart and eager to face the road. Before I could, though, Marchese gave me some final, earnest advice.
“Lorenzo,” he said. “When you arrive, go straight to the watch or a magistrate. Tell them this lady of yours may be in grave danger and they must ensure her safety. Tell them, too, that a magistrate of Rome follows on to confront this murderous villain with his deeds and set the wheels of justice in motion. Once they hear me speak, and see my papers, his head’s upon the block, believe me.”
I looked into his eyes and said nothing. This situation was too complex to offer answers. I could not do as he said, not until Rebecca was safely out of the clutches of both Delapole and the city. He saw my hesitation and seemed, for the first time, afraid.
“Listen to me, son. I know this man. I have seen his handiwork. Tackle him alone, and he’ll skin you alive on the spot.”
“Yes, sir” was all I said, then leapt into the saddle and spurred Ferrero’s lean piebald mare down the street.
As I rode I laid my plans as best I could. It was out of the question that I should go to the watch and alert them to Delapole’s past before Rebecca and Jacopo were clear of the city. Until Marchese arrived with evidence, they would more likely believe a supposedly moneyed English aristocrat than two Jews and an orphaned apprentice who had all but deserted his master. With his cunning, Delapole could have turned the tables on us instantly, revealed the nature of our all-too-real crimes, then fled with whatever loot he had beneath his arm. My first aim must be to find Rebecca and keep her safe, then help her flee before this precarious fabrication of deceit tumbled around our heads.
At Chioggia I left the panting horse and talked my way on board one of the fishing skiffs that sail each hour from the port across the lagoon to dock at the fish market on the Grand Canal and unload their catch. On their way they could drop me on Cannaregio’s southern limit, near San Marcuola, and from there I could be in the Ghetto Nuovo within minutes. With these instructions issued, I found a resting place in the back of the boat, fashioned a makeshift bed out of my jacket, and fell sound asleep to the lapping of the waves against the little vessel’s hull.
When I awoke some two hours later, we were wending our way down that broad, busy waterway I had come to know so well. A few yards to my right and a little further on, I could have strolled into Ca’ Scacchi and asked my uncle how he fared. Delapole’s relations with him must have reached a pretty state too. As had mine. Whatever future lay ahead, it was not as a Venetian printer’s apprentice.
The small sail that had taken us across the lagoon was now furled, so we made our way through the mass of vessels by oar, ducking and weaving. We passed the narrow channel of the Cannaregio canal. My heart stirred at the thought of Rebecca’s presence nearby. Then the boat hove into the jetty by the church and the captain bade me farewell with a friendly curse and a thump on the back.
I leapt the short distance to the landing and found myself on solid ground once more, as solid as it gets in Venice. Then I strode through the tangle of back alleys until I came to the bridge where I had first entered the world of the Jews. The guard yawned and waved me past. Once out of sight and across the campo, I took the steps to Rebecca two at a time. To my amazement, the door to their home was half-open. I pushed it back and saw Jacopo as I had never witnessed him before. He was slumped at the table, a flask of wine in front of him, eyes glassy, quite drunk.
“Well!” he cried. “What do we have here?”
My heart froze. He was clearly quite alone. I walked into the room and closed the door behind me.
“Jacopo. Where is Rebecca? It is vital that I see her.”
A bitter laugh was my only answer. Then he picked up a spare cup on the table and poured some wine into it. “Vital, eh? Not so quickly, lad. We’ve time to make a toast, eh?”
I brushed aside his hand. Jacopo’s eyes were full of hatred. I could feel my well-made plans begin to crash to the floor.
“Where is she? Please?”
“Please? Oh, come on, Lorenzo. A toast. Rebecca and I have found good fortune at last. For, within a matter of days, we’ll be on the road once more, like little lapdogs, following that English friend of yours. She writes the notes, he puts his name upon them, and I just follow in their wake. So generous of him to talk that out of her, don’t you think? Although he had a little weight behind his elbow.”
He spoke in riddles. “I don’t understand,” I said. “You plan to leave so soon?”
“We are Mr. Delapole’s new household, don’t you know? To supply whatever he needs, and I fancy that’s more than fame and fortune. He’s got a roving eye, that one.”
I took him by the shoulders. “He is not the man he seems, Lorenzo. We cannot let him near her.”
“Oh! Now Delapole is not the man he seems. I thought that was your uncle. With whom, I have to say, I negotiated a fine agreement before your man got in the way. Old Leo would have done us proud: to publish and stay quiet, until she found herself able to make her authorship known. A penny-pinching chap, perhaps, but an honest one, Lorenzo. You judge him wrong. And in his place…”
I thought for a moment that he might strike me. Yet Jacopo was above that, even in his present condition. Instead he grasped me roughly by the collar and pulled my face in to his. I could smell the wine stink on his breath.
“In his place we now have the Englishman,” he said. “Who knows everything about us and will reveal it all unless we do his bidding. Oh… damnation!”