In his dream Signor Bompanzini was drowning.
He pictured himself falling backwards into a canal, and then slowly sinking as the waters rushed to cover his face. He flailed ineffectually, but he could not catch a breath. Just one more breath of air was all he wanted. Just a sip. Enough to keep him alive for a few seconds more.
He struggled into consciousness with, for him, a superhuman effort of will. He opened his mouth to scream, and realised that he was securely gagged and bound to his chair, and that someone was dripping water from a jug onto his face which he could not help but inhale.
"Ah, you are awake are you, you fat pig?"
He recognised the voice and then the face - it was Donatella di Rossini. He thought that that bitch had been sent to rot at the pleasure of the Inquisition in one of their hidden torture rooms. He suddenly felt afraid, very afraid.
"I'm going to ask you a few questions and then I'll loosen your gag. Any funny business or trying to call for help then it goes straight back on and I'll stick you like the hog that you are."
She demonstrated by spinning a wickedly sharp dagger up into the air and then catching it.
Bompanzini nodded furiously to signify his assent. Donatella loosened his gag, and he gratefully sucked in a lung full of fresh air.
"Please, don't kill me. All of the business earlier was a misunderstanding, a dreadful misunderstanding. It is all the doing of Father Carmelo, not me. I am an innocent party, you must believe me! You must!" Bompanzini babbled.
"All I want to know is where my father is, and what you were planning on doing with all of that gold. Just tell me the unvarnished truth - my patience for your prattle is growing dangerously thin"
"I don't know where your father is. He was sent to the same place that Carmello's men took you, but he went missing from there after a fire a couple of days ago."
Donatella felt a thrill of hope - this confirmed what she had suspected from her overheard conversation on the road.
"As for the money, Carmelo has half of the Venetian Grand Council in his pocket and spies everywhere. He needs the money to pay them all off and finance the attack on the city. Your father was supposed to part of the deal, but his ship with ten million ducats aboard has gone missing. Perhaps you are now beginning to see things from our perspective?"
Bompanzini continued.
"If you'll untie me, perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement to our mutual benefit?" He pleaded with her, trusting in his ability to strike a bargain from even the most unpromising of circumstances.
"No deals. I just have one more question for you. Where is Carmelo?"
"He's in Venice somewhere. I don't know where, I promise you. I swear it!"
Donatella said nothing, but reached inside Bompanzini's pocket and removed a small bottle. She unscrewed the lid and tipped the whole bottle into a jug of wine which she picked up. Bompanzini swiftly realised what she intended to do.
"No you can't! That much of the infusion will surely kill me. Please, no!"
She pulled his hair to force his head back and poured the wine over his face until he was forced to swallow some if it. He gagged, and then vomited profusely and extravagantly over his expensive silk shirt.
"You'll live, I think" Donatella chuckled, and then the humour went from her as she heard heavy foot steps climbing the stairs and a hammering on the door.
“Boss? What's happening in there?”
It was time for Donatella to make herself scarce.
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Chapter Twenty Nine
Fletcher was awoken before the first light of dawn by the noise of a cannon ball flying overhead with the sound of a canvas grave cloth being torn in two.
“Bloody hell - the Vatican boys are starting the party early this morning!”, he remarked as he shook off his blanket, soaked from the overnight rain. One of the adjutants slogged through the mud and handed him a mug of water and a hunk of bread that was obviously past its best. He chewed on it thoughtfully.
“I thought that this was just supposed to be a show of strength? Rattle our swords until the diplomats and politicians bang their heads together and then we can all go home and put our feet up. Why are they in such a god damned hurry to start a shooting war?”
“Don’t know sir”, said the adjutant
“But that bugger might know”, said Fletcher gesturing down the hill.
An office of the Papal army was riding up the hill towards the camp, his horse picking its way gingerly through the mud. He was resplendent in his formal uniform and looked down at the dishevelled and mud splattered mercenaries with obvious disdain.
“Captain John Fletcher of the Black Company, I presume?” he said, hauling back on his horse’s bridle as yet another cannon ball flying overhead made her skittish. She settled to cropping the meagre grass under foot.
“That would be me, sir. Would you care to tell me what the hell is going on here? All I know is that we ordered to show up here and make camp. Nobody said anything about the heavy guns being brought into play.”
“We have heavy guns and much more, signor. His holiness the Pope is most keen to see this conflict concluded swiftly, to send a clear and unambiguous message to all of those who would dare to defy the will of Rome.”
The man on the horse cleared his throat and continued speaking.
“I have two messages for you. We are seeking two men - a merchant from Venice called Antonio di Rossini and a capuchin monk called Alonso who was instrumental in abetting his escape from our lawful custody. The Inquisition are most eager to speak to both of them. If you should encounter either of them you are under orders to deliver them to us without delay.”
Fletcher acknowledged this statement with a non-committal grunt.
“Secondly, we expect a breach to opened in the city wall later on today.”
He indicated the section of wall that Fletcher had noted previously - the section of stone that was a different colour to the rest was evidently a weak spot, and it was now being pounded by highly accurate cannon fire. Loose stone was starting to pile up against the wall, and eventually it would be possible to scale the rubble and effect and entry into the city.
“Your troop will have the honour of leading the initial assault on the breach”
Fletcher exploded with anger.
“That’s a forlorn hope! We’ll be shredded by fire from both sides - it’s bloody suicide to mount an attack like that at this stage. Why not wait until the siege has been in force for longer? The defenders in the city aren’t going anywhere after all.”
“Nevertheless, you are being paid handsomely for this job and you will follow orders given by your employer. It is dangerous, but if you succeed in the assault you will earn a substantial bonus and the first share of any loot from within the city. Prepare your men - you will receive written orders later in the day.”
Fletcher knew that further protest at this stage was futile. These orders would have been passed through the ultimate commander of the Black Company. The Papal army evidently wished to make the point that they were in charge, and they wanted quick results, no matter how bloody the cost, and not a prolonged siege.
There was also the other point to consider. He was currently harbouring two fugitives from the Inquisition, and they were surrounded in all directions by one of the largest papal armies mobilised in an age.
Fletcher and his small band of brothers was caught in a diabolical trap.
“Bloody hell - the Vatican boys are starting the party early this morning!”, he remarked as he shook off his blanket, soaked from the overnight rain. One of the adjutants slogged through the mud and handed him a mug of water and a hunk of bread that was obviously past its best. He chewed on it thoughtfully.
“I thought that this was just supposed to be a show of strength? Rattle our swords until the diplomats and politicians bang their heads together and then we can all go home and put our feet up. Why are they in such a god damned hurry to start a shooting war?”
“Don’t know sir”, said the adjutant
“But that bugger might know”, said Fletcher gesturing down the hill.
An office of the Papal army was riding up the hill towards the camp, his horse picking its way gingerly through the mud. He was resplendent in his formal uniform and looked down at the dishevelled and mud splattered mercenaries with obvious disdain.
“Captain John Fletcher of the Black Company, I presume?” he said, hauling back on his horse’s bridle as yet another cannon ball flying overhead made her skittish. She settled to cropping the meagre grass under foot.
“That would be me, sir. Would you care to tell me what the hell is going on here? All I know is that we ordered to show up here and make camp. Nobody said anything about the heavy guns being brought into play.”
“We have heavy guns and much more, signor. His holiness the Pope is most keen to see this conflict concluded swiftly, to send a clear and unambiguous message to all of those who would dare to defy the will of Rome.”
The man on the horse cleared his throat and continued speaking.
“I have two messages for you. We are seeking two men - a merchant from Venice called Antonio di Rossini and a capuchin monk called Alonso who was instrumental in abetting his escape from our lawful custody. The Inquisition are most eager to speak to both of them. If you should encounter either of them you are under orders to deliver them to us without delay.”
Fletcher acknowledged this statement with a non-committal grunt.
“Secondly, we expect a breach to opened in the city wall later on today.”
He indicated the section of wall that Fletcher had noted previously - the section of stone that was a different colour to the rest was evidently a weak spot, and it was now being pounded by highly accurate cannon fire. Loose stone was starting to pile up against the wall, and eventually it would be possible to scale the rubble and effect and entry into the city.
“Your troop will have the honour of leading the initial assault on the breach”
Fletcher exploded with anger.
“That’s a forlorn hope! We’ll be shredded by fire from both sides - it’s bloody suicide to mount an attack like that at this stage. Why not wait until the siege has been in force for longer? The defenders in the city aren’t going anywhere after all.”
“Nevertheless, you are being paid handsomely for this job and you will follow orders given by your employer. It is dangerous, but if you succeed in the assault you will earn a substantial bonus and the first share of any loot from within the city. Prepare your men - you will receive written orders later in the day.”
Fletcher knew that further protest at this stage was futile. These orders would have been passed through the ultimate commander of the Black Company. The Papal army evidently wished to make the point that they were in charge, and they wanted quick results, no matter how bloody the cost, and not a prolonged siege.
There was also the other point to consider. He was currently harbouring two fugitives from the Inquisition, and they were surrounded in all directions by one of the largest papal armies mobilised in an age.
Fletcher and his small band of brothers was caught in a diabolical trap.
Chapter Twenty Eight
From the portico of the palazzo the new Doge appeared before the people of Venice.
He was wearing the corno ducale - the ceremonial crown that was the well-known symbol of the Doge of Venice. It was a stiff horn-like bonnet, which was made of gemmed brocade and worn over the camauro, a fine linen cap. Every Easter Monday the doge headed a procession from San Marco to the convent of San Zaccaria where the abbess presented him a new camauro crafted by the nuns.
The voice of a herald rang out across the expanse of the piazza San Marco.
"This is your doge, if it please you," and to a man and a woman the crowd responded with boisterous cheers and thunderous applause. Leonardo Donato was truly recognised as a servant of the people. He acknowledged their support with a wave before retiring to the council chambers for their was much work to be done.
His first duty as Doge was to read the papers left by the Papal Nuncio, and according to the laws and traditions that were in place to prevent the undue accumulation of powers he had to accompanied by other representatives of the council before even opening the letters. He had noted the words of Silvio di Rossini during the voting process, and he summoned him to chamber now.
A clerk read the missive aloud. Given the Republic's intransigence in the matter of the two imprisoned priests the whole of Venice and her people was to be placed under interdict and face excommunication. This meant that the Papal states could now attack Venice with impunity and no further regard for the niceties of diplomatic negotiation.
The Doge turned to Silvio.
“It seems that the Pope is determined to wage war upon us. If you believe that you have any information regarding their intentions or tactics you should share it with us now”
Silvio explained the series of events that had transpired. The disappearance of his father, the threats and insinuations made by Father Vittorio Carmello and the other priests, and the strong suspicions that certain council members had been bribed into changing their votes.
The Doge nodded gravely.
“Furthermore we have been informed that a large army of the Papal states, supported by condottieri, is preparing to attack Mestre, and a fleet of ships is moving towards our lagoon. We can choose to surrender to the whim of the Pope, or we can choose to fight. We choose to fight”
He looked around the table to see if any one would dissent in this matter. No one did. There was no triumphalism or glory in this course of action, rather there was a grim acknowledgement of the fact that if Venice were to continue as a free and independent republic it must face down its enemies.
“Summon the Papal Nuncio - we need to speak to him regarding this matter urgently”
o o o o o o
The nuncio appeared before the doge, his head bowed like a naughty school child about to admonished for some minor transgression. The doge spoke, in vigorous tones.
"Monsignore! You must know that we are, every one of us, resolute and ardent to the last degree, not merely the government but the whole nobility and the population of our state. Your excommunication we make light of and hold it as nought. now just see where this resolution would lead to if our example were followed by others."
"Your Eminence", replied the nuncio, "His Holiness the Pope is merely acting as the Holy Ghost has inspired him to"
"In which case ", snapped back the doge, "the Holy Ghost has inspired Venice to ignore the edicts of the Pope. We will not be bullied into submission. You are dismissed from this court."
o o o o o o
Silvio left the palace in a daze, barely aware of the fabulous art and sculpture on display around him. All of the gilded splendour was as naught compared to the looming storm clouds of war. Wars and rumours of wars were nothing new to the people of Venice, but this time felt different. This was a clash of two ideologies - the freebooting individualism of the Republic was now in direct conflict with the theocracy of the Pope.
He walked along the pathway to the jetty, lost in his thoughts and paying little heed to his surroundings and before he could cry out he realised that he was surrounded by three men - two behind him to either side and the third who had cut in front of him impeding his progress. He felt the prick of a dagger in the small of his back and realised that he was trapped.
A dark voice beside him said “You were warned, and yet you ignored us. You will now pay the price”
One of the men behind Silvio moved to grab his throat as if to strangle him. Almost without thinking, Silvio took half a pace to the left, took hold of the hand of his assailant and then straightened his right leg throwing him to the floor with a sickening crunch. The man in front threw a punch directly at Silvio's face, which he avoided by ducking and driving his head into the mans stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
Two down. The third man was the charm though, he realised that the situation was spiralling out of control rapidly so he drove his dagger hard into Silvio's back just above his kidneys. This gave his companions time to recover, and he fired his pistol into the air to disperse the small crowd that was beginning to form. All three then made a run for the jetty where they had stashed their boat earlier.
Meanwhile, Silvio was lying face down on the flagstones, losing blood with every breath and dying by degrees.
He was wearing the corno ducale - the ceremonial crown that was the well-known symbol of the Doge of Venice. It was a stiff horn-like bonnet, which was made of gemmed brocade and worn over the camauro, a fine linen cap. Every Easter Monday the doge headed a procession from San Marco to the convent of San Zaccaria where the abbess presented him a new camauro crafted by the nuns.
The voice of a herald rang out across the expanse of the piazza San Marco.
"This is your doge, if it please you," and to a man and a woman the crowd responded with boisterous cheers and thunderous applause. Leonardo Donato was truly recognised as a servant of the people. He acknowledged their support with a wave before retiring to the council chambers for their was much work to be done.
His first duty as Doge was to read the papers left by the Papal Nuncio, and according to the laws and traditions that were in place to prevent the undue accumulation of powers he had to accompanied by other representatives of the council before even opening the letters. He had noted the words of Silvio di Rossini during the voting process, and he summoned him to chamber now.
A clerk read the missive aloud. Given the Republic's intransigence in the matter of the two imprisoned priests the whole of Venice and her people was to be placed under interdict and face excommunication. This meant that the Papal states could now attack Venice with impunity and no further regard for the niceties of diplomatic negotiation.
The Doge turned to Silvio.
“It seems that the Pope is determined to wage war upon us. If you believe that you have any information regarding their intentions or tactics you should share it with us now”
Silvio explained the series of events that had transpired. The disappearance of his father, the threats and insinuations made by Father Vittorio Carmello and the other priests, and the strong suspicions that certain council members had been bribed into changing their votes.
The Doge nodded gravely.
“Furthermore we have been informed that a large army of the Papal states, supported by condottieri, is preparing to attack Mestre, and a fleet of ships is moving towards our lagoon. We can choose to surrender to the whim of the Pope, or we can choose to fight. We choose to fight”
He looked around the table to see if any one would dissent in this matter. No one did. There was no triumphalism or glory in this course of action, rather there was a grim acknowledgement of the fact that if Venice were to continue as a free and independent republic it must face down its enemies.
“Summon the Papal Nuncio - we need to speak to him regarding this matter urgently”
o o o o o o
The nuncio appeared before the doge, his head bowed like a naughty school child about to admonished for some minor transgression. The doge spoke, in vigorous tones.
"Monsignore! You must know that we are, every one of us, resolute and ardent to the last degree, not merely the government but the whole nobility and the population of our state. Your excommunication we make light of and hold it as nought. now just see where this resolution would lead to if our example were followed by others."
"Your Eminence", replied the nuncio, "His Holiness the Pope is merely acting as the Holy Ghost has inspired him to"
"In which case ", snapped back the doge, "the Holy Ghost has inspired Venice to ignore the edicts of the Pope. We will not be bullied into submission. You are dismissed from this court."
o o o o o o
Silvio left the palace in a daze, barely aware of the fabulous art and sculpture on display around him. All of the gilded splendour was as naught compared to the looming storm clouds of war. Wars and rumours of wars were nothing new to the people of Venice, but this time felt different. This was a clash of two ideologies - the freebooting individualism of the Republic was now in direct conflict with the theocracy of the Pope.
He walked along the pathway to the jetty, lost in his thoughts and paying little heed to his surroundings and before he could cry out he realised that he was surrounded by three men - two behind him to either side and the third who had cut in front of him impeding his progress. He felt the prick of a dagger in the small of his back and realised that he was trapped.
A dark voice beside him said “You were warned, and yet you ignored us. You will now pay the price”
One of the men behind Silvio moved to grab his throat as if to strangle him. Almost without thinking, Silvio took half a pace to the left, took hold of the hand of his assailant and then straightened his right leg throwing him to the floor with a sickening crunch. The man in front threw a punch directly at Silvio's face, which he avoided by ducking and driving his head into the mans stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
Two down. The third man was the charm though, he realised that the situation was spiralling out of control rapidly so he drove his dagger hard into Silvio's back just above his kidneys. This gave his companions time to recover, and he fired his pistol into the air to disperse the small crowd that was beginning to form. All three then made a run for the jetty where they had stashed their boat earlier.
Meanwhile, Silvio was lying face down on the flagstones, losing blood with every breath and dying by degrees.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Donatella continued her journey back to Ravenna, under leaden grey skies and heavy rain.
The same rain that was falling on Fletcher and his men was now falling on her, and she wrapped her cloak around herself in a vain attempt to stay dry. She reached the gates of the city without encountering any further patrols, and passed through with her cloak still giving her a degree of anonymity. If they were indeed searching for her, then they evidently didn't have any idea of what she might look like.
It suddenly occurred to her that the soldiers may well have been referring to her father - after all she had only heard her surname of di Rossini being mentioned, and there had been nothing about a feisty young woman with a penchant for kicking priests in the head before stringing them up in chains in their own torture chambers. Well, perhaps they might not be so keen for that last detail to become public knowledge. She chuckled to herself at that thought, and then smiled, pleased that the depredations of the inquisition had not managed to dent her essential good humour.
Night was falling quickly, and lights were already burning in most of the windows of the houses against the winter gloom. Lanterns and candles were a quick indication of the relative wealth of the inhabitants of any given houses. The poorest residents could only afford a handful of poor quality tallow candles, or perhaps a single smoky oil lamp, whereas the wealthy could display their riches with a conspicuous display of the finest wax candles arrayed in a candleabre or even perhaps illuminating a chandelier.
Needless to say Bompanzini's house was alive with dancing lights, but where there are lights there are always shadows to accompany them. Donatella intended to take advantage of this fact. The front of the house was too dangerous a route - she thought that she might have been able to bluff her way past a doorman or other minor servant, but beyond that she had no idea of how many guards Bompanzini might have or where they would be stationed.
She followed a small alleyway that ran between Bompanzini's house and his neighbour and found herself at the back of the row of houses. An open sewer ran between the houses, feeding directly into one of the canals that ran through Ravenna in imitation of its grander cousin to the north. The eaves of the adjoining houses jutted out over the foul smelling stream, and Donatella saw an opportunity.
One of the facing houses had a trellis with a withered vine still clinging to it, and with careful choice of hand and foot holds Donatella was able to scale the wall and reach the lip of the eaves. The overhang presented a potentially tricky problem, but she was able to find a place where the plaster rendering had cracked and crumbled exposing the joists that supported the roof space. She grasped the wooden beam and worked her way out into empty space, her feet dangling precariously, until she reached the edge of the roof and by grasping it she could pull herself up onto the tiles of the house facing her objective.
She allowed herself a moment to rest and catch her breath, before jumping the gap between the roof that she occupied and that on Bompanzini's house. As she landed, she nearly slipped on the wet tiles that were slick from the earlier rain that had now subsided to a steady and persistent drizzle, but she stretched out her arms and legs to their fullest extent like a cat finding purchase on the limb of a tree and found a purchase. Experimentally, she pulled and pushed a few of the tiles until she found an area that was loose. Either the nails had rusted through, or the original builder had skimped on materials on the assumption that his shoddy workmanship at the rear of the house would not be noticed for many years. She carefully removed enough of the tiles until she had a large enough gap to lower herself into the roof space and onto the joists of the attic.
By dead reckoning she estimated that Bompanzini's room was at the front of the house and somewhat to the left of her current position, so she carefully inched her way along the beams and then across. She spotted where the chains for a chandelier had been attached to the beam through a hole in the plaster ceiling just below her.
Donatalla could see a gap in the plaster where the chandelier chain poked through, and a shaft of candle light shone up the attic space, picking out dust motes in the gloom. Looking down through the hole revealed that the viewpoint was too restricted to show much more than the a small area of the desk immediately below the chandelier.
She slowed her breathing and strained to hear any sounds or noises that might be coming up from below. She picked out a strange rasping noise which alternated with a whistling, piping drone. She was momentarily puzzled, until she realised that the noise must be the sound of Bompanzini snoring - the fat oaf was asleep, and more than likely drunk into the bargain.
She carefully pulled up some of the plaster laths around the chandelier trying to avoid dislodging any fragments into the room below. A few flakes drifted down and she held her breath for a moment, but the snoring continued as before. Soon she had created a hole large enough to climb through, much as she had done with the tiles previously. She looked down through the hole, and sure enough Bompanzini was slumped in a chair by the fire, evidently fast asleep.
She took hold of chain and carefully lowered herself down to the surface of the desk, avoiding the few guttering candles on the chandelier that were still alight. From the desk, she went to door and turned the key in the lock. Fortunately Bompanzini was the fastidious sort who kept the mechanism well oiled and it did not squeak loudly enough to alert anyone below.
Now it was her turn to have some fun …
The same rain that was falling on Fletcher and his men was now falling on her, and she wrapped her cloak around herself in a vain attempt to stay dry. She reached the gates of the city without encountering any further patrols, and passed through with her cloak still giving her a degree of anonymity. If they were indeed searching for her, then they evidently didn't have any idea of what she might look like.
It suddenly occurred to her that the soldiers may well have been referring to her father - after all she had only heard her surname of di Rossini being mentioned, and there had been nothing about a feisty young woman with a penchant for kicking priests in the head before stringing them up in chains in their own torture chambers. Well, perhaps they might not be so keen for that last detail to become public knowledge. She chuckled to herself at that thought, and then smiled, pleased that the depredations of the inquisition had not managed to dent her essential good humour.
Night was falling quickly, and lights were already burning in most of the windows of the houses against the winter gloom. Lanterns and candles were a quick indication of the relative wealth of the inhabitants of any given houses. The poorest residents could only afford a handful of poor quality tallow candles, or perhaps a single smoky oil lamp, whereas the wealthy could display their riches with a conspicuous display of the finest wax candles arrayed in a candleabre or even perhaps illuminating a chandelier.
Needless to say Bompanzini's house was alive with dancing lights, but where there are lights there are always shadows to accompany them. Donatella intended to take advantage of this fact. The front of the house was too dangerous a route - she thought that she might have been able to bluff her way past a doorman or other minor servant, but beyond that she had no idea of how many guards Bompanzini might have or where they would be stationed.
She followed a small alleyway that ran between Bompanzini's house and his neighbour and found herself at the back of the row of houses. An open sewer ran between the houses, feeding directly into one of the canals that ran through Ravenna in imitation of its grander cousin to the north. The eaves of the adjoining houses jutted out over the foul smelling stream, and Donatella saw an opportunity.
One of the facing houses had a trellis with a withered vine still clinging to it, and with careful choice of hand and foot holds Donatella was able to scale the wall and reach the lip of the eaves. The overhang presented a potentially tricky problem, but she was able to find a place where the plaster rendering had cracked and crumbled exposing the joists that supported the roof space. She grasped the wooden beam and worked her way out into empty space, her feet dangling precariously, until she reached the edge of the roof and by grasping it she could pull herself up onto the tiles of the house facing her objective.
She allowed herself a moment to rest and catch her breath, before jumping the gap between the roof that she occupied and that on Bompanzini's house. As she landed, she nearly slipped on the wet tiles that were slick from the earlier rain that had now subsided to a steady and persistent drizzle, but she stretched out her arms and legs to their fullest extent like a cat finding purchase on the limb of a tree and found a purchase. Experimentally, she pulled and pushed a few of the tiles until she found an area that was loose. Either the nails had rusted through, or the original builder had skimped on materials on the assumption that his shoddy workmanship at the rear of the house would not be noticed for many years. She carefully removed enough of the tiles until she had a large enough gap to lower herself into the roof space and onto the joists of the attic.
By dead reckoning she estimated that Bompanzini's room was at the front of the house and somewhat to the left of her current position, so she carefully inched her way along the beams and then across. She spotted where the chains for a chandelier had been attached to the beam through a hole in the plaster ceiling just below her.
Donatalla could see a gap in the plaster where the chandelier chain poked through, and a shaft of candle light shone up the attic space, picking out dust motes in the gloom. Looking down through the hole revealed that the viewpoint was too restricted to show much more than the a small area of the desk immediately below the chandelier.
She slowed her breathing and strained to hear any sounds or noises that might be coming up from below. She picked out a strange rasping noise which alternated with a whistling, piping drone. She was momentarily puzzled, until she realised that the noise must be the sound of Bompanzini snoring - the fat oaf was asleep, and more than likely drunk into the bargain.
She carefully pulled up some of the plaster laths around the chandelier trying to avoid dislodging any fragments into the room below. A few flakes drifted down and she held her breath for a moment, but the snoring continued as before. Soon she had created a hole large enough to climb through, much as she had done with the tiles previously. She looked down through the hole, and sure enough Bompanzini was slumped in a chair by the fire, evidently fast asleep.
She took hold of chain and carefully lowered herself down to the surface of the desk, avoiding the few guttering candles on the chandelier that were still alight. From the desk, she went to door and turned the key in the lock. Fortunately Bompanzini was the fastidious sort who kept the mechanism well oiled and it did not squeak loudly enough to alert anyone below.
Now it was her turn to have some fun …
Chapter Twenty Six
Dawn broke over the mercenary camp to reveal a large number of very wet and cold men.
The soldiers set to breaking camp with customary efficiency, grumbling but getting on with their jobs with the minimum of fuss. In contrast, Alonso felt thoroughly miserable and apathetic. It was true that he had been living a life of poverty in the monastery, but at least he had had a roof over his head and been comparatively warm and dry.
“Come on, shake a leg and look lively, you slug a beds. The time is a wasting, and there will be soft beds aplenty when we get to Mestre, I promise you”
Fletcher was in an ebullient mood, disguising the considerable misgivings that he was feeling inside. He walked through the camp, chivvying where it was needed, sharing a few words of encouragement with younger men who looked like they were suffering, joking and laughing with the horseplay of those in high spirits. He had the gift of command - being able to empathise with his men, making them feel that he understood their fears and doubts but also possessing an aura of invulnerability.
“We've got a tough march today, but we should have a better idea of what we are going to do once we get in sight of Mestre. We move out in ten minutes, leaving the baggage here. Take only what you can carry comfortably at double time.”
If the truth were told, he did not know precisely what he intended to do at the end of the journey, but he had the feeling that this job had changed from a straight forward contract into something a hell of a lot more dangerous and tricky. When the crunch came, he would trade the safety of the men in his command for any amount of gold and to hell with anything his superiors in the Black Company might say about it.
It was time to march.
It was the single hardest single day's work that Alonso had ever done. The soldiers set a punishing pace, marching at double time which was about as fast as it was possible to move without breaking out into a run. He was struggling to keep up and he was not carrying any gear, unlike the soldiers who had packs as well as their armour and weaponry. They marched for an hour and then rested for five minutes before picking up the pace again, and Alonso found a rhythm that pushed him through the fatigue that turned his legs to lead weights.
Antonio again was riding on Fletcher's horse, although he did have the good grace to start each stage of the march to show some degree of solidarity with his younger, more able bodied companions. He offered words of encouragement and the soldiers that he was travelling alongside responded in kind.
They made good time, despite the weather, and by mid day they had reached their objective. The land around Mestre was largely flat apart from one small hill in an open area near to the main gates. The hill offered the only vantage point from which to observe the gates without being dangerously exposed. Fletcher ordered his men to take up position in the lee of the slope whilst he went ahead to look at the task that they were potentially facing.
The gates were flanked on either side by guard towers which offered a perfect position from which to enfilade any assaulting force with withering fire from crossbows and arquebus balls. A glacis slope offered additional protection to the gates - all but the most accurate cannon fire would be deflected up and away from the gates and over the walls. It was as well designed as any defensive fortification he had faced, although he noted that it had seen action before. A section of wall to the right of the gate was a noticeably different colour where the stone had been breached and repaired in an earlier battle. Mestre was not as impregnable as his first impression had suggested.
He returned to where his men were waiting and spoke to them.
“It's tough, but we've seen worse in our time, all of us. We still don't know what the overall plan of attack is going to be, but with a well defended target like that, a siege is the only way that the defences will be worn down. That will mean earth works, piquet patrols to keep the defenders inside the walls and we will play a waiting game until the artillery is in position and lobbing cannon balls into the gates. Now, get dug in, and we'll see what happens next.”
As things transpired, they did not have to wait long. Their approach had not gone unnoticed by the Venetian defenders on the walls by the gate, and soon a defender came out of a side door carrying a flag of truce. Fletcher walked forward to meet him, striding forward so that they met in the middle of the open area between the gates and the bluff that Fletcher's men were busy fortifying.
Fletcher extended his hand in greeting and introduced himself.
“Sir John Fletcher of the Black Company, at your service signor!”
His opposite number responded in kind and shook the proffered hand warmly.
“Lucio Patrese of the Venetian City Guard, likewise. I think that we might have fought on the same side against the French ten years or so ago?”
“Indeed. That was a damn good scrap, if I recall correctly. The frogs broke and ran inside half an hour. That's the sort of fight that I like.”
“Yes - would that all of our wars could be so easily concluded. Now, may I ask what your company is doing digging in in range of the gates? This is an overtly hostile action, as you must be well aware.”
“We have been ordered to this position by our employer - the Holy Roman Church. We have not been ordered to initiate an attack, so I trust that we can all rest easy for the time being?”
“There has been no formal declaration of hostility, Signor. Perhaps you are not aware that our beloved Doge died recently, so any pre-emptive attack at this time would be a particularly dishonourable act. Is this really the sort of action that you wish your company to be associated with?”
“My condolences on your loss. Grimani was a fine leader from what I have heard of him. I can assure you again that we will not be making any overtly hostile attack at this point, and it is my sincerest hope that this matter will be resolved by the politicians and diplomats before any blood is spilt.”
Fletcher extended his hand again.
“I trust that we will meet again soon. The best of luck to you”
“And to you, signor”
The Venetian doffed his feathered cap and bowed, and then turned smartly around and returned to the safety of his city wall. Fletcher returned to his men, feeling even more unease at the situation his company had found itself in. There was a hidden agenda at work here, and he wished he knew what it was.
The soldiers set to breaking camp with customary efficiency, grumbling but getting on with their jobs with the minimum of fuss. In contrast, Alonso felt thoroughly miserable and apathetic. It was true that he had been living a life of poverty in the monastery, but at least he had had a roof over his head and been comparatively warm and dry.
“Come on, shake a leg and look lively, you slug a beds. The time is a wasting, and there will be soft beds aplenty when we get to Mestre, I promise you”
Fletcher was in an ebullient mood, disguising the considerable misgivings that he was feeling inside. He walked through the camp, chivvying where it was needed, sharing a few words of encouragement with younger men who looked like they were suffering, joking and laughing with the horseplay of those in high spirits. He had the gift of command - being able to empathise with his men, making them feel that he understood their fears and doubts but also possessing an aura of invulnerability.
“We've got a tough march today, but we should have a better idea of what we are going to do once we get in sight of Mestre. We move out in ten minutes, leaving the baggage here. Take only what you can carry comfortably at double time.”
If the truth were told, he did not know precisely what he intended to do at the end of the journey, but he had the feeling that this job had changed from a straight forward contract into something a hell of a lot more dangerous and tricky. When the crunch came, he would trade the safety of the men in his command for any amount of gold and to hell with anything his superiors in the Black Company might say about it.
It was time to march.
It was the single hardest single day's work that Alonso had ever done. The soldiers set a punishing pace, marching at double time which was about as fast as it was possible to move without breaking out into a run. He was struggling to keep up and he was not carrying any gear, unlike the soldiers who had packs as well as their armour and weaponry. They marched for an hour and then rested for five minutes before picking up the pace again, and Alonso found a rhythm that pushed him through the fatigue that turned his legs to lead weights.
Antonio again was riding on Fletcher's horse, although he did have the good grace to start each stage of the march to show some degree of solidarity with his younger, more able bodied companions. He offered words of encouragement and the soldiers that he was travelling alongside responded in kind.
They made good time, despite the weather, and by mid day they had reached their objective. The land around Mestre was largely flat apart from one small hill in an open area near to the main gates. The hill offered the only vantage point from which to observe the gates without being dangerously exposed. Fletcher ordered his men to take up position in the lee of the slope whilst he went ahead to look at the task that they were potentially facing.
The gates were flanked on either side by guard towers which offered a perfect position from which to enfilade any assaulting force with withering fire from crossbows and arquebus balls. A glacis slope offered additional protection to the gates - all but the most accurate cannon fire would be deflected up and away from the gates and over the walls. It was as well designed as any defensive fortification he had faced, although he noted that it had seen action before. A section of wall to the right of the gate was a noticeably different colour where the stone had been breached and repaired in an earlier battle. Mestre was not as impregnable as his first impression had suggested.
He returned to where his men were waiting and spoke to them.
“It's tough, but we've seen worse in our time, all of us. We still don't know what the overall plan of attack is going to be, but with a well defended target like that, a siege is the only way that the defences will be worn down. That will mean earth works, piquet patrols to keep the defenders inside the walls and we will play a waiting game until the artillery is in position and lobbing cannon balls into the gates. Now, get dug in, and we'll see what happens next.”
As things transpired, they did not have to wait long. Their approach had not gone unnoticed by the Venetian defenders on the walls by the gate, and soon a defender came out of a side door carrying a flag of truce. Fletcher walked forward to meet him, striding forward so that they met in the middle of the open area between the gates and the bluff that Fletcher's men were busy fortifying.
Fletcher extended his hand in greeting and introduced himself.
“Sir John Fletcher of the Black Company, at your service signor!”
His opposite number responded in kind and shook the proffered hand warmly.
“Lucio Patrese of the Venetian City Guard, likewise. I think that we might have fought on the same side against the French ten years or so ago?”
“Indeed. That was a damn good scrap, if I recall correctly. The frogs broke and ran inside half an hour. That's the sort of fight that I like.”
“Yes - would that all of our wars could be so easily concluded. Now, may I ask what your company is doing digging in in range of the gates? This is an overtly hostile action, as you must be well aware.”
“We have been ordered to this position by our employer - the Holy Roman Church. We have not been ordered to initiate an attack, so I trust that we can all rest easy for the time being?”
“There has been no formal declaration of hostility, Signor. Perhaps you are not aware that our beloved Doge died recently, so any pre-emptive attack at this time would be a particularly dishonourable act. Is this really the sort of action that you wish your company to be associated with?”
“My condolences on your loss. Grimani was a fine leader from what I have heard of him. I can assure you again that we will not be making any overtly hostile attack at this point, and it is my sincerest hope that this matter will be resolved by the politicians and diplomats before any blood is spilt.”
Fletcher extended his hand again.
“I trust that we will meet again soon. The best of luck to you”
“And to you, signor”
The Venetian doffed his feathered cap and bowed, and then turned smartly around and returned to the safety of his city wall. Fletcher returned to his men, feeling even more unease at the situation his company had found itself in. There was a hidden agenda at work here, and he wished he knew what it was.
Chapter Twenty Five
The electorate of forty one withdrew to an ante chamber adjacent to the main council hall. They had the responsibility and privilege of choosing the next Doge of Venice and they did not intend to take it lightly.
Before the deliberations began they were seated at a grand table and served a simple meal of freshly caught langoustines from the Venetian lagoon, grilled and dressed with extra virgin olive oil and fresh herbs, complemented by a glass of fresh Prosecco wine. This reminded them all of the bounty of the sea that fed them all on a daily basis. Any man they selected as Doge would have to both respect and honour the sea, and he would celebrate the symbolic marriage of Venice by casting a golden ring into the waters of the Adriatic from the deck of the Ducal barge.
They ate the food and drank the wine in comparative silence after the fevered chaos of the main council chamber. The discussions would begin soon enough.
Silvio was troubled by the words that had been whispered into his ear just before he had been sequestered into this room. He paid attention as the cases for the two foremost candidates were presented by speakers for each faction.
Leonardo Donato had been a candidate ten years previously when Mario Grimani had been elected as the popular choice. He had been an ambassador to the Roman court and he was wily and experienced in the ways of Papal political machinations.
His main rival, Ermolao Barbaro, was very different. The Barbaros were a family with a long and distinguished lineage and their forebears included bishops, ambassadors, philosophers and admirals although they had never supplied a family member who had been elevated to the position of Doge. They were well known for their close ties to the Borghese family, relatives of the man who had become Pope Paul the fifth so recently.
The argument between the two factions was a choice between a shrewd politician who would fight for the utmost advantage of Venice and the republic, and a man who would seek an accommodation with the Vatican through personal contacts and influence. It was not an unreasonable choice, and no doubt both candidates were reasonable choices, but a nagging doubt remained in Silvio's mind. Why were the church so keen to see Barbaro elected, and how many other council members had they tried to influence, threaten or bribe?
A few electors argued for other candidates, but after further discussions the choice came down to either Leonardo Donato and Ermolao Barbaro, so it was decided that a vote should be taken without further delay. With forty one votes and no abstentions allowed there was guaranteed to be a victor, and the new Doge would be crowned.
A clerk was called into the room who would draw the names of the electors at random who would then declare their vote publicly. The process proceeded quickly and smoothly, and the numbers of votes were split equally between the two candidates. There was some surprise that people who had been considered likely to vote for Donato made their declaration for his opponent Barbaro instead.
The numbers left to vote dwindled rapidly, and Silvio di Rossini was left to last. He had kept a personal tally on a scrap of paper and realised with a sinking feeling that the counts were split equally with twenty votes for each of the candidates. In effect, he had been left with the casting vote.
Silvio's heart was in his mouth as he rose to speak. His throat was dry and he took a sip of wine from his cup before he could enunciate the words that he needed to say.
“These are dangerous times for the Republic. I believe that we are facing a time of conflict when dark forces will try to assail us from all sides, including in this very election process. I suspect that an attempt has been made to influence the vote by forces of the holy Roman Church, and so I declare my vote for Leonardo Donato”
Gasps rang round the council chamber, and unseen by the majority of the crowd a black clad priest left the room with fury in his heart. The attempt by the inquisition to rig the election of the Doge had failed by just one vote. There would be a terrible revenge for this act of perfidy.
Before the deliberations began they were seated at a grand table and served a simple meal of freshly caught langoustines from the Venetian lagoon, grilled and dressed with extra virgin olive oil and fresh herbs, complemented by a glass of fresh Prosecco wine. This reminded them all of the bounty of the sea that fed them all on a daily basis. Any man they selected as Doge would have to both respect and honour the sea, and he would celebrate the symbolic marriage of Venice by casting a golden ring into the waters of the Adriatic from the deck of the Ducal barge.
They ate the food and drank the wine in comparative silence after the fevered chaos of the main council chamber. The discussions would begin soon enough.
Silvio was troubled by the words that had been whispered into his ear just before he had been sequestered into this room. He paid attention as the cases for the two foremost candidates were presented by speakers for each faction.
Leonardo Donato had been a candidate ten years previously when Mario Grimani had been elected as the popular choice. He had been an ambassador to the Roman court and he was wily and experienced in the ways of Papal political machinations.
His main rival, Ermolao Barbaro, was very different. The Barbaros were a family with a long and distinguished lineage and their forebears included bishops, ambassadors, philosophers and admirals although they had never supplied a family member who had been elevated to the position of Doge. They were well known for their close ties to the Borghese family, relatives of the man who had become Pope Paul the fifth so recently.
The argument between the two factions was a choice between a shrewd politician who would fight for the utmost advantage of Venice and the republic, and a man who would seek an accommodation with the Vatican through personal contacts and influence. It was not an unreasonable choice, and no doubt both candidates were reasonable choices, but a nagging doubt remained in Silvio's mind. Why were the church so keen to see Barbaro elected, and how many other council members had they tried to influence, threaten or bribe?
A few electors argued for other candidates, but after further discussions the choice came down to either Leonardo Donato and Ermolao Barbaro, so it was decided that a vote should be taken without further delay. With forty one votes and no abstentions allowed there was guaranteed to be a victor, and the new Doge would be crowned.
A clerk was called into the room who would draw the names of the electors at random who would then declare their vote publicly. The process proceeded quickly and smoothly, and the numbers of votes were split equally between the two candidates. There was some surprise that people who had been considered likely to vote for Donato made their declaration for his opponent Barbaro instead.
The numbers left to vote dwindled rapidly, and Silvio di Rossini was left to last. He had kept a personal tally on a scrap of paper and realised with a sinking feeling that the counts were split equally with twenty votes for each of the candidates. In effect, he had been left with the casting vote.
Silvio's heart was in his mouth as he rose to speak. His throat was dry and he took a sip of wine from his cup before he could enunciate the words that he needed to say.
“These are dangerous times for the Republic. I believe that we are facing a time of conflict when dark forces will try to assail us from all sides, including in this very election process. I suspect that an attempt has been made to influence the vote by forces of the holy Roman Church, and so I declare my vote for Leonardo Donato”
Gasps rang round the council chamber, and unseen by the majority of the crowd a black clad priest left the room with fury in his heart. The attempt by the inquisition to rig the election of the Doge had failed by just one vote. There would be a terrible revenge for this act of perfidy.
Chapter Twenty Four
Donatella left the gates of the monastery with a spring in her step.
She had expected to be challenged at any moment, but nobody had questioned her as she made her way up the stairs and through the main gate. She reckoned that she had perhaps a couple of hours at most before the guard would check the cell and find out that the prisoner in the manacles was not the helpless girl that he would be expecting but rather a humiliated and no doubt furious priest. She had to make some distance and then stop to think what she was going to do next.
Returning to Venice was one option, although that felt like an admission of failure, like a whipped cur running for home at the first sign of trouble with her tail between her legs. No, it would have to be back to Ravenna first, as her original intention had been. She wouldn't mind an opportunity to talk with Signor Bompanzini again, and perhaps find out a little more about what had happened to her father.
She stopped by the side of the road and stretched her arms. The joints of her arms and shoulders still felt as if she had been hanging from a trapeze swing for a week, and while the cut on her cheek from the priests whip had stopped bleeding it was now stinging and throbbing like a bitch.
She looked at the papers that she had picked up from the desk in the cell where she had been held.
There was the list of names - most of which she recognised as influential members of the Venetian Grand Council including her father. The symbols and numbers made no sense, although the figures could conceivably be payments in ducats. If that was the case, then it would come to a very sizeable total indeed - she totted the numbers up in her head and reckoned that the total would in the millions.
They would be very generous payments, to say the least.
She continued her journey and reached a crossroads where the track from the monastery joined the main coast road that she had travelled along so recently and in such different circumstances. She reflected that she was now a very different young woman from the one who had rode along the road with the wind in her hair and the sun in her eyes. She had been naïve in her trust of Bompanzini - she promised herself that she would not make that mistake again.
From up ahead she heard the noise of a troop of men on the march. She had no wish to attract any unwanted attention, so she ducked behind a wall at the side of the road and covered herself completely with her black monk's robe. She would be invisible to all but the closest examination.
The soldiers were adjacent to the wall now and she could over hear some of them talking. It was difficult to make much out but she managed to hear a few snatches of conversation. She was sure that the men were soldiers from the papal army. The forces ranged against the republic of Venice were now much more serious than a few companies of condottieri - this wasn't going to be a skirmish for short term advantages, it was going to be a full blown war. She was just letting the implications of this sink in when she heard two further things that chilled her to the core 'di Rossini' and 'reward'.
They knew who she was, and they were looking for her.
She had expected to be challenged at any moment, but nobody had questioned her as she made her way up the stairs and through the main gate. She reckoned that she had perhaps a couple of hours at most before the guard would check the cell and find out that the prisoner in the manacles was not the helpless girl that he would be expecting but rather a humiliated and no doubt furious priest. She had to make some distance and then stop to think what she was going to do next.
Returning to Venice was one option, although that felt like an admission of failure, like a whipped cur running for home at the first sign of trouble with her tail between her legs. No, it would have to be back to Ravenna first, as her original intention had been. She wouldn't mind an opportunity to talk with Signor Bompanzini again, and perhaps find out a little more about what had happened to her father.
She stopped by the side of the road and stretched her arms. The joints of her arms and shoulders still felt as if she had been hanging from a trapeze swing for a week, and while the cut on her cheek from the priests whip had stopped bleeding it was now stinging and throbbing like a bitch.
She looked at the papers that she had picked up from the desk in the cell where she had been held.
There was the list of names - most of which she recognised as influential members of the Venetian Grand Council including her father. The symbols and numbers made no sense, although the figures could conceivably be payments in ducats. If that was the case, then it would come to a very sizeable total indeed - she totted the numbers up in her head and reckoned that the total would in the millions.
They would be very generous payments, to say the least.
She continued her journey and reached a crossroads where the track from the monastery joined the main coast road that she had travelled along so recently and in such different circumstances. She reflected that she was now a very different young woman from the one who had rode along the road with the wind in her hair and the sun in her eyes. She had been naïve in her trust of Bompanzini - she promised herself that she would not make that mistake again.
From up ahead she heard the noise of a troop of men on the march. She had no wish to attract any unwanted attention, so she ducked behind a wall at the side of the road and covered herself completely with her black monk's robe. She would be invisible to all but the closest examination.
The soldiers were adjacent to the wall now and she could over hear some of them talking. It was difficult to make much out but she managed to hear a few snatches of conversation. She was sure that the men were soldiers from the papal army. The forces ranged against the republic of Venice were now much more serious than a few companies of condottieri - this wasn't going to be a skirmish for short term advantages, it was going to be a full blown war. She was just letting the implications of this sink in when she heard two further things that chilled her to the core 'di Rossini' and 'reward'.
They knew who she was, and they were looking for her.
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