The Nature of Blood (13 page)

I dressed quickly and soon found myself on the wintry Rialto bridge, from whose
vantage-point I was able to watch a lean cat scurry noiselessly into a blind
alley. I had grown extremely fond of the city under the moon, for it was at
such moments that I truly appreciated the full grandeur of her silent majesty.
Only the occasional tolling of bells trespassed upon the night, but their
song, together with the sister sound of water swirling and sighing, created
the most wondrous accompaniment to the silence. And then, of course, there
was the moonlight, which produced spellbinding patterns as it struck the water,
illuminating buildings here, and withholding its light there. Some corners
of Venice appeared to have been specially chosen to be blessed with this celestial
gift of light and shadow. I smiled after the cat, safe in the knowledge that
the cat's response to me was not tinged with ambiguity. Fear was a reliable
emotion. Constant and undemeaning. And then again, I remembered that it had
been nine months now since I had happily entered Venice in that most magnificent
manner: by sea. I passed through the lagoon, which enabled me to observe the
towers and turrets of the city rising above the distant mist, and all around
me, on the low-lying islands, I could discern the outlines of monasteries,
forts and small villages. With the sea behind me, I clipped forwards at a
good pace, until the city began to show herself. First the mouth of the Grand
Canal, then the majestic sweep of the buildings, and then the people: Venetians.
I saw them walking slowly, heads bent, going about their business as though
thoroughly unaware of the privilege of living among such overwhelming beauty.
These people seemed sternly unconcerned with anything beyond the narrow orbit
of their own lives. I remembered.

I remembered. I had led the fighting men of my own people for many years, and
had also served in battle as a General for several other nations, both Christian
and heathen. But now I was confidently arriving in Venice, summoned by the
doge and his senators to lead the Venetian army whenever the Turks declared
their intent. But where was the party to meet me? The fanfare? The escort
of lavishly attired gondoliers that were widely known to welcome dignitaries?
It appeared that I would have to make do with the spectacle of the city herself
turning out to greet me. I stared down at the waters flowing beneath the Rialto
bridge, and I wondered if my new costume might convince some among these Venetians
to look upon me with a kinder eye. It was this desire to be accepted that
was knotting my stomach and depriving me of sleep, and in my distress I had
once more fled to the only person I could rely upon in these circumstances:
the city herself, which had remained ever faithful to her enchanted promises.
Thin scarves of fog began to drift across the Grand Canal, and then in the
distance, through the dank morning mist, I saw a gondola moving slowly towards
me and I imagined a passenger propped up in the back, under the canopy, perhaps
another victim of a troubled mind. I watched as this black gliding object,
lightly powdered with snow, approached as though a heavenly vision, and then
it slipped beneath the bridge and out of sight. This was my cue to turn and
walk back to my lodgings. It would not be wise to find myself at the senator's
dinner fatigued through a lack of sleep.

Later that same day, at a little before five o'clock, a boatman called to me
from the canal that was my front highway. My Venetian attendant, without the
vaguest hint of a smile or gesture of affection, brushed my new attire in
the insolent manner to which I had become accustomed. I turned to him, half-hoping
that he might find it possible to wish me good luck on my evening's mission,
but, as ever, he chose to remain silent. I descended the half-dozen steps
and climbed aboard a particularly large gondola, one that was heavy with ornaments
and whose cushions bore the most fantastic embroidery. The gondolier nodded
a terse greeting, which I took to indicate his disapproval of having to propel
his vessel to my unfashionable lodgings in order to convey a passenger whom
he no doubt deemed unworthy of transportation. I nodded back a greeting in
his direction, and then settled into the well-upholstered seat. We swung out
wide and into the main traffic of the canal, and I noticed that the setting
of the winter sun threw a weak light on the water, a light that was held rather
than reflected. Despite the heavy traffic, I felt as though I alone, in all
of this great city, had an appointment to occupy me this evening. Others seemed
to be idling away what remained of this day.

As we sped along, I turned my mind to the problem of why this senator had been
struck with a particular attraction to myself. I had no doubt that my reputation
played some large part in his fascination, but I also imagined that there
was something about my knowledge of other parts of the world, of foreign adventures
and travels, that appealed to his senses. Yet our first meeting had been as
dull as it was short. I had simply sat before him and answered his laboured
and uninspired questions as though being interviewed. I had spent much of
my time looking around his room, enchanted by the huge oil paintings, impressed
by the fabrics and chandeliers, and held spellbound by the long mahogany table
that was being polished by a servant. I was unable to believe that this was
a room in a private house, rather than a public chamber where matters of national
importance might be debated. But why meet with me again? Unless, of course,
he was doing so out of some misplaced sense of obligation. In the distance
I heard the bells of St Mark's begin to mark the hour, and then around me
other, less grand bells began to respond to the call, and then, as I looked
at the shoreline, I saw a pair of monks, their invisible feet scurrying beneath
their billowing robes as they hurried towards their monastery, with the fear
of God coursing through their holy bodies.

The senator's house was, as I remembered it, a grand and imposing structure.
To my surprise, I experienced a sense of relaxation on once again viewing
its elegant façade. As I scanned the full length of its brooding magnificence,
I was struck by the sight of carefully arranged flowers about its balconies
which, even at this late time of the year, cast down the perfumed odours of
spring. Without saying a word, the gondolier drew the vessel to a standstill
and looked down at me as though wondering why I had not already understood
that this place was to mark the end of my journey. I had neglected to bring
some coin to show my gratitude to this fellow, but his surly manner left me
feeling that my omission was no cause for regret. Pulling myself up to full
height, which easily dwarfed his own stature, I strode past him and stepped
upon the lowest of the steps leading up to the roughly hewn door. Such a feature
of this great city I was yet to understand fully. It bewildered me that the
doors to even the finest palaces in the city were often constructed of the
most weather-beaten wood, a wood clearly in need of treatment and attention.
As I approached the door it opened before me, as if by magic, and I stepped
boldly into the interior of this great home. Once inside, the door was rudely
closed upon the waiting gondolier, which caused me to smile inwardly. I followed
the elderly manservant up a dimly lit flight of stairs which had never seen
the sun, and along a stone-walled corridor, at the end of which I could see
bright lights and hear chattering voices and much joyous laughter. The noise
and light burst upon me as I entered the room, and then there was silence
as heads turned, and not a few jaws dropped. I am a big man, and I had already
noted that a response of some sort upon my joining a room was invariable.
In fact, I had come to expect this of my unarmed entrance into any circle.
However, quickly rising to his feet and defying his advanced years, the senator
moved towards me with his arm outstretched. He announced my name, although
I was sure that those present had already been informed of my impending arrival.
Clearly, I was to be the chief amusement of this evening.

After greeting me warmly, the senator then introduced me to the members of
his family. First, his lady wife, whose first freshness of beauty had long
passed, yet her present visage could not totally obscure the fact that, in
her earlier years, she must have been a woman of not inconsiderable charm.
She smiled gently, and I returned the compliment. I was informed that the
elder son, a lank-looking fellow, pursued business interests in the Arsenal
in company with his father, and was heir to the family fortune. At this young
man's side sat his wife, the senator's daughter-in-law, a ravishing beauty,
but one who appeared to be blessed with neither wit nor humour. It appeared
that her looks accounted for the greater part of her allure, and she decorated
her head, hands and neck with such an abundance of jewels and trinkets that
her worth might be accurately calculated in ducats. The senator's younger
son could barely bring himself to raise his eyes and face me in a civil manner.
He sat somewhat nonchalantly, seemingly determined to appear uninterested
in the newly arrived spectacle. His dandyish clothes, which, even to my untutored
eye, appeared to lack any real understanding of either fashion or taste, completed
his helpless look. The final member of the group, the senator's daughter,
sat silently, but with a welcoming smile about both her mouth and, more importantly,
her eyes. A stranger soon learns that where the mouth may deceive, the eyes
tell nothing but the truth. In common with what I understood to be the practice
of a modest Venetian damsel, she showed not more than four fingers of flesh
beneath the shoulders. I was placed at the far end of the table, where my
closest companions were the younger son and the gentle daughter.

The meal was lavish by my meagre standards. In my own country I had, of course,
eaten excessively and well, but since my arrival in Venice my diet had been
confined to simple fare. However, on this evening I ate heartily and praised
the senator's cook, yet when presented with wine I drank only in moderation,
for I was aware that to indulge might result in a loose tongue and unpleasant
consequences. And so the evening unfolded, with my person being ever vigilant.
Much of the questioning was taken up by the elder son, who seemed eager to
prevent any other from interrogating me in order that he might remain the
focal point of the evening. Perhaps he imagined that this would somehow please
his father. Whenever his dull wife tried to intervene and make a point, he
was sharp in his rebuke and clearly he was uninterested in whatever it was
that she might have to say on this or any other occasion. He concluded one
conversational volley with the observation that, in this city of churches,
palaces and canals, Venetian households did, from time to time, use black
slaves. I countered with the information that I had once been held as a slave,
yet, as unpleasant as this situation had been, I had survived to tell the
tale. I watched this boy carefully and, deciding that the victory was already
secured, I chose not to mention my royal blood, or the fact that many Romans
and Greeks had also been held as slaves, and so the moment passed. Eventually
the senator's daughter was permitted to make enquiry as to the customs of
my country with regard to food and wine, and I assured her that they were
similar to those of her own country, with perhaps fewer spices added to the
meat. She nodded, as though approving of my countrymen's manner of cooking
food, and then her tiresome brother once more took up his tedious line of
questioning.

Some time before the final course made its welcome appearance – for,
if truth be told, I was finding the whole procedure somewhat difficult –
the senator brought up the thorny subject of war. He heaped praise upon my
exploits in the field, referring especially to battles fought and won against
the infidel Turk He then announced that my outstanding reputation as a General
and leader of men had led him to persuade the doge to dip his hands deep into
the coffers of this great republic, in order that they might hire a man of
renowned capabilities in the art of war. At this disclosure, it occurred to
me that I was to understand from the senator that a failure on my part would
be regarded as a failing on his part, too. And then, after the final course
had been consumed, our dinner was suddenly at an end. The senator led me carefully
but firmly by the arm, back along the dimly lit corridor, and ushered me into
his manservant's company. As he did so, he shared with me his knowledge that
war with the Turk was imminent. I was not to fail. I looked at this elderly
man and understood that my invitation to dine at his home had provided those
close to him with an opportunity to judge his prize acquisition. He was, of
course, sure that he had not made a mistake in hitching his fortune to mine,
but to insure himself against future difficulties he was simply seeking approval
from his family. Perhaps this was the Venetian custom.

During my return journey it began to snow. Tiny white flakes spun down from the dark sky and lightly dusted the gondola with a thin salty layer. And then the pleasing tone of the journey changed as the wind began to drive directly into my face, and the flurries became bothersome. I closed the curtains to the canopy, which disappointed me, for I wished to drink in views of my Venice at every possible opportunity, but my body was as yet unaccustomed to the damp cold which characterized this winter clime. Secreted in the closed cabin of this most perfect vehicle, I felt the swerves and twists as we floated through the darkness, my senses throbbing with the perfect mystery of this journey. And then it occurred to me that the senator's daughter must live a lonely life in her father's large house. Like all the fair daughters of Venice, she was no doubt being groomed for a marriage that would be beneficial to both families and occasion the fortunes of both to swell, but, visits to church aside, I imagined that she remained alone. By the time the gondola arrived at my lodgings and I stepped back on to
terra firma,
the swirling snow was in danger of becoming treacherous. I thanked my gondolier, whose manner seemed to have improved, and bade him goodnight, and then, as an afterthought, I urged him to be careful on his return journey. He smiled in the manner of one who was grateful for the sentiment, but who wished it to be known that he knew exactly what he was doing. He did not require advice from foreigners.