The Bellini Card

87

When the point of the foil, aimed at Yashim’s chest-sixte, in the necessary jargon-touched the bulbous floret of the turban that covered his head, it released Yashim from a burden he had been carrying since early morning and allowed him, at the same time, to slide forward, holding the muslin in his hand.

With his turban skewered by the foil, Yashim sidestepped and advanced, in three mildly unbalanced steps. As he moved he whirled the length of muslin around himself, as though he were striking a gong, and at his back the contessa’s blade, embedded in the folds, was swept from her hands.

It struck the floor with a metallic clang and skittered, spinning, until it thudded against the wall beneath the window.

Yashim did not watch it go, as Carla did. He used the opportunity to spring and grab the pimpled leather hilt of the nearest weapon, which happened to be a Turkish scimitar.

Only then, in an effort of self-preservation, did he glance around.

To his surprise the contessa was standing hand on hip, watching him.

She had made no effort to retrieve her foil.

The scimitar was firmly wired to the wall. Yashim reluctantly released his grip and dropped his hand.

The contessa smiled.

“I always seem to be meeting sabreurs,” she said.

“Sabreurs?”

She gestured to the scimitar. “You conquered eastern Europe with that. The ancestor of our saber. The Hungarians adopted it, as they adopted everything else you brought to the battlefield. Hussars. Dragoons. Military bands. We fight like with like, Yashim Pasha.”

“Yes,” Yashim said. He stooped to retrieve a length of turban. He wound it around his bleeding hand and tore it with his teeth. “Yes, of course.”

“And the saber won the battle of Waterloo,” she added. “It’s not in fashion now.”

He wound the remainder around his head.

When he felt properly dressed he said, “I am not a pasha.”

She stepped forward and rang a bell. “Coffee, Antonio.” To Yashim she said, “The people of Venice seem to think you are a pasha. You gave them something they have missed for many years. In my eyes you are a pasha, even with your empty box.”

Yashim thought he detected a glint of amusement-a cruel amusement-in those beautiful blue eyes. The pasha-with his empty box! Yashim, the eunuch.

“Contessa-I-” He found himself stumbling. “The Armenians’ Koran. I recognized the hand.”

She put her finger to her lower lip and stood there, thinking.

“You knew the pattern,” she said.

“I was trained to it,” Yashim replied. “And so, as it seems, were you.”