When I rose the next day I was as fresh as an adder who has left his old skin lying upon a rock. I would be leaving tomorrow, I thought, for my clothes were still being washed; so I had better deliver the pope's letter to the cursed, annoying Baldwin de Courtenay.
This time there were no guards at the door of the White Hound. Without the angry presence of my lords of Grez and Bussac, the place seemed defiantly ordinary, and I wondered how a man who called himself an emperor could bring himself to accept such lodgings. The serving-maid whom I recognised from my last visit blushed in a comely way when she saw me, but a fat older woman who I took to be the mistress of the inn shoved her aside, looked me up and down and waved her hand impatiently towards the stairs.
'They're up there,' she said shortly. I assumed she recognised me, for I was wearing my outlandish Venetian clothes again, so I said nothing; yet I wondered again at the grim circumstances that had befallen the young emperor. I climbed the stairs and, when I reached the landing, pulled out the pope's letter, the better to make a grand entrance – for I winced at the thought of fumbling in my satchel while Baldwin and his two gladiators smirked. So I stood before the emperor's closed door, arranging the letter in my hand so that the bulla hung majestically – or so I hoped – over my forearm, before giving the door a sharp, efficient rap.
The wood sounded hollow, and I realised that the door was unlatched. It opened slightly. To my surprise, I heard no one within: no answer to my knock, no summons to enter. Feeling like a jackanapes, I hesitated. Then I thought to myself how odd it was that the Emperor of Romania should leave his door unlocked. Perhaps, I reasoned, it was deliberate. Christ, now I suddenly wished to get this business over with straight away.
‘Your Majesty’ I said, very loudly, banging on the door again, hard enough to swing it a good way open, as I had intended. A somewhat unseemly accident it would seem, but at least I would have announced myself.
But as soon as I crossed the threshold I saw that something was amiss. The chambers were empty: no, not empty, for the plain furniture was still there, but the shield with the black lion was gone, along with the tapestries. There was no chest against the wall. I blinked in the sunlight that was streaming in through unshuttered windows, and cocked my head. A sound was coming from the room where Baldwin had slept: a hissing, harsh and regular. In the confusion that still filled my brain-pan I could not place it at first, but it was not threatening, and I walked softly to the doorway and peered in.
A blonde-haired chambermaid, her long braids dragging in the rushes, was down on her knees, scrubbing the floor tiles under the window. She had already filled a sack with rushes, I saw, and now she was bent to her task, holding the brush with both hands as she scoured the tiles, here dark and stained, there clean and red-orange. But her hands were not the hands of a servant, red and swollen with water and lye: no, they were pale and long-fingered, and the nails were long and shapely. As I noticed this odd fact she looked up and saw me staring at her.
She had a long nose, not quite straight but with a delicate inward curve. Pale eyebrows were arched in surprise above wide, narrow eyes, forget-me-not blue. Her mouth was wide also, although drawn back with the effort of scrubbing, and she had a pouting upper lip. Her skin was almost milk-white and her hair was as yellow as new butter. It was a strange face, lean arid yet fleshy and sensual, almost animal. I felt myself blushing. Then I recognised her: the woman from the market, who had been knocked down by her brutish man. Without taking her eyes from mine, the woman raised one long finger and flicked distractedly at a bead of sweat that was running down her temple. There was a pimple just breaking out beside her nose. Slowly she straightened up, until she was squatting on her haunches. Her feet were bare. Unaccountably I felt my loins tighten.
She was not dressed as a servant either: her tunic was of fine silvery linen that shimmered faintly in the light, like cobwebs in a pasture at dawn. As I realised this, there was a rustle of reed-stems to my left, behind the bed. I tore my eyes from the woman on the floor. A man was standing in the shadows behind a great beam of light that angled in through the windows, fogged with a confusion of freshly disturbed dust motes. I could not see his face, but I saw he was of medium height and stocky build, with the wide shoulders of someone used to heavy work. I did not have to see his pugilist's nose or florid skin to know who he was.
What have you there, boy?' he demanded: the flat tones of a northern Italian. Zianni's voice, only full of mastery, of command.
‘I seek His Majesty the Emperor Baldwin’ I told him, standing up straight and trying to look like a papal envoy, whatever that meant. Well, he is gone. I ask again: what have you there?'
'A communication from His Holiness Pope Gregory’ I replied. I did not care to be treated like a servant, and I did not like this bullying man one bit, whoever he might be. Where, if I might enquire, sir, is His Majesty?'
'He has decided to return to Venice – urgent news summoned him. I am his Majesty's agent: I have full authority to treat for him in his absence, and to conclude any outstanding matters.' There was nothing but disdain in his voice.
'This is not a grocer's bill,' I snapped, and immediately regretted it.
'No matter. You will leave it with me,' said the man calmly. He stepped into the shaft of light, and there was the flattened nose, the narrow eyes, the gleaming, freshly-shaved skin. His mouth was strangely delicate, as neat and sculpted as the lips of a tomb effigy, but petulant and cruel. I took an involuntary step backwards.
Your pardon, good sir, but I will not’ I said doggedly. 'My orders were to put this thing in the emperor's hands, and his alone. If you will supply your name, I am certain all shall be amended.'
Who are you, boy? No Lateran flunky, unless His Holiness is pulling bum-boys off the streets to do his errands.' He chose his words carefully, and when he spoke each one was like the prick of an assassin's knife. The icy delicacy of his voice was a strange match for his bulk and power, and I realised with a lurch of my guts that I had mistaken him, as an unwary ape might mistake the cold intent of a stalking tiger for dumb, bestial swagger. I began to sweat. 'My name is Nicholas Querini,' he told me. 'There: is all amended, my fine little fellow?'
‘I…' Glancing down, I saw that the woman on the floor was still studying me intensely, a look of faint amusement playing around the corners of her mouth. ‘I am myself bound for Venice’ I said doggedly, and felt myself blush under the woman's gaze despite my growing fear.
'Oh, yes? Save yourself a long and hazardous journey, boy, and give me the letter. The roads are not safe for a lonely messenger.'
'But safe enough for His Majesty Baldwin? My dear sir, you confuse me’ I said, regretting my feeble jibe as soon as it had fled my lips.
'That, boy, was most assuredly not my intent’ he said, the last words hissed through clenched teeth. He took another step forward, and the air in the room suddenly felt alive, as if a thundercloud had thrust an arm in at the window.
'Begging your pardon, sir, but I will take my leave’ I stammered. I spun on my heel, conscious of two pairs of eyes flaying my back, and stalked out, propelled on a wave of ruffled dignity and embarrassment, but also fear, for although that man had claimed to be a royal agent, I could have sworn he had been about to knock me down. Send a boy to do a man's job, I told myself, and this is your reward. I ducked back into the teeming alleys of the Borgo, cursing Baldwin furiously under my breath. How could such a fool, such a flighty, inconsequential fool style himself Emperor of a chamber pot, let alone of Romania, whatever that meant? I felt the heft of the pope's seal in my satchel. It was a burden in every sense, this thing: now more than ever. I was going to have to chase Baldwin de Courtenay, it seemed. I would have to restrain myself mightily if I were not to slap his silly face when I caught up with him.
But as I strode through the warm, noisy streets I found it quite easy to keep my chin up and my mood, if not sunny, then at least a light shade of grey. I listened to the many tongues all raised in excited chatter, all bickering and haggling over gimcrack souvenirs. And as I noticed more and more strange and wonderful things about me I began to enjoy myself. A pretty girl selling oranges smiled at me; I found myself laughing at two dogs caught arse to ballocks in the midst of a fuck and dragging each other, yapping and squealing hither and yon across the street; and the simple sounds of people about their daily lives began to warm me inside. Baldwin was a fool: fiddle-de-dee to him and his ridiculous empire. I was bound for Venice myself anyway. Doubtless I would pass him on the road within a day or so, for he would surely be wandering along like a butterfly in a breeze. No matter. In fact, so much the better: a whole day in Rome with nothing to do but look forward to a journey on the morrow. Suddenly the world seemed suffused with the purest bliss. The dogs suddenly popped apart and fell to madly licking their privy parts in the midst of the street, and I laughed so hard that a brace of passing monks squinted at me in sour reproof and crossed themselves. Scowl away, good fellows, I thought. For I, sinner, reprobate and outcast that I am, am about the pope's business, and you, pious wax-faces, are not.
I crossed the Campo dei Fiori and headed towards the Jewish Quarter, for I was in the mood for the good fried fish that I knew could be found there. And I loved this part of the city, with its different sights and smells, and its sense of otherness, which reminded me of the Cormaran. I found a cook-shop selling red-hot fillets of some firm white fish and ambled through the streets, nibbling carefully on the searing morsels and looking idly at the life around me. It was thus that my feet led me to one of my favourite sights, the fish market on the steps of the Church of Sant’Angelo which stands in the shadow of the palace of the Savelli, everything in turn overhung by the ruinous, marble-tumbled bulk of the Capitoline Hill. The worthy canons of the church rented out their stone steps to the fishmongers of Rome, and it made for the oddest scene imaginable, at least to my eyes. I had come down here before just to watch the fun: the fish of all shapes and sizes, laid out on the worn marble; mounds of shells, buckets of writhing eels and seething elvers; crates and baskets of the oddest creatures from the deep pastures of the sea. In the air a stench of fish-guts and a babel of voices, greeting, haggling, arguing, protesting. It seemed to me an eminently sensible use of church steps. This morning the melee was in full swing, and I sat down on a piece of old column to watch.
The spectacle did not disappoint. A ruinously fat woman in the clothes of a wealthy dowager was engaged in a mighty tongue-lashing contest with a small, swarthy fishmonger. Both stood, hands on hips, and excoriated each other on some subject I could not hear, but which I assumed was piscatorial in nature. And indeed, growing tired of words, the woman hitched up her sleeves to reveal great doughy arms, bent down, and came up grasping a vast and grotesque creature, a spider-crab whose body was as big as the fishmongers head and whose claw-tipped, hairy arms splayed out, waving feebly, like the rays of a blasphemous halo. For an instant I thought she was going to drop the thing on to the man's head, but instead the merchant threw up his arms, they both laughed, and in another instant the man was tying the poor crab's weakly protesting legs together with a length of twine and placing it carefully in the woman's basket.
This was better than a puppet show. I went over to examine the wares on display. Here was a crock full of cuttlefish, all nacreous ooze and popping, ink-teared eyes. A pan full of eel-like creatures with long, sword-like beaks looked naked, visceral. I admired the golden bream and the night-striped mackerel. Enough, then: I was hungry again, and I had it in mind to take a last stroll around the ruins of the Campo Vaccino as well. There was a smell of grilling fish in the air, and I located its source: a stall behind me, over by the Palazzo Savelli. I went to investigate. Sardines: fresh and succulent, the man informed me. I was just handing over my coin when, over the grill-man's shoulder, I happened to glance over at the shadowy arches of the palazzo. A gang of urchins, cruel and noisy, were hunting fat fish-market cats in the shade, and their hoots and halloos were echoing off the stones. I was idly following the proceedings when my eye caught sight of a face in the shadows, for a spear of sunlight lay across it, catching the yellow hair and an oblique slash of face: a hint of an eye, the tip of that unmistakable nose. It was the woman from the White Hound, from Baldwin's chambers.
My heart jumped, and several thoughts flew up at once: what happenstance; she followed me; she has come to buy fish, of course. I blinked and set down my coin, and in the time it took for me to grab my leaf-plate of fish, she had vanished. Ah, then it had been an illusion. Rome, I was finding, was apt to play tricks upon the mind, especially those fevered with a newly resurgent lust. I shook my head ruefully and walked over to the palazzo, just to make sure. And indeed the curved, cloister-like space behind the arches was empty of blonde women. But it was full of screeching children with the scent of cat blood in their noses, so I moved on.
I spent the next hour clambering over the ruins in the Campo Vaccino, the very heart of the world when Caesar ruled it, but which was now half weed-choked desolation and half cattle market. It was also a crucible of the sun's scorching heat, and so I tired of poking through the bramble-carpeted motley of foundation walls and collapsed pillars. With nothing to occupy them, my thoughts had begun to turn again and again to the wench in Baldwin's chambers. I rolled her image around in my head, toying with it as a kitten plays with a vole: first touching, then patting, then batting, then licking, and then devouring it, until it had become such a vivid daydream that only when I tripped over a half-buried column and and scraped my hands did I come to my senses. So I said farewell to the ruins and climbed the hill to the Campidoglio, and thence down into the familiar tangle of the Campus Martius.
I wanted to visit my favourite place in the city once more before I left, and so a little before None I arrived before the Church of Santa Maria of the Martyrs. From the Mirabilia, I knew its true name to be the Pantheon, and indeed the great portico, with its inscription to Agrippa, seemed like the entrance to no church I had ever known, even in this city of confounding discoveries. But it was not the outside that had drawn me here again and again in the past weeks, but what lay within, through the mighty bronze doors.
It was almost empty inside, save for a nun sweeping the floor and a verger talking with two monks against the far wall. As I always did, I paused on the threshold before setting out into the great well of dusty light, padding across the marble and feeling the round walls rise around me, letting my head fall back as I walked until I was in the centre of the floor and gazing straight up at the sky through the perfect circle of the oculus. There I stood, seeing nothing but that disc of purest blue hanging at the apex of the domed roof, and all around it the squares within squares that made up the dome, carved from stone but seemingly weightless. A pigeon fluttered to and fro across the shaft of sunlight that angled down towards me. Sparrows twittered faintly out in the portico. I breathed in the cool air, and felt the hair on my head rise ever so slightly, as it always did in this spot. For here, I was sure, was the centre of the world, the point on which everything turned. Here was stillness, utter calm, the axis: around me, the seas, the countries at war and peace, the fretful seas, the clouds, the stars in their spheres spun and danced.
The nun began coughing horribly behind me, wet, wracking spasms. I sighed and looked down. The marble walls in all their colours glimmered. I rubbed my eyes: I had walked far today, and I realised I was tired. The nun coughed again. I glanced over. There she was, hunched over her broom, shoulders heaving. The verger was also regarding her with irritation. And further around the curving walls, a woman in a tunic of silvery linen, whose yellow hair fell straight behind her back. This time she was no illusion: the monks were watching her too. She caught my gaze, and began to edge along the wall towards the door. She walked, step by cautious step, and I turned in place, still the axis, still caught under the eye of heaven. Through the golden half-light she slipped, past empty niches and tombs, past the nun, recovered now; I turned, and she reached the door and darted outside.
Released by the oculus, I took to my heels after her, ignoring the throaty admonitions of the nun. But out in the piazza I found only the dun-coloured flocks of pilgrims circled by sharp-eyed Roman wolves. I looked about me in a frenzy: where had she gone? I chose an alleyway at random, and ran up it until I reached a little church, around which the streets diverged in three directions. It was hopeless: she had probably not even come this way, I told myself. But she had followed me after all, for happenstance does not strike the same two people twice in as many hours. Why? I leaned against the church wall, panting.
Slowly as pitch trickling down the planking of a ship, comprehension dawned and I realised what I had to do. I must hide the pope's decree at once. The yellow-haired woman was no scullery maid, and what she had been scrubbing from the emperors floor had been blood. I had not liked the voice of the man in the shadows. I had not liked that he did not show his face, and the way his flat Venetian voice had drilled into me, full of command and condescension. If they were following me it was not for myself, for I was nothing. It was for what I carried.
I had a fairly good idea where I was, so I made my way, through back alleys and the narrowest passages, west to the piazza in Agona. The long, broad field of the piazza I skirted to the north, through alleys overhung with towers snarling across the air at one another. I thought to slip across the bridge to my lodgings in the Borgo, but that would be too obvious, for that man in the White Hound was used to command – he would have more than a wench at his call, that was certain – and no doubt he was watching the bridges.
Who could I go to for help? I was starting to feel exhausted, for I had been on my feet in the heat all day and had eaten and drunk but little. A cup of cool wine would surely clear my head. I thought of a comfortable cellar and a friendly barrel of white wine from the Alban hills, and then it struck me: Marcho Antonio Marso, the Captain's old companion-in-arms.
I found the covered passage with a little difficulty, for I was coming at it from the wrong direction, but at last I was in the piss-soaked gloom and walking past the crooked windows and the midden heap to the door of Marcho's inn. To my dismay I was not the only customer at that early hour, for a couple of carters, already drunk, were mock-arguing in the corner and a whore was flirting mechanically with the potboy in hopes, no doubt, of a scrap of free food. I beckoned him over, slipped him a silver coin and asked for wine and meat. When the wine came I enquired, casually as I could, if the master was about. I got a look, sharp and curious, but before I had taken my second mouthful, the ominous form of the innkeeper appeared at my side.
‘I am busy’ he said, shortly. He was radiating annoyance like a brazier.
'Good Marcho Antonio, I am a companion of Captain de Montalhac. Do you not recognise me? I have enjoyed your hospitality often’
'So what?' growled the man, although his countenance seemed to soften imperceptibly.
I was wasting time, and I wished to get things over with one way or another, so I stood up and placed my arm around his shoulder. Ignoring his palpable irritation, I leaned close in and muttered in his scarred ear:
'Marcho Antonio Marso, are you a Good Christian? I mean, are you a credente?
He stiffened as if I had driven a knife between his ribs. I pressed home.
'I am guessing, Signor Marcho. But you have my master's trust, and I am giving you mine. Listen to me: I am about-Captain de Montalhac's business, and the enterprise is in danger. I need your help’
Marcho let out a ragged breath. He glared at me, but he had gone rather white, and there was a bead of sweat working its way out of one eyebrow. Then he gave a twitch of his head, half nod, half spasm.
'In the back’ he hissed. Then, raising his chin, he bellowed over to the pot-boy: 'Eh, Lodovico! I’ll be in the back. Do not bother us, understand?'
I followed him through the door in the back of the room, which opened on to a short flight of stairs. We descended into a low-beamed cellar, earthen-floored, with walls of narrow bricks and hunks of marble. There were barrels everywhere, hams and sausages hung from the beams, and a soft light shone over all from a brace of fat candles that were melting slowly over a battered table at the far end. Marcho halted in the middle of the floor and faced me, arms crossed stolidly across his chest.
What do you mean by all this, boy?' he asked. His voice was cold, and suddenly I wondered if I had made an awful mistake. Nevertheless I bit my lip and pressed on, heart fluttering.
'I have sailed with Michel de Montalhac for two years’ I said determinedly, although I was all too aware of how hollow my voice sounded in this cave of a place. 'He saved my life. That is what he does, is it not? Save people, the unwanted, the persecuted? I am not a Good Christian. I… am nothing, an outcast from my own church, an exile from my home. I meant no offence, and I did not mean to alarm you, for I know
'Ah, boy, enough’ All of a sudden, Marcho looked bone-tired. He pointed to a barrel. 'Sit yourself down. You look ready to fall’ There was kindness in his voice now, at least a tinge. Yes, I am what the people of Toulouse call a Good Christian. My brothers and sisters call ourselves Patarani. There: you have the power to burn me now, as my brothers were burned six years ago in front of Santa Maria Maggiore. You see, they still make human sacrifice in Rome’ 'I am sorry for it’ I said, sinking down on the barrel.
'Do not be: they made a good end, despite the baying of the mob’ He shrugged, that fatalistic shrug that I had seen Gilles and the Captain give a thousand times. 'Now, what is your trouble?' 'Captain de Montalhac has been in negotiation for a.. ‘ 'No! I do not need to know the details. It is business, yes?' I nodded. 'Then tell me the trouble that afflicts you now’ 'I am being followed. I have something that the men.. ‘ I closed my eyes for a moment, and saw yellow hair and sharp eyes. 'They are Venetians, I believe. I am carrying something they want. They will probably kill for it. It would be better if they killed me and lost this, than the alternative. As far as business goes, that is’ I added. He did not laugh, and I could not. ‘In the valise?' I nodded again. 'Give it to me.'
I made to open the satchel, but Marcho shook his head. 'Do not. Again, I do not need to know. I will not open it. What will you do?'
'I need to give this to the man it is intended for, but failing that, to the Captain himself’ I said. ‘I will ride north to Venice, for that is where the Cormaran is headed. But Rome is deadly to me now.' 'And you cannot leave today?'
I explained, as briefly as I could, that my lodgings lay in the Borgo, together with my horse and the money that Gilles had entrusted to me. They would be sure to have the Pons San Petri watched, and perhaps my rooms as well, though I doubted they knew where those lay. I would have to grab my belongings and my horse, and make a dash for it.
Marcho grunted when he had heard it all. 'You will have to cross to the south’ he said. 'Take the Jews' Bridge or Saint Mary's. Then work your way through the gardens under the Janiculum and round the back of Saint Peter's. They'll be watching the city side, not the country.' 'But I'll have to come back for…' I nodded at the valise.
'No. I doubt you will be safe coming back over here, even on a horse.' He squinted at me, as if worrying a broken tooth. 'I will bring it to you’ he said finally. 'Ride north along the river. I will meet you at a place called Saxa Rubra, just beyond the Milvian Bridge.' He must have seen my look of shock, for he smiled for the first time. ‘I owe Michel a turn or two. Do not concern yourself about me: I will amble up the Via Lata with the rest of the bumpkins, as I do whenever I go to look over my vineyards. I’ve got a nice little farm picked out for myself when I leave this game, away over in Tolfa. No one will blink if they see me leaving town’
This was beyond hope, and I was so moved that I doubt I could have found enough words to thank him with had he not bustled me out of the cellar and walked with me to the door of the inn. You are armed: know how to use it?' 'A bit’ I said.
'My advice? Do not. If they catch you, they'll be wanting this.' He tapped the bag. 'They will not harm you unless you give them reason. I know… and you must know, boy, that there are men who are glad enough for a reason to spill blood. Right then. Tomorrow, the Saxa Rubra, around eight bells.' What manner of place is that, Marcho?' I asked.
'Just some red rocks beyond the bridge. Don't you know your history, boy? In hoc signo vinces. Let us hope that they will mean victory for you. One more thing. Do you know what is in there?' He nodded at my valise. I hesitated, and shook my head. 'A… a letter, for someone else’ I said.
'If you are risking your liver for it, I would read what it says, if I were you,' he said. 'Might not be worth it.' With a gruff nod he left me there and shut the door behind me.
I thought for a while, and then drew out the letter with the great leaden bull. It was sealed with wax, and I opened it carefully with Thorn, taking care to keep the seal intact. The candles threw their yellow light over illuminations and letters in a beautiful, snaking hand. There was much courtly and legal stuff, and I searched impatiently for the meat. It was a decree all right, a mandamentum, and it had to do with Baldwin. But it was not addressed to him. It appeared – I could not entirely make sense of the legal curlicues – to be made out to the Captain himself, or to the company of the Cormaran. It is the business of the pope to look after the interests of the Latin empire of Constantinople, I read, since it was taken from the schismatic Greeks with the approval of the papacy, and since it is the papacy s bulwark in the East against the Greeks and the Infidel. There were more niceties, and then: In support of the eastern province, in addition to the forgiveness of sins which we promise to those who, at their own expense, set out thither, and beside the papal protection which we give to those who aid that land, we hereby decree by the paternal love which we have for you that whosoever offers for sale, sells, seeks to purchase or does purchase any and all of the holy relics of Our Lord and of His saints yet remaining in the city of Constantinople and its territories under the aegis of this decree shall have, by the power vested in us, dispensation to make any such transactions and absolution from simony, that the eastern province may accrue such riches as will shore up its defences and so carry out Gods will. And there was the signature of Pope Gregory. I leaned back against the cobwebby bricks, my heart pounding. No wonder they were after me. I found an awl and heated its tip in the lantern flame, melted the wax and resealed the letter. Marso was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. He studied my face, but took the valise without a word and stood aside to let me pass. As I crept south through the narrowest, stench-plagued alleys I could find, I sent up a thousand wordless prayers – to whom I knew not, for the god of the Cathars was a puzzle to me, and the god I had once served had ceased to listen to my prayers some time ago – for Marcho Antonio Marso. I had no doubt that he would be waiting for me in the morning with my valise and the papal bull. But whether or not I would make our rendezvous was another matter entirely. My predicament was now beginning to reveal itself to me, although I was still guessing as to the details. It was plain that something bad had befallen the hapless Baldwin de Courtenay. I doubted that he was dead: one did not kill an emperor, however petty, and stay to clear up the blood. So he might have been taken, against his will: hence the blood.
The man in the shadows had been Venetian. What had Baldwin said that day? I racked my brains, and fought my way down through hazy memories of the Captain aloof in his chair while Baldwin squirmed, and how young the emperor had looked, young and frantic. There: I had it. 'Very solidly in debt to Venice’ he had told us. Very anxious that the Republic did not know he was in Rome – or perhaps he had meant Italy. So the man was a creditor. But why abduct Baldwin, unless… I sighed. He meant to hold the emperor as security, or ransom him. Christ's foreskin: Venice had repossessed Baldwin de Courtenay.
By this time I was drawing near to the fish market again, for I was back in the Jewish quarter. It was a good place to hide, for there was much to and fro of people, much noise and commerce. I found a rag-pickers' market set up in a little piazza and let myself fade into the corner. I needed to think. There was a stone bench on which two old men were sleeping, spittle crusting on their bristly chins. I sat down next to them and leaned back against the brick wall behind me.
The bull: there was no reason to believe that the Venetian knew anything about it. Baldwin had not been expecting any such thing, and the Captain had not known of it until Gregory had entrusted it to us. But to Baldwin's captor, any document from the pope might signify money, and that was why he had sent his creatures to pursue me. Or perhaps he believed I was a witness to his crime, whatever it had been, and had decided to silence me. If so, I was in mortal danger, for they would kill me out of hand. I preferred to believe that the document was drawing them on, if only to quell the icy fear that had settled in the pit of my belly.
It was late in the afternoon, and the little square had fallen into shadow. I had been keeping watch on the main entrance, but no one worrisome had come in or out. The rag-sellers were packing up now, but I realised that in my bright Venetian costume I was an easy mark and so I bought a ragged old traveller's cloak for a few pennies and threw it about my shoulders, much to the amusement of the gimlet-eyed merchant, who offered me silver for my cycladibus and tunic, and more if I would strip off my hose into the bargain.. I hesitated, though, for they were Anna's gift, and left the man shaking his head in disappointment.
So I lurked in my cloak, which carried the whiff of night-soil in its folds and made me feel somewhat unlike myself: a true disguise, I suppose, for as I slunk about, stinking, I began to feel as if I were sinking down into the understorey of the city: the human detritus that lies, like leaf mould in a wood, unnoticed underfoot as the better sort of folk go about their business with their noses turned up. I wandered the streets, keeping to the shadows, pausing once to take a cup of wine at a fisherman's tavern near the river, but not yet daring to step out on to the open ground that lay between the buildings and the water. I had already decided that I would take the Jews' Bridge, for the bridges over to the Tiber Island were less crowded, and I did not like the look of the towers that guarded them. I found another tavern, barely worthy of the name and haunted only by broken-down folk to whom my vile cloak no doubt seemed like a king’s ermine. It stank of unwashed tripe and forgotten fish-heads. I was served wine, of a sort, by a young wench with limp whitish hair and a double chin who made sheep's eyes at me and dangled her tits in my face as she poured out my vinegary drink. But I could, by craning my neck, see the end of the Jews' Bridge and the traffic going to and fro upon it, still busy as dusk came on with folk going back to their houses in Trastevere. I thought I would cross with the crowds, but as I watched I knew I had missed my chance for that. Courage would have seized the moment, but instead I had skulked in a dead man's cloak. Tra-la. I would have to wait until dark, then.
I pretended to drink my wine, but then bought myself some more time by draining my cup of its foul contents and suffering a second helping. The wine was scouring my insides, and as my guts were already roiling in fear and anticipation I was starting to feel quite horrible. But the sun was setting at last behind the Janiculum and now the shadows on the banks of the Tiber were growing. Another cup of infernal wine and I could leave.
My stomach was beginning to feel as if it were filled with burning coals, and the pain was making me wince. A wave of it struck me and I screwed my eyes shut against the raw agony. When I looked up I was staring into the face of the woman from the White Hound.
You going to finish that?' she enquired, nodding at the cup which I was gripping with pale knuckles. What?' I said, surprise making a mooncalf of me.
'Because I wouldn't. Finish it. Honest.' To my mangled wits came the information that she was speaking English, London English. Why not?' I stammered 'It'll kill you. Now then, time to go. Come on, love.' I looked at her, bereft of words.
'Has this stuff burned your tongue out? Because you don't say much. I took you for a clever one.' With cool fingers she prised my own from the cup. 'Makes no odds. Time to go outside.'
I stood up, for it struck me that one woman could be overpowered, or merely run from. But she followed me with those eyes. Where is the bag?' she asked, mildly curious, or so it sounded. I watched her for an instant.
'I took it back to the Lateran,' I said. 'After the Pantheon. I thought you meant to rob me, and it was not enough of my affair to…'
'Have I put you to any bother?' she asked, sweetly. 'Come on. You are not in the pay of the Curia. You are Jean de Sol's man.'
What makes you think so? And who is this Jean de Sol?' I added hurriedly.
'The man in whose company you visited His Majesty Baldwin of Romania a couple of weeks ago.' 'I don't know-'
'Please. Put a stopper in it. Innkeepers talk. Servants never stop talking. And surly Frenchies, even, if you ask them nice enough. We know, all right?'
You don't. You cannot. And what have you done with Baldwin, for God's sake? What was that blood you were scrubbing away?' 'Not that you care, of course, for you know nothing, do you? Someone had a nosebleed, my sweet. Do not worry: Baldwin is our guest. And now, out. We are upsetting these nice people.'
I saw no evidence of that, save for the looks that the serving girl was giving us, enough to curdle milk. I stood up. We would walk to the door, and I would run. This girl would not catch me in her skirts. And I still had my knife.
Well done – oh, don't forget to pay!' she scolded, blue eyes flaying me. Flustered again, I threw a handful of pennies on to the table, turned on my heel and made for the door. I heard her chair scrape behind me, but I was pushing past the fat serving maid, now positively squinting with displeasure, and lifting the latch I stepped out into the warm dusk. Except that it was not dusk. While I had sat there in the tavern the sun had departed and night had fallen. I hesitated, confused, trying to get my bearings. A fisherman's fire burned on the river bank to my left, and torches flickered in the street. I took off, heading for the river, thinking to sprint for the bridge, but as I rounded the corner of the tavern wall I slammed into something and fell back hard on to my arse.
‘Pick him up, Dardi,' called the blue-eyed woman in broad Venetian. I looked up into a broad, bearded face, smiling nastily. Hands like farriers' tongs grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me upright.
'Salve’ said Dardi, not letting go. A hand snaked round my waist, fingers just brushing the top of my groin, and relieved me of Thorn. The woman took the knife and admired it. 'Ooh, how pretty,' she exclaimed. 'Thank you, gentle sir!'
'Don't cut yourself,' I said in English, through gritted teeth.
'I'll try not to,' she whispered back. She stepped in front of me. I saw that she had two companions: the man called Dardi, who released me, and another man, tall and slim, who in the same moment produced a long, slim, double-edged dagger.
‘Please give us the pope's document’ he said pleasantly. We have no quarrel with you, boy.' 'I don't have it’ I told him, hoarsely. 'Ask her.' Well, Signora Letitia?'
'He claims he took it back to the Lateran. I don't believe him. In any event he does not have it now’ said the fair woman.
'Then you will fetch it,' said the man with the knife, his voice tighter. ‘I will not. I cannot’ I muttered.
At that, Dardi drew back and punched me hard in the stomach. I bent double, meeting his knee with my chin. Quicksilver flooded into my eye sockets as I reeled, fighting to keep on my feet. You will fetch it’ Dardi grunted.
'Fetch it yourself’ I told him. I reasoned, very foggily, that if they were beating me up they probably would not kill me, at least right now. If I could just stay upright…
'Stop it, Dardi’ said the woman, impatiently. 'Listen, boy. You are wasting our time. No, actually’ she said, shifting her feet and crossing her arms resignedly across her chest, 'you are wasting our master's time. Much worse.'
Who is your master, then? Not that blustering coxcomb Querini?' I gasped.
'Nicholas Querini of Venice. Hardly a coxcomb: an extremely wealthy and reputable gentleman. Ask anyone about him. Jean de Sol, for instance.'
Wasn't he the one who knocked you down in the street the other day?' I shot back. 'I felt sorrow for you then, fair maid, all sprawled out in the market square.' I straightened up carefully. She was scowling. ‘I would have offered you my hand.' 'I didn't need it,' she hissed.
'Letitia's not your real name,' I went on, babbling to stay alive a minute longer. You're no Venetian. You hail from London, I'd wager, and I'll further wager that your tongue got its edge somewhere lovely like New Gate.'
'Aha! And under your Venetian silks you are a little Wessex sheep-shagger,' she told me. Perhaps I imagined the hint of amusement in her voice.
'Devon, ma'am,' I told her, as proudly as I could. 'I know of no man called Sol. I am clerk to a lazy swine at the Curia who promised me a silver coin if I delivered that letter while he went off and fucked his mistress. Now I have no coin, and you are about to remove my giblets. A very poor bargain all round.'
What is your wish, Signora Letitia?' asked the one called Facio. He raised his blade and pointed it at my throat.
'Listen, you,' she said. 'My master is a great friend of little Baldwin de Courtenay – his very best friend, I would dare say. The emperor needs to be protected from scum like de Sol. Last chance. The letter – tell us where it is.' I shook my head, feigning ignorance but not desperation. She leaned forward, until her chin almost touched my shoulder. 'This is your last chance,' she whispered in her London drawl. 'I did see you in the market: 'twas a kind thought you had. And you had me nearly right: it was Smooth Field, not New Gate.' Her breath smelled of fennel seeds. She stepped back and scratched thoughtfully at her nose, where this morning I had seen a spot breaking out – this morning, an eternity ago. Then she smiled.
Well then. Nice to meet you, Master Devonshire,' she said briskly. You must have been the best-dressed suitor a sheep ever had. Pity you ever left your bog, though, innit?' She brushed past me, cupped her hand around Facio's ear and whispered something. Then she took to her heels, and in a moment she was gone, lost amongst the pools of light and dark between the city and its river.
'Allora’ said Facio, pleasantly. He tapped Dardi on the shoulder and gave some guttural command in Venetian, and in the next instant Dardi's booted foot had caught me squarely between the fork of my legs and I was retching on my hands and knees, aware of nothing but churning agony and bile searing my nose and throat. Then those tong-like hands had hoisted me up again and I was half-walking, half being dragged towards the river. I dimly felt my legs snag in some low brambles. Then Dardi stepped back and Facio was standing there. I could barely see his face, but he might have been smiling. Then he nodded briskly, placed the palm of his left hand square upon my breast-bone, and drew back his knife hand. I barely had time to draw in a rasping gulp of air when I felt a terrible blow on my left breast and a splinter of frigid pain. Then my head burst into stars and I was falling down, down, blows striking me from left and right. But I could not feel my body, for I was no longer the tenant of that destroyed shell of flesh. I was dissolving into the night, the fetid, marsh-stinking night.