This was another unexpected complication.
That calle is very little used, for there is a much better one on the far side of 96, but I was visible from too many windows. To jump back or even hold on much longer in that storm were equally impossible. I lifted out one of the loose bars and used it as a battering ram against the pane nearest the window catch. On the second attempt I managed to break it, the thick bottle glass in the center falling out as a unit, and the thinner edges shattering. With some difficulty, I freed a hand to reach in and open the casement. Then it was only a matter of lifting another bar loose and squirming in through the gap.
Who was it who said that the best thing about travel is coming home again?
I cut a toe on a sliver of glass.
Ca’ Barbolano must be in turmoil by now, but no sounds were leaking through my door, which I confirmed was now unlocked, although I was certain I had locked it to keep prying Vasco out. I stripped and assessed my injuries. My hand would turn purple in a day or so, but my leg was much more serious-bleeding and in need of bandaging before I could put my hose on. The medical supplies were all in the atelier, as were my palace clothes. Had the vizio rushed downstairs to view the corpse, or was he still lurking outside in the salone?
Discretion seemed advisable. I tore up an old shirt to wrap my shin, dressed quickly-shaving would have to wait-and swept the fragments of glass against the wall with the Guise of Night rags, which were wet, dirty, and in places bloody. What to do with them then was another problem. Throwing them out the window would have been the solution had my room overlooked the canal, which it doesn’t, so in the end I just tossed them in the bottom of my wardrobe. Vasco had seen me wearing them; he had almost certainly been the intruder who closed the casement. I took a few deep breaths and quietly opened the door. The way out was blocked by a faceless mass that I identified easily as Nino Marciana, an amiable fellow with more muscle than a Michelangelo model.
“The Lord be with you, Nino.”
He spun his bulk around. “And with you, messer Alfeo.”
“What are you doing here?”
The kid pondered, looking troubled. “ Vizio said I was to stand here and not let anyone in.”
“Did he say I was not to come out?”
“Um…Don’t think so.”
I waited, then said, “Then may I pass, please?”
He shifted, and at that moment a procession came trooping in through our front door. It was led by Bruno, with the Maestro on his back and tears running down his face, for any form of death or violence upsets our gentle giant horribly. He had known Danese, which would make it worse, and would never understand what had happened, for sign language cannot explain such complicated matters.
Right after them came four more hefty Marcianas carrying the mortal remains of Danese Dolfin on a blanket-to leave a good Christian corpse lying around would be disrespect to the dead. Behind them came Father Farsetti, and I caught a glimpse of Filiberto Vasco in back of him, but by then the pallbearers were going into the atelier. Since the Maestro was occupied in dismounting, I hurried over to see that the corpse was properly delivered to the examination couch.
The priest had already done that and was dismissing his helpers with a blessing. Rigor mortis was well progressed, for the body still lay awkwardly twisted although it was no longer supported by the hilt of the rapier, which had been removed. My palace clothes were nowhere in sight, so the Maestro must have hidden them when he tidied up.
“Who did this?” I asked.
“That has still to be established, Alfeo.” Father Farsetti was covering the corpse with a sheet, the one that always lies on the examination couch. He is a tall, spare man, soft-spoken, witty, and understanding. His flock adores him, especially the women, although I have never heard a word of scandal about him.
“He was run through from behind,” the vizio said at my back. “A dastardly murder by some bravo too cowardly even to look his victim in the eye.”
Turning to make suitable response, I closed my mouth with a click as I recognized the rapier Vasco was holding. It had bloody smears on the blade. He raised it as if to admire the hilt.
“Omnia vincit amor et nos cedamus amori,” he said, reading out the inscription on the guard. “My Latin is not as good as it should be, Father. ‘Love conquers all,’ of course…”
“‘Love conquers all and we yield to love,’” Farsetti said. “It is a quotation from Virgil, quite appropriate for a weapon. It should be possible to trace the original owner, although I expect it was stolen.”
“Not necessarily,” Vasco said, leering at me so widely that he almost drooled. “The other side reads, From VV to LAZ, and a date. Remind me who VV is, Luca.”
Danese had been killed with my rapier. The day just kept getting worse.
17
W hen Luigi saw the body, he rushed upstairs as fast as he could totter, and thundered on the door of Angelo Marciana’s mezzanine apartment. More than just a fiendishly cunning bookkeeper, Angelo is a man of steady nerve and many sons. He told Nino, Renzo, and Ciro to follow him and the women to stay home with the children, then ran down to see for himself. At once he ordered Nino to fetch Doctor Nostradamus, Renzo to inform Father Farsetti, and Ciro to stand vigil over the body and make sure nobody looted it. Renzo probably ran right underneath me as I clung like moss to the side of the building. Meanwhile Luigi had informed the Jacopo Marcianas also, so several of them arrived. By the time the vizio appeared and saw that he had serious work to do, the loggia must have been as crowded as the Piazza in Carnival. He ordered whoever was the best boatman to go and fetch Missier Grande -no nonsense about informing the local sbirri when the Council of Ten was already involved, although I am sure he did not say that. He also ordered everyone else back upstairs, but by then whatever marks I had left on the floor had been scuffed out of existence.
Father Farsetti would have been in San Remo’s at that time on a Saturday. He is a young man and not too puffed up with ecclesiastic dignity to run in an emergency, but he found Danese well past the need for last rites. Giorgio arrived, accompanied by the twins-they being uninvited but irresistibly eager to view a real corpse-followed closely by the Maestro on Bruno’s back. He at once dispatched all three Angelis to the Ghetto Nuovo to fetch Isaia Modestus, whom he freely acknowledges to be the second-best doctor in the Republic.
The body could not be left where it lay and the Maestro wanted to inspect it, so Father Farsetti agreed that it should be moved upstairs and that was arranged. The vizio extracted the rapier and took charge of it. I can barely imagine the intensity of his joy when he read the inscription and saw whose it was. No doubt he fantasized juicy visions of watching my beheading between the columns on the Piazzetta.
Pessimists, on the other hand, are rarely disappointed.
A very few minutes later, when Vasco confronted me with it in the atelier, Father Farsetti shot me a horrified look. He is well aware of my full name. As my confessor he certainly knows of Violetta Vitale.
My head was spinning, but I believe I concealed my bewilderment fairly well. “I must have a talk with you soon, Father,” I said cheerfully, “but the problem is no more urgent than usual.” He nodded, looking relieved.