The Venetian (30 page)

He looked down to the camp once more, recalling the instructions for shooting from the top of a fortress at enemies below:
follow your opponent closely, move the lower tip of the bow over to your right side, hold the bow across and draw it downwards. Bend your back a little, hold the arrow (that is drawn in the bow) between your two legs and shoot it. Beware not to shoot from one place in a war, but rather walk from one place to another, watch your opponent and then shoot.

Of the three men it had been clear to Qilij who the leader was from the episode at the harbor—the tall one with the beak nose, who derided his men instead of giving them a reason to follow him. He was Venetian to the core, arrogant and disdainful. Qilij would save him for last. He had no thoughts one way or the other about his two companions beyond the knowledge that he would end their suffering sooner than their leader’s. One of the men stood at the center of the camp, head down, examining something in his hands. The other sat against a tree, staring out at nothing in particular. Beak nose had his back to the hillside. Qilij suspected he had no more than five minutes before he would be unable to see them.

The first arrow pierced the standing man’s heart. He died instantly, his mouth a perfect O of surprise. He hit the ground like a fallen tree, the arrow’s whistle the only hint of what had just happened. The man sitting against the tree tried to scramble to his feet and slipped on the pine needles. Qilij’s next arrow three seconds later pinned his head to the tree through his throat. His body went limp, still seated. He made wet sucking sounds as dark blood spurted from his neck and poured from his mouth.

Now Qilij turned his attention to the leader. He rose from his crouch and walked steadily along the bluff. The man was panicked. He quickly scanned the hillside as he first sought cover and then raced for the horses tied up nearby. Qilij kept walking, without hurry, notching a third arrow in stride, and severed the man’s spine at the base of his back. He collapsed on his stomach, began dragging himself toward the horses, not realizing in his panic that he could never hope to mount a horse with legs that were now dead. As much as he despised the man, Qilij admired him for his resolve. He hadn’t stopped. He was still trying to escape. He was at the horse’s legs now, attempting to pull himself up. The horse whinnied, becoming increasingly agitated by the commotion and this man grasping at its legs. It pranced back and forth, throwing back its head, its eyes rolling in their sockets. The man couldn’t keep a grip on the flailing leg and fell back on his side.

He became very still and slowly turned his face to the hillside. Qilij realized that he had accepted his death and was challenging his attacker to show himself. Qilij believed this man dishonorable, undeserving. Still, he was becoming the assassin he so despised, and so stepped out from the trees. Qilij looked down, could see more of the man than the man could of him, the dying sun behind him. He saw the hint of a smile on the man’s lips, his eyes narrowing in distaste. Qilij had seen the look before. It was unmistakable. It said the man believed he was looking at a coward.

One should never shoot an arrow in anger. It can result in a loss of control, and a loss of control can mean death in the heat of battle. Qilij tried to breathe slowly and clear his mind. He could not. He let out a roar of rage as he let the arrow fly. It buried itself in the left eye of the man, but much to his dismay, Qilij felt no satisfaction.

Thirty One

P
aolo raised his head. A spotty blackness covered his vision. His head felt as though it were in pieces.

“I would advise against doing that again if I were you.”

He turned toward the voice but the pain was too great. He slowly lowered his head with a groan, the rolled up blanket beneath offering little comfort.

“You chased me,” he said, remembering the fall, his voice thick—an observation rather than an accusation. The man put his hand beneath Paolo’s head, gently raising it.

“Here, drink.” He dribbled water between Paolo’s lips from a small jug. “Yes, we chased you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.
It is what we do.

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days. You have been in and out of consciousness. Who is Chaya?” The man smiled for the first time. His teeth were brown. He had a thick black moustache, black curly hair, dark skin, and eyes so dark blue they were nearly black. He wore sandals on his feet, a coarse shirt, and pants held up with a rope. He looked like a bandit.

“Why did you not kill me?”

“You said something about being a fugitive before you lost consciousness, that Venetians were chasing you. We were intrigued. We are no friends of the Republic.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet. It is true that we haven’t killed you. It is not necessarily true that we won’t.”

Paolo considered this. “If you decide to kill me, you will let me know I presume?”

“You will be the first.” He smiled again. “I am Calix.”

“Paolo.” Paolo hadn’t moved. He was staring straight up at a canopy of some sort tied between three trees. It looked a little like a ship’s sail.

“Who is Chaya?” Calix asked again.

“Someone from a lifetime ago,” Paolo said.

“Does she wait for you?”

Simply trying to survive had replaced any thoughts of returning home. Such notions seemed a luxury now. “I’ll tell you only if you promise not to kill me,” he said. He tried to smile. It hurt.

***

“SIX DEAD. THREE
officials, by the look of them. Still in their camp. Three others, soldiers, up the hillside. Nothing taken, the horses still all tied up. And hungry.”

“So,” said Calix thoughtfully, “no one we know.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Paolo.

“First, there should be no one other than us in this part of the country, but even so, if any of the other mountain tribes had killed them, the horses would be gone, the supplies taken. It’s all still there. Someone else killed them, someone we don’t know.”

“You said six?” Paolo was sitting next to Calix near a stream. He had accompanied the bandit to water the horses. He was feeling better, had been nursed back on a diet of dandelions, pine nuts, and stringy goat meat. It had taken him another day to stand up without feeling dizzy, but he still ached when he moved, his ribs throbbing with every breath. Miraculously nothing had been broken.

“Yes, six,” said the man. Calix, Paolo had come to learn, was their leader, and had sent out a small party of men to reconnoiter the area after hearing Paolo’s semi-conscious ramblings of pursuit.

“The
Provveditori
and the three soldiers they brought with them. They were here to bring me back to Venice.”

“Then you are a fortunate man,” said the messenger.

Paolo considered the statement. He wasn’t so sure. True, had he not fled when he did he would be on his way back to Venice, to prison and most probably to his death. And now it was his pursuers that were dead, no longer a threat to him. But perhaps an even greater threat had replaced them.

“Thank you Cristo,” said Calix.

“Is there anyone in your camp whose name does not begin with a C?”

Calix grinned. “You are a brave man, poking fun at a feared bandit like myself, although I must say I do not like the term very much,
bandit
.” He wrinkled his nose. “We are patriots, eh Cristo?” The other man nodded solemnly. Calix’s smile faded, back to business. “In what condition were the bodies?”

“Whoever killed them did not like them. These were not deaths that were simply necessary. There was passion involved. The three on the hillside, the soldiers,” he said with a nod toward Paolo, “were killed close in, by hand. One’s head was split in two by a large blade. Another received a similar blade in the back, his wrist broken. The third man’s neck was broken, his head turned completely around. The strength needed to do that…” his voice trailed off as he imagined the size of the killer. “The three in the camp” he continued, “were killed with arrows. From the angle of entry I’d say they came from the hillside. One in the heart, one through the throat. The last had two, one in the back and one through the left eye. Incredible shots on the ground. From the hillside, nearly impossible.”

“And yet, there they were.” Calix stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“There’s something else,” said Cristo.

“Yes?” asked Calix.

“I can’t be sure, but the ground seemed as though it hadn’t been disturbed…enough.”

“What do you mean, enough?”

“The deaths looked to be the work of multiple men. The three soldiers, they were large, strong. It would have taken several men to kill them that way. And the men in the valley, they must have been killed at the same time or at least in very rapid succession. They were all still there, in the camp. Had they been killed one by one, their bodies should be separated, whether from fleeing, hiding, or moving to fight. But they were all there, as though they were dead before they ever had a chance, before they realized what was happening.”

“So?”

“So, the ground up on the hillside should be churned up from the fighting and movement of many men, but it is not.”

Calix didn’t seem convinced. The soil there was loose he knew, exposed to the wind. The evidence of such a battle could easily have been erased by the elements.

“Thank you Cristo.” The man nodded and left. “So my fugitive friend,” said Calix, looking askance at Paolo, “who killed your
Provveditori
?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t look very pleased. You’ve gotten a reprieve. You’re a free man.”

“Yes, but for how long? And why? Something worse may be coming.”

“Or not coming at all.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do not think too much. Come,” said Calix, rising and slapping Paolo on the back. “I am hungry.”

“Goat?”

“Of course, what else?” laughed Calix. “It is the food of freedom.”

***

HE HAD BEEN
wrong. The traitor wasn’t dead, nor did it look as though the bandits were planning on killing him. In fact, it seemed that he was recuperating with their help. He would be accomplishing his mission after all. After killing the Venetians, Qilij had tracked the bandits back to their camp. It hadn’t been difficult. They did little to hide their passage, knowing they would be left alone unless they were involved in another uprising against the Republic. Venice cared little for the crimes perpetrated against travelers by a ragged band of Cretans living in the mountains. Committing resources to protect a largely ungrateful citizenry under their rule held no opportunity for profit, so why pursue it? The bandits understood this very well.

Qilij would have to wait once more, but he was prepared to do so, especially given this most agreeable development. Avesari could not stay there indefinitely. He had been heading to Rethymno—Qilij was sure of it now—when he had been captured. At some point he would resume his journey and Qilij would be waiting. Unless he knew of what had happened back in the valley. The entire camp must know by now. That might give Avesari pause, preferring the sheltered hospitality of bandits to an empty road fraught with whatever it was that had slaughtered the Venetians. While they may be aware of what had happened to the
Provveditori
, he was quite sure that they were ignorant of how it had happened or who had committed the act. If it came to him having to take Avesari by force, he would derive no pleasure from killing the bandits. He held them in some esteem, enemies of Venice that they were. So he would wait. For a time at least.

***

“I MUST GET
to Rethymno.”

“But why?” Calix spread his arms, indicating the entirety of the camp. “You have all you need right here.” They sat, leaning against a fat tree trunk. Small pockets of men huddled together, eating, drinking, sharpening their knives. They had erected makeshift shelters, some freestanding with the help of sheared wooden poles, others using the trees for cover with pine needle beds below. The men were animated, cheered by the return of the warmer weather. A cooking fire at the camp’s center was licking at the crispy skin of a goat on a spit.

“It is the woman,” Calix said with finality, “why you return.”

“It is too much goat,” said Paolo.

Calix grinned, the grin that Paolo had realized was so much a part of his power and charisma. “Ha! But what of the romantic life of the wandering bandit?” Calix had taken to using the word almost exclusively since Paolo had arrived, now a bandit where a patriot had been. It seemed that he was beginning to like the roguish notion of it. “We fight for freedom and justice. We destroy tyranny and oppression.”

Paolo looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you fight for gold and jewels.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” A sheepish grin. “Do not forget the horses. But still my friend, women swoon before us, men tremble. They write songs about us.”

“What about you in particular, your delicious cooking or your…unique smell?”

Calix laughed. “Be careful. I can always change my mind and decide to kill you again.” Calix clapped a hand on Paolo’s shoulder. “Truly though, why must you go so soon? It is not safe. Not yet.”

Paolo knew he was right, but also knew that he could not linger in yet another place as he had in Candia. True, when the life that awaits you is a death sentence, there is little incentive to return to it, and the coming of the
Provveditori
had convinced Paolo beyond any doubt that Venice meant to kill him. He knew that he would live longer if he remained a fugitive, perhaps even to old age. But it was not an option. He had to try and set things right. It would, he knew, almost certainly result in his death, but at least he would die professing his innocence instead of forever running like a guilty man. And there was also Chaya. Though they had known one another for only a short time, he could not imagine never seeing her again.

“I must try to clear my name.”

Calix looked at him skeptically. “Do you truly believe that you can do that, that they will listen?” Paolo had told Calix the story, all of it, once he had regained consciousness. It was what had saved his life. “And after what they have done to you, to your family. Why would you even want to clear your name? Why would you want anything save vengeance? What you have allegedly done is nothing. Selling the secrets of glassmaking? What is that compared to the lives they have taken, to what they themselves have done? I should think that after all that, you would become the sworn enemy of Venice. I for one would have admitted guilt even though innocent, as a badge of honor. No, you are already dead my friend.”