The Venetian (31 page)

“It is not just that,” Paolo said. “The longer I remain here, the more dangerous it is for you.” Calix smiled grimly but said nothing. “We do not know who killed them, the
Provveditori
. Or why. But something tells me, whoever they are, they will come for me next. I am not so foolish to believe that I have been pardoned by fate. As much as I would like to.”

“Do you think I fear death?” Calix asked, a haunted look seeping into his eyes. “Yes, I am the merry bandit, but…” He picked up a small tree branch, scratched absently at the dirt, and threw the stick into the scrubby brush nearby. “Some days I awake and fear life much more.” Paolo waited for him to continue but he remained silent. They stayed that way for a time, the steady sounds of the camp filling the silence, its rhythm transporting Paolo into a daze born of exhaustion.

“I had a wife and two daughters,” Calix whispered. Although Paolo could barely hear the words, they pulled him from his reverie.

“What happened?”

“Killed,” Calix replied, his voice thick with something between rage and despair. “No, murdered. By the Republic. I was a farmer. It was a hard life, but an honest one. We were happy. But the taxes, one after another. It was too much. We could no longer survive. There were many of us, some of them in this camp with us now. So we tried to talk, to negotiate. But Venice was deaf to our pleas. They did not see us as men, only subjects, another way of filling their coffers. So we organized, protested, refused to supply their landowners.” He shook his head. “We believed, foolishly, that Venice would eventually come to realize that we were just men, honest men, asking to be treated fairly. We were branded as traitors. We were…disciplined.”

“This was sanctioned? They set out to murder your families?”

“No, no, of course not,” he said with a sneer. “Overzealous soldiers I believe is what they said. They would be punished appropriately.” He looked at Paolo. “And what would be an appropriate punishment for taking everything that mattered in the world from a man and leaving him alive to relive it day after day?”

“I am sorry Calix.” Paolo rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. He suddenly looked small, broken, the façade of the jovial rogue gone.

Paolo’s voice, the hand on his shoulder, brought the focus back into his eyes. “So you see, there is nothing they can do to me, whoever they are, that hasn’t been done already.”

“And the rest of the men? What of them?”

Calix nodded, understanding. “No, you are right. I would stab at the diseased heart of Venice with my last breath and gladly go to my death. But I cannot speak for them. I cannot ask them to fight again. They have already endured the pain of three lifetimes.” He looked up at the scene before him, the men going about their business in the camp, living a life they had never imagined. “They only wish to be left alone now.”

Thirty Two

H
e left at first light. He had said goodbye to Calix before going to sleep. The bandit hadn’t tried to dissuade Paolo and talk him out of leaving. He understood that it was something Paolo had to do, and that had been enough. He didn’t need to understand why. However Calix did insist on presenting Paolo with two gifts, one of which he said would almost surely save his life.

The pale morning mist swirled about Paolo like an eddy in a stream and he fingered the base of the large knife Calix had given him the night before. The grip had been wrapped tightly with rope, wearing thin now. It had been his brother’s he said. Paolo had tried to refuse, Calix pushing the knife back into his hands, threatening all manner of horrors with that grin of his should Paolo continue to offend him. The knife, impressive though it was, was merely a token both men knew. It was the other gift, Calix explained, leading him through the camp, that was truly important, the only way he could think of protecting Paolo. They said little as they walked, each man thinking of what Paolo faced, the dangers known and those not. They stopped near the edge of the camp and Calix, with a smile and a slap on the back, proudly introduced him to a horse. The final demonstration of his friendship, and sense of humor, was the generous supply of goat meat strapped to its back.

He had slept fitfully and dreamed of Chaya. She had called for him to return to her. He had slipped back into the city unnoticed and found her waiting. The buildings had all been reduced to rubble, the island sinking, the lagoon reclaiming what was hers. Chaya opened her lips as though for a kiss and he reached for her hungrily. Warm water, becoming hot, swirled about their ankles before transforming into molten glass, devouring their skin, eating away at their bones. He felt her warm breath, saw her lips quiver and her mouth open wider, sensing before he saw that she had a lion’s fangs. He slowly backed away as she continued to reach for him. He woke with a start, grasping at his neck where he had felt the garrote in his dream.

***

QILIJ WAS HALFWAY
to Rethymno. He would not stop until he reached the gates of the town, then would turn around and head back toward the bandit camp. There would be no chance of Avesari somehow slipping through his fingers, getting there before him and onto a ship, disappearing like the ghost he had come to resemble. He had been a very lucky man thus far and Qilij was determined to put an end to his good fortune.

The road wound toward the water, following the coastline for a time. The small waves tumbled up the shore and scurried back, the cries of gulls and the crunch of the stone road the only sounds. Qilij could see the White Mountains inland, hundreds of black caves boring into the massive formations. It seemed a peaceful place but he was not fooled. Blood, as much as water, sun, and soil had helped these ancient trees grow. The sea, pristine though it appeared, was a malevolent force, and Qilij longed to be away from it. The sunlight skipped off its surface in brilliant daggers and Qilij held up a hand to fend them off.

***

RETHYMNO WAS SMALLER
than he had expected, more a large outpost than a full-scale town. He could see the long finger of a seawall extending out into the modest harbor, a white stone lighthouse at its tip. It was almost an exact replica of the one overlooking the harbor at Candia, though smaller. It was midday, the sun hot and bright, the horizon a fuzzy blend of blue sky and bluer sea.

He dismounted, patting the horse appreciatively, and looked down at his clothes. He looked as though he had spent the night in a hole. He would not have been so filthy had he traveled on the road, but Calix would not hear of it. If he and his men could not be there to protect Paolo, he would do the next best thing. Bandits—or patriots—Calix had explained, did not travel by road. If they had, how could they ever hope to surprise those who did? Besides, suddenly appearing like specters out of the trees lent them a certain, and invaluable, mystique. No, there were hidden trails crisscrossing the countryside they had either discovered or forged themselves, and Calix knew them all—as did his horse.

While Paolo’s attempted refusal of the knife as a gift had been due more to courtesy than anything else, he had truly tried to say no to the horse, a beautiful speckled gray
Messara
. Native to Crete, it was a mountain horse, able to walk easily over rocky and uneven terrain. It stood at fourteen hands and Paolo could see its Arabian ancestors in its fine features. A horse is nearly as dear to a man as a child or a wife (and in some cases more so) and Paolo knew that he could not possibly accept such a gift. Calix had only smiled, said, “She is no gift. She will return to me.” And he had not been mistaken. The moment Paolo had dismounted and shaken the dust from his clothes, the horse nudged his hand with her snout in farewell, disappearing without a backward glance. He knew she had saved his life, though precisely from what he was still unsure. Living in Venice he had never known the companionship of a horse. He was surprised to feel a twinge of loss as he watched the animal walk away.

Paolo walked slowly through the heart of the town, feeling unexpectedly empty after the horse’s departure and conspicuous in his ragged clothes. He spotted a fountain in the main square and stopped to wash the dirt from his neck and face. There were a number of people there, children splashing one another to stay cool, mothers looking on indulgently,
nonnas
shaking their heads in disapproval. They looked at him curiously and he responded with a beaming smile. Afterwards he would find the man that was, he hoped, still waiting for him.

***

HE WAS BACK
at the bandit’s camp. How could this have happened? Did he never leave? No, that was impossible. Qilij cursed himself. Should he have waited, killed him as soon as he had left? No, he couldn’t have done that either. The bandits were always heading in and out of their camp, ranging across the nearby countryside. It would have been too risky. It was safer to be clear of their territory, to fall upon him a good distance from the camp so there could be no chance of rescue. Qilij turned his horse back toward Rethymno, angrily spurring it into a full gallop.

***

“I WAS AFRAID
you had been murdered by bandits when you did not arrive. Adnah had sent word almost immediately.” Even though Paolo had indeed arrived, Esau’s face was still tense, as though it would take some time for his features to return to normal after suffering from prolonged distress.

“Your fears were not far off. I
was
captured by bandits,” Paolo said between mouthfuls of bread and soup. Esau had offered him food immediately but now would not let him eat it. He was famished, but Esau either did not realize or didn’t care.

“My god, how did you escape?”

“I did not escape. They let me go.” Paolo enjoyed the look of disbelief on Esau’s face. “And with their leader’s horse,” he added with no small amount of provocation, wanting to shock him out of his prejudices. He was feeling protective of Calix and the men. He knew what it was like to be falsely judged. And besides, if he couldn’t eat, he would at least have a little fun. He was in sore need of some.

***

QILIJ DECIDED TO
camp a few hundred feet outside Rethymno’s gates, in a small clearing off the road concealed by a grove of overgrown olive trees. He was sure that he could sneak into the town at night and find water. His food supply would last for several more days at least, but he doubted he would need that long. Avesari would be dead sooner than that.

***

IT HAD BEEN
nearly a week before the first ship had arrived at the harbor, and that had been three days ago. Qilij had come down to the waterfront each morning since, before dawn, and waited. Now he approached one of the sailors, affecting a wretched demeanor in the pre glow of the coming sunrise, begging for a scrap of food. Disgusted by the sight of him, the sailor moved to shoo him away, but even in semi-darkness it was difficult to hide the Mamluk’s true form. The sailor shrunk away until Qilij, with blinding speed, enveloped his wrist in his right hand and asked, in a voice much less pitiful than a moment ago, where the ship was headed next. It would leave later that same day said the frightened sailor, and it was bound for Negroponte.

***

“THANK YOU ESAU.”
Paolo clapped a hand on the man’s meaty shoulder. He was nearly the exact opposite of his compatriot back in Candia. Where Adnah was thin, Esau wide, long where his friend was short. The anxious look had never left his face and Paolo wondered if he had been mistaken. Perhaps this was simply how God had made Esau and through good or ill, his expression never changed.

“Good luck Paolo. My prayers go with you.”

Paolo smiled and left, knowing he would need something much more but still searched for some comfort in the words. The air was wet and sweet, and Paolo wondered where this moment lay along his journey. Nearing the end? In the middle? Or perhaps everything he had endured thus far was only the beginning. He had no preference. The end most likely meant death rather than salvation, the beginning a life he was not prepared to endure.

Rethymno was still asleep. Paolo could see a sliver of the harbor from Esau’s front door, around a bend up ahead, a short walk. Word had been sent to the ship and his passage had been confirmed. He would sail to Negroponte, seek out yet another name in another place. He would hide and pretend, live without truly living, and Paolo Avesari would fade from his mind like a shadow swallowed by darkness.

He was lost in these moribund thoughts and didn’t notice the man coming toward him until he was close enough to hear the soft rhythm of another pair of feet. He looked up. The man was in silhouette, and that silhouette was enormous. The streets of Rethymno were narrow, and the thing before him covered a full third of the width between buildings. Paolo stopped, the man halting as well, some forty feet away. Paolo peered through the mist but could see nothing beyond the shape of the immense chest, the limbs like the trunks of small trees. He had no idea who this man was, but he understood with a terrible clarity that he knew who Paolo was, that he had killed the
Provveditori
, and that he was here to kill him.

Paolo’s mind was racing. He had no hope of getting to the harbor—at least not this way—and he couldn’t go back to Esau’s house. It would be too dangerous and would most definitely result in more deaths than just his own.

“You are a difficult man to find.”

He had not spoken loudly though the words were clear, the water in the air doing little to muffle them. The accent was strange, from the East, Arabic perhaps. Paolo had very little time, he knew. He needed more.

“I apologize, but I was unaware that you were looking for me.”

The man laughed, a cavernous sound. “You have courage, I will give you that. A sense of humor even at the moment of your death.”

And there it was. He knew the man was there to kill him of course, but some part of his brain still held to the irrational notion that perhaps there was something else to it. But no longer. Paolo had to go. He turned without another word and raced back the way he had come, thinking frantically. He had no hope of physically besting this man. There had to be another way. He didn’t know the town well, was blindly turning corners, the mist obscuring his vision and soaking his face. He could hear the man behind, making angry guttural sounds. They were fading somewhat, Paolo the smaller and quicker of the two, putting distance between them.