Winds of Folly (33 page)

Nathan submitted to having his head examined. The doctor applied some salve to the wound and dressed it. Then he pulled up Nathan's shirt. There was a great livid bruise all down his right side, possibly several run into one, but after feeling for breaks the doctor merely shrugged and applied more salve. While he was doing this Nathan looked about him. A plain, unfurnished room. Stone walls. Arched ceiling. Wooden floor. A window with an iron grille. Some kind of prison, then. Two guards. There had been more, he thought, when they had attacked him.

He asked the doctor if he spoke French. The doctor said nothing. Latin? But of course he spoke Latin: he was a doctor.

‘Civis
…
'
Nathan began.
‘Civis
…
'
But there was no word for American in Latin. He made it up.
‘Civis Americanus sum.'
That should be clear enough, and he said it in French, too.
‘Je suis un citoyen Américain. Je suis un citoyen des États-Unis. Je demande à voir le Consul Américain.'

The doctor said nothing, not to Nathan. He stood up and spoke to the two men in dialect and then closed up his bag and left. The men unlocked the chain that attached Nathan to the floor and led him off like a bear, a dancing bear, out of the room and down the corridor, but shambling rather than dancing because his ankles were still chained together.

The room they brought him to was much larger than the other and clearly not a prison cell, though there were grilles on the window. It was more like a courtroom. It had panelled walls and tiered bench seats arranged in a semi-circle and a large desk, like a judge's bench, on a raised platform at the far end.

In front of this platform there was a man, sitting in a chair, reading some papers. He looked up when Nathan entered and put the papers on the floor beside him. His presence was not reassuring. He was dressed in black and he had a face like a skull. He looked, Nathan thought, like the figure of Death.

They stood Nathan before him at a distance of about five or six yards, his manacled hands held in front of him. He kept his head lowered and his shoulders hunched in defeat, but he felt some of his strength returning to him. A sudden leap and he could pull the guards off their feet. The chain would then become his weapon, his flail. He needed only a few seconds and he could wrap it round the man's throat.

‘Mr Turner?' The man spoke. It was almost a sigh. Nathan said nothing but it was encouraging to be addressed as Turner. His next words, however, were not so encouraging. ‘My name is Cristolfi. Does that mean anything to you?'

It did. And not only because he had spoken in English. Spiridion had warned him about Cristolfi. The man they called
Il Diavolo
. The Devil.

Nathan looked up and met the man's eyes. They were as cold as a serpent's. ‘Where am I?' he asked.

‘You are in the
Palazzo Ducale
. To be precise, in the
Magistrato alle Leggi
, where criminals are brought to answer for their crimes.'

‘I am not a criminal. I have committed no crime.'

‘Oh.' The Devil reflected a moment, scratching the side of his head. He had very short, grizzled hair. In fact, he was almost bald; it was strange that he did not wear a wig. Perhaps he thought the absence of a wig added to the fear he evoked, and he was probably right. He was a man of about forty or fifty, Nathan reckoned, and in good condition physically. Lean, quite strong-looking. He had a long face, a long jaw, clean-shaven.
Il Diavolo
. What else had Spiridion said about him?
He was not Venetian-born – he came from somewhere in Dalmatia – but he was fanatically loyal to the Republic.

‘What crime am I charged with?' Nathan persisted.

‘I hardly know where to begin. But let me try. Conspiracy to overthrow the Republic. That would do to start with. It carries the death sentence, in case you were wondering. Traffic with the agent of a foreign power. That, too. Lewd and offensive behaviour of a nature inclined to the perversion of public morals. You might get away with thirty years for that. Wearing a mask in a place of worship. Five years.' He frowned. ‘That seems rather excessive. Quite illiberal, do you not think? No matter. I doubt it will figure in the charge sheet, given the choices available. Resisting arrest. Assault upon agents of the
sbirri
. Shall I go on? There is more.'

‘I did not know they were agents of the
sbirri
. They fell on me without warning.'

‘They told you exactly who they were and you assaulted them. I myself was a witness to it.'

‘I do not speak Italian. I thought they were
bravi
, come to slit my throat.'

Cristolfi looked shocked. ‘You thought our good
sbirri
were
bravi
? That will not speak well in your defence.'

‘I am an American citizen. I have the right to speak with the American Consul.'

This was in the nature of a test, for his interrogator had said nothing thus far to indicate he was aware of Nathan's true identity – or nationality. The fact that the guards had called him an English pig meant nothing. They would not distinguish between an American and an Englishman in such a context.

‘But I do not think the good Mr Devereux will wish to speak with
you
. Not when he hears of the charges against you. He is a man of strict moral principle and he has a beautiful daughter to protect from the likes of you. Lewd and offensive behaviour,'
he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Behaviour of a nature inclined to the perversion of public morals …'

‘Oh, for pity's sake, you would have to arrest half Venice.' A better argument occurred to him. ‘Certainly you would have to arrest half the foreigners who come here.'

‘You mean they do not come for the beauty of the place? For the architecture, for the paintings? “
To see the works of Titian and of Tintoretto, of Tiepolo and Bellini – as I do.
”'

His exact words to Devereux. So who had repeated them? A servant in the pay of Cristolfi, or the Consul himself?

‘I do not think he would be pleased to know you were arrested coming home from the Convent of San Paolo di Mare at dawn,' the Devil pointed out. ‘I do not think he would believe you had been there to pray.'

Nathan's head was beginning to hurt again. ‘So what do you want of me?' he enquired. ‘Am I permitted to see a lawyer?'

The Devil laughed. He appeared to be genuinely amused. Nathan remembered what Spiridion had told him about Venetian justice. And corruption.

‘Then, is there something I can offer in mitigation of my alleged offences?'

‘Attempt to bribe a senior official of the Republic? That, too, carries the death penalty.'

‘I do not believe I spoke of money. I spoke in a spirit of co-operation.'

‘Oh. Co-operation. Now, that is a very good word. Cooperation. Yes, I like the sound of that. And how are you prepared to co-operate, may I enquire?'

‘I expect you are going to tell me that.'

‘Indeed, I am. Very well.' He spoke in his own language to the guards and one of them brought a chair for Nathan to sit upon. ‘You can begin by telling me why you have come to
Venice. And do not tell me it is to see the works of Tiepolo and the rest.'

Nathan considered. Clearly, given Cristolfi's position and the power he held over him, it was futile to tell the story he had told the American Consul. But there was another that might serve almost as well.

So he embarked on the fiction he had prepared for Admiral Condulmer and rehearsed upon Sister Caterina, with some elaborations that had occurred to him since.

It was well-known that the government of the United States was much concerned by the atrocities committed upon their shipping by the Barbary pirates, he began. These rogues, many of whom were under the protection of the Bey of Algiers, were indiscriminating in their attentions, requiring only that their victims should be non-believers; since there was little in the way of Jewish, Hindoo or Buddhist shipping in the Mediterranean, these victims tended to be Christian, of one denomination or another.

The Devil leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, frowning a little, but Nathan could see he had his complete attention.

While regarding any Christian vessel as legitimate prey, Nathan continued, these jihadists of the sea were inclined to be more tolerant of vessels of those nations possessing a navy capable of inflicting retribution, either upon themselves or upon the ports and commerce of the Bey of Algiers, and by and large they extended a like dispensation to those whose governments paid an annual fee by way of exemption. The government of the United States, however, possessed not a single ship-ofwar, and were disinclined to pay a large tribute annually to men they regarded, not to put too fine a point on it and without disrespect to their professed religion, as a bunch of thieves and cut-throats. Unhappily for their merchant ships and the men
who sailed in them, this policy left them vulnerable to attack – and attacked they were. Their ships were boarded upon the high seas, their cargoes pillaged, the crews – and passengers if there were any – subjected to gross abuse and sold into slavery. The slave markets of Tunis, Algiers, Cairo and even as far distant as Constantinople and Baghdad paying a premium for healthy, fair-skinned males and an even greater amount for the female of the species, should they be so fortunate as to come by such a prize.

The Devil nodded comprehendingly and settled his long chin upon his fist.

Not surprisingly, Nathan continued, the government of the United States was much disturbed by this practice, but had failed to come up with a solution – until some enlightened diplomat in the service of President Adams had thought of seeking the protection of the Venetian Navy.

The Devil's eyes widened a little in surprise and enlightenment.

Encouraged, Nathan went on to explain that the Venetians, unlike the English, French and Spaniards, had no previous history with the American people that might, for reasons of national pride and honour, preclude such an arrangement, or make it a subject of critical debate in the American press. Besides which, the Venetian Navy in times past, under the leadership of Admiral Emo, had delivered such a blow to the pirates of Algiers that they had desisted in their attacks for many years.

And so it was decided to send an emissary to make discreet enquiries.

‘You?'

Nathan nodded. ‘It was thought advisable to keep my mission confidential,' he said, ‘for fear that it might come to the attention of the English.'

The Devil clapped his hands. A slow clap, with the rhythm of a dead march. ‘An excellent tale,' he declared. ‘I do not think there is a better in the
Thousand and One Tales of the Arabian Nights
. I congratulate you, sir. Were it my decision, I would almost certainly commute the death sentence to one of fifty years in the Doge's Prison, at the
Serenissima
's expense. But alas, I am a mere public servant, and my masters are less impressed by the fabrications of a plausible rogue.' He silenced Nathan's protest with a gesture. ‘Now you must listen to me, sir, for I must inform you that only the truth will save you, even if it is considerably less entertaining than what we have just heard.'

He signalled to his associates, who at once threw a loop of chain around Nathan's throat, making it impossible for him to execute the manoeuvre he had previously contemplated. He then spoke some words to them in their own tongue and Nathan was yanked to his feet and led from the room.

They took him up a short flight of steps and along a passage with two grilled windows on one side through which Nathan caught a glimpse of the lagoon and the island known as San Giorgio. This, then, must be the Ponte dei Sospiri, of which Spiridion had advised him – the Bridge of Sighs, which was used to take prisoners from the courtrooms of the Doge's Palace across the adjoining canal to the building known as the New Prison – though it had been built more than a century ago. These windows afforded the convicted felon his last sight of the outside world before his incarceration, hence the sighs.

For Nathan, however, the sight of the lagoon gave him more cause for hope than despair. Somewhere out there, just off the tip of the island, was the
Angelika
where his absence would now have been noted. It would not be long before Gilbert Gabriel, at least, began to question his whereabouts and to make strenuous efforts to find him. But would it lead him to the Doge's Prison?

They had reached a staircase with steps leading both up and down. With a small shove the guards indicated he should take the steps going down. They were steep and narrow and increasingly wet. The walls, too, were dripping. Nathan concentrated on not stumbling. When they reached the bottom, they proceeded along another corridor and through a door into a large, windowless room very like a cellar or storeroom. As Nathan's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out the shapes of several large pieces of equipment whose purpose was shockingly plain. He could even put names to some of them. The rack, the garrotte, the grid-iron – and a brazier for heating some of the other instruments that hung from hooks on the walls. The bile rose to his throat as he took them in. But on this occasion, at least, he was here only to look, and reflect. This was what awaited him should he fail to satisfy his grim interrogator.

A jerk on his chain and he stumbled back into the corridor, through another door and into – sunlight. A muted sunlight, admittedly, for it was a small courtyard enclosed on all sides by the walls of the prison. Even so, he gazed greedily up at the sky, squinting against the harshness of the light. He counted four floors, each marked by a row of square grilled windows – but not a sight nor sound of a single occupant.

They led him across the courtyard, past the cistern in the middle and through the opposite door into what was apparently the prison reception area. Here he was handed over to his new guardian, a man who bore as much resemblance to a toad as was possible, Nathan thought, whilst still remaining a member of the human race. He subjected Nathan to another search, though everything of use to him had been removed while he was still unconscious. Then, relieved of his chain and manacles, he was introduced to his new quarters – a dank cell of about three yards by four, whose only source of light was a small
window with an iron grille set high in one of the walls, its only furniture a wooden pallet resting on two stone plinths and a leather bucket. Despite the intense heat, the ceiling, floor and walls were running with damp and there was a tide-mark of mottled green-and-black slime up to a height of about two to three feet on the walls.