Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'Signor, in the name of the Serene Republic of Venice, you will accompany us.' He clapped his hands and the arrows were drawn back inside. Then he pointed at the ferrymen and crooked his finger once. Without another word he ducked back inside the cabin and the gondoliers began to row his craft off down the canal in the direction of the Quartarolo Bridge. The ferrymen, white as geese, had brought us to a stop and a gondola had come alongside. Its bow-man had grabbed the side of the ferry, and held out his hand to me. For one moment I considered jumping overboard, but pictured arrows slicing into me as I flailed in the water. So I took the bow-man's hand and stepped across. My host took up his bow once more and indicated that I was to sit in the prow, outside the cabin. As soon as I had settled myself we began to make our way, the boat in front setting a regal pace, and I feeling like a crippled sparrow surrounded by a flock of hungry crows.

The Rialto boat-bridge was opening for us, the bridge-men heaving on their ropes while the curses of indignant citizens rained down upon them. I saw fear upon their faces as we passed by with our escort.

Then followed an eternity drifting in the flat Venetian light, until we rounded the last gentle sweep of the canal and the columns of the Piazzetta hove into sight, the exuberant domes of San Marco behind them; and beyond the church the palace-fortress of the Doges. Now the walls of the palace were slipping past, heavy and glowering. At last we turned and nosed into the narrow canal that ran along its western side. The gondolas fell behind us, all but the leader, which slowed, turned to the left, and seemed to disappear into the wall. The bow-man muttered something under his breath, and the gondolier heaved us around and we glided under a high, massive archway.

We were in a sort of roofless, water-floored room, arcaded on three sides, with steps of white marble that led down to the water's edge. The big gondola pulled up to a mooring pole and the black-clad man slipped from his cabin and jumped lightly on to the nearest step. He gestured brusquely towards us, and the gondolier brought our craft in behind the other and held her steady as the bow-man stood up and nodded to me to go ashore. I stepped out, knowing that I made the gondola rock clumsily beneath me, and feeling the eyes of the Doge's men upon me. As soon as my feet touched dry ground, it seemed, a small company of armed men, all wearing the same red and white livery sported by my escort, appeared from among the columns and stood to attention. I followed the man in black, for I had no choice, as he stalked through a huge, balefully iron-bound door and into a long, torch-lit hallway, something like the hall of the Ca' Kanzir, but far bigger, grander and gloomier. The walls were bedecked with the trophies of war: shields, some very old and archaic in shape, some familiar, others strange and barbarous. There were swords, lances and mail coats, and here and there old banners hung, some torn and stained. It was a display calculated to humble anyone who beheld it, and I felt the last remnants of my courage give way like a walnut in a vice. Behind us marched the men-at-arms. I could hear the leather of their equipment creak softly in the thick, warm air.

The silent man in the black robe led us to the end of this corridor, up a short flight of stairs, down another corridor, this one lit by many windows, up more stairs until we came at last to an ornate stone doorway over which presided a carved image of the winged lion of Venice. The door swung inwards and the man stalked inside. I followed, not before snatching a look over my shoulder at the expressionless faces of the men-at-arms. We had entered a quite small room lit by a long row of windows that faced west. There was a long view of the Molo and the wharfs, the tip of the island and the hazy lagoon beyond, islets dotted here and there on the water. From this height the masts of the ships tied up along the Molo were a dense forest, thick as the bristles on a boar's back. That was my world, down there. I doubted I would ever feel the deck of a ship beneath my feet again.

I found myself looking down a long table of dark wood. Three men in red robes sat on either side, and at the end, on a throne of red and gold, sat the Doge of Venice, Giacomo Tiepolo himself. He too wore a long red robe, and on his head perched a strange hat of gold and silver, part crown, part bishop's mitre. He was not a young man, and his face showed the signs of hardship as well as privilege. Indeed all the men at that table had the hard faces of sailors and soldiers and the cunning eyes of merchants. The black-robed man indicated that I should stand at the foot of the table.

'Signor Petroc of Auneford, Your Excellencies’ he said, and stepped off to the side. In truth, I was so dismayed by everything around me that I was not particularly surprised when he spoke my name. Spies, spies everywhere. 'Signor, do you know why you stand before the Signoria of the Republic?' asked one of the seated men. His mouth snapped shut and he leaned back. Seven pairs of eyes bored into me. There was no hostility, merely an awful intent, a razor-edged scrutiny, as if I were a stanza of Catullus being analysed by Sorbonne grammarians. Well, I…'I floundered.

Why did you come here? What business do you have with the Serenissima?' enquired another man. It was plain that he knew very well what my business was. I took a deep, queasy breath. I… I sought an audience yesterday’ I stammered, trying to sound calm. 'But I do not believe I gave anyone my name… If I have transgressed or… or broken some protocol, I humbly beg the council's pardon.'

We have your name from a trusted source’ the man interrupted, and made a swift, neat gesture to the guards. I tensed, expecting them to come for me, but instead they opened a door that was cleverly hidden in the panelling of the room. A thickset man in clothes of a smouldering, ruby-red silk stepped into the chamber.

'Messer Nicholas Querini’ drawled one of the councillors. 'Is this the man you know as "Petroc of Auneford"?'

Querini gave me a casual glance. 'No, your honour, I know him as Petrus Zennorius’ he said, his voice making it plain that he cared not one whit about me or my names.

'An alias? Ach, how tedious. Sit down, Messer Nicholas. I am sure you have far more important things to do, but if you might offer a few minutes to the Republic

'I have already offered her my life,' said Querini smoothly, 'and so another few minutes are gladly given.' He took the proffered seat, at the corner of the table next to the Doge's right shoulder, and leaned back, the picture of ease.

'Messer Nicholas has just returned from Constantinople,' said the councillor who had first spoken. 'He brought news that certain interests were at work there, interests with the intent to harm the Serene Republic's efforts to aid the most Christian Empire of the Latins in their struggle against the Greeks.'

Your name was brought up in connection with this’ said another councillor. Your name, but more particularly that of one Michel de Montalhac, known to many as Jean de Sol. You are an associate of this man.' 'I am’ I said, drawing myself up as straight as I could.

'It is our understanding that de Montalhac is no longer a threat to us. Is that not so, Querini?'

Querini nodded, and steepled his fingers upon his chest. He stared at me like a well-fed tomcat. Just so’ he said. 'De Montalhac, or de Sol, will not trouble the Republic further’

I opened my mouth to speak, but paused, for I heard the Captain's voice very distinctly within my skull: 'Pay attention!' I shut my mouth again, and took a deep breath.

'He was seeking to defraud the empire of its most valuable possessions’ Querini was saying. 'Claiming the authority of the Holy Father and of King Louis of France. It was audacious, I will grant you, but if the empire was not in such a lamentable state he would have had no chance at all. As it was