The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Malamocco sighed. ‘Jeez. Something’s really spooked this Valier, eh?’

‘Spooked? What sort of talk is that?’

Malamocco snorted, and carefully explained what it meant in the gutter language he shared with his fellow beggars and thieves. It was almost like a foreign tongue. I liked the sound of it, and decided I would have to learn some of it too.

‘Yes, he has been…spooked. So we must winkle him out somehow.’

‘Leave it to me, boss. Wait here.’

So saying, the boy disappeared round the corner of the building at top speed. Curious, I didn’t wait, but followed. When I turned the corner, he was nowhere to be seen. Until I felt something pattering down on my head from above. I looked up, and there was the rear end of Malamocco wriggling into an open upper window that I had hardly noticed on our reconnoitre of the place. I wanted to shout after him to take care, but I didn’t want to rouse the occupants of the house to his presence either.

Malamocco, on the other hand, obviously did. I was suddenly aware of a crash of furniture and a great cry of indignation, followed by the thump of running feet. Two pairs, one lighter-footed than the other. The front door burst open, and the small figure of Malamocco appeared, a purse clutched in his hand. He was hotly pursued by a red-faced Pasquale Valier whose purse he had clearly lifted right from under his nose. As the boy shot past me, I whipped my sword from its sheath, and used it to trip the unwary Valier. He sprawled at my feet, staring fearfully at the tip of the sword blade poking at his gut.

His cries were piteous as he grovelled in the dust, near pissing himself. ‘Oh, no. Please. Don’t kill me, don’t kill me.’

Then he looked up, and saw who it was wielding the sword. ‘Zuliani! What are you doing here?’

He cringed down on the beaten earth. If I hadn’t been so angry and jealous, I would have felt sorry for him. Something, or someone, had scared him stiff. As Malamocco would say, he was well and truly spooked. I pulled him up by his arm, and pushed him inside before he could protest any more. Malamocco followed me in, slamming the door behind him. He smirked, and dropped the purse into the astonished Valier’s palm.

‘Don’t think I couldn’t lift it without you knowing, pal. Ask Barratieri here. I done it to him.’

‘Barra…? Card-sharp?’

‘Never mind that, Pasquale. I’m not here to murder you, much as everyone seems to think otherwise.’ I slid the sword back in its sheath. ‘Just to talk.’

If anything, Valier looked even sicker at the idea of talking to me than he had at the imminence of death. An elderly servant scuttled into the hallway from the rear of the house, enquiring if his master was all right.

‘Yes, yes, Pietro. Make yourself useful, and bring some wine.’

The servant hurried away, returning with a pitcher full of good red Malvasia. He poured two goblets, studiously avoiding Malamocco’s outstretched hand. Valier seemed to be recovering his equanimity a little, but when he lifted the goblet of wine to his lips, I could see that his hand still trembled. Even though I felt like skewering him on the end of my sword, I wanted to know why he had done what he had done to get me accused of murder. And to find out if he knew who was actually guilty of the deed. He was my last chance of proving my innocence. The trouble was, Valier was less scared of me than someone else, it seemed.

When I asked why he had set me up, he shook all over, setting the goblet of wine down on the table before he spilled it. ‘Don’t ask, Nicolo. Please don’t get me involved. I just did what I was asked.’

‘And what was that? Who asked you?’

‘They approached me through my father. He would do anything to stay in with those in power. He asked me to find someone a bit…well, dodgy…and wager that he couldn’t rig the election for doge. I thought of you immediately.’

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or outraged, but told him to go on.

‘That’s all, really. Well, I was to introduce you to Lazzari also. That was part of it. I just thought they wanted to embroil Lazzari in a disreputable deal that would spoil his reputation. I didn’t know he would end up dead.’

His eyes widened, staring at the sword that hung at my waist still. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘You know I didn’t.’

He frowned, and that puzzled me. If he and Caterina had set me up by giving me the sword that was then identified as the murder weapon, why was he asking me if I was the murderer? Surely he knew I wasn’t.

‘You and Caterina set me up. Who was it really killed Lazzari?’

‘Caterina? The Dolfin girl? Have you not spoken to her? She sent for me yesterday to find out where you were. Though why she should want to ask me, I have no idea. Anyway, I said I couldn’t help, as you had gone to ground after the murder. Probably had already fled Venice.’ He frowned. ‘What has she got to do with the fix? I don’t follow. And as for who killed Lazzari, I think it was the same man killed di Betto.’

As he spoke, Valier went ghostly pale, and stared over his shoulder, as though scared someone might be eavesdropping. He leaned forward, and clutched at the sleeve of my mantle.

‘Forget I said that, Zuliani, and get away. Just go.’

I grabbed his wrist, and twisted it hard. ‘Why should I? Who killed di Betto? Did you witness it? You did, didn’t you?’

Valier jerked away from me, and vomited the wine in a thin, red spurt over the floor. He groaned, and wiped his mouth.

‘Yes, yes. OK, I wanted to be sure it was you killed Lazzari. Idle curiosity, really. Besides, the murder weapon would have been mine, if you had lost the wager. It would have been really something to have owned the sword that killed Domenico Lazzari. I wanted di Betto to tell me what he had seen. So I went to St Pantalon, and observed the family in prayer. When one of the congregation pointed out Lorenzo di Betto to me, I knew I had seen him before. At the swordsmith’s who engraved the inscription on your blade. He had been there when I picked up the sword. As I observed him in the church, he was passed a message. It seemed to agitate him, and he ran from the church. I followed him out of…’

‘Idle curiosity,’ I proferred, and he nodded.

‘God, I wish I hadn’t.’

Valier paused, wiped his mouth again, and reached for his wine goblet. Malamocco filled it for him, and he drank deeply. ‘If only I hadn’t seen what I did, I wouldn’t be scared to set foot outside the door.’

It seems that Valier followed Lorenzo di Betto into the gathering dusk of a Venetian evening. Mist was beginning to roll in from the lagoon, seeking its way like sensuously pliable fingers down the maze of canals. Di Betto’s route was circuitous, but eventually came out at a dead end on the southern side of the Grand Canal opposite the Chiesa degli Scalzi. Here Valier thought he would be defeated in his pursuit of di Betto, for a ferryman holding a lantern stood waiting in a small boat. Di Betto got aboard, and was ferried across the broad waters of the canal. On the far bank, a tall, swarthy man appeared out of the shadow of the church. He strode forward, and despite di Betto appearing to be reluctant to step ashore, the man grabbed his arm and pulled him up on to the bank. Valier watched by the light of the lantern as the person di Betto was meeting apparently punched him in the chest. It was only when he pulled his fist back that Valier realized the man had stabbed him.

The ferryman turned his head, ignoring di Betto’s cries of alarm, and poled rapidly away into the mist. So it was that Valier stood helplessly on the wrong bank as Lorenzo di Betto, already bleeding to death, had a cord pulled tight around his throat to finish him off. He could only watch as the life ebbed out of the unfortunate di Betto. Foolishly, Valier then cried out, and the assassin looked up, peering coldly across the stretch of water.