Dennis Wheatley - The Rape Of Venice

To the Captain's questions he replied that his name was Breuc, that he had been born in Strasbourg but had lived the greater part of his life in Paris, and he had little difficulty in convincing his questioner that he was a Frenchman.

This relieved him of his worst anxiety, and he felt that he was now well on the way to getting out of the very nasty scrape in which he had landed himself. But, next moment, to his dismay and alarm, he heard the Provost-​Marshal say to the two magistrates that, as the accused was not a member of the French armed forces, the case was outside his province.

The to Italians then took over, and a sharp argument ensued between them. Again Roger's hopes were raised for a moment, by hearing the young magistrate with the fanatical eyes declare that they were not there to protect the wives of rich ex-​senators from their would-​be lovers and that the prisoner had been punished enough for his prank. But the older man retorted sharply that, all men being equal, all had a right to equal protection from the law. Then, with what Roger felt sure was special pleasure in for once having a free hand to punish a Frenchman, he snapped at him:

'The charge of theft remains unproved. Your method of pursuing your amorous designs, although reprehensible, is no business of this court; but that you have wantonly assaulted a peaceful citizen and his servant is beyond dispute. We order that you be confined to prison during the pleasure of the Municipality.'

Shaken to the core by the possible implications of such a sentence, Roger was led away. He had escaped death at Malderini's hands by calling on the soldiers for help, but was to be imprisoned for an indefinite period. There raced through his mind the awful fate that had in certain cases befallen men so condemned. Without friends to petition for their release, they had been forgotten and left for years to rot in the dungeons of such prisons as the Bastille and the Leads. Many must have died from debility or despair, but some, owing to a new Governor of the prison being unable even to learn the crime for which they had long ago been incarcerated, had been released, old, feeble, half-​blind and with beards down to their waists.

This nightmare possibility filled him with such dread that he hardly noticed where he was being taken until his guards having marched him up a long flight of stairs, turned with him into a narrow passage with an abrupt upward slope. It was only by noticing that both walls had perpendicular slits in them to let in daylight, and that on reaching the top of the slope, the passage beyond sloped downward with equal steepness, that he realised that he was crossing the Bridge of Sighs.

Two minutes later he had entered the Leads. He was taken down a spiral staircase and along a gloomy passage made from rough hewn stone blocks; a stout wooden door was opened, and he was thrust inside a cell. He glimpsed a wooden bench, some rusty chains fixed to staples in the wall, then the door was swung to and locked, leaving him in total darkness.

Groping his way to the bench, he sat down upon it and sank his head in his hands. He felt now that he might have done better to take his chance with Malderini. Death, even a painful one, would have been better than the appalling empty, hopeless future which he felt now faced him.

Suddenly he began to shiver. His clothes had still been wringing wet when he had been brought to the Doge's Palace. The midday heat of August which penetrated its courts and rooms had been sufficient to prevent his feeling any discomfort during the hour he had been in them. But down in the dungeons there reigned the cold of a perpetual winter. It dawned on him that if he let his damp clothes dry on him he would catch a chill which would probably result in his death from pneumonia within a week. Urged to it by the instinct of self-​preservation he stripped to the skin, laid out his clothes on the dusty floor, then flailed his arms and beat his body all over with the flat of his palms to restore his circulation.

He kept at it until he was exhausted, and the violent activity took his mind temporarily off his frightful situation. But as he sank down on the bench again, the highlights of the trap in which he had helped to catch himself impinged upon him with renewed force.

He had no friends in Venice to whom he could appeal for help, even if he could get a message out, except John Watson; and to have disclosed his association with the British Consul would have been fatal. The Municipality had no reason to accord him a quick release. On the contrary, as he was believed to be a Frenchman, spite would influence them to leave him there indefinitely. There remained Malderini. It seemed just possible that when he had recovered his sight, he might press for some more definite penalty. That would lead to the prisoner being brought before the court again, and at least give him another chance to appeal to the French authorities for protection. But why should Malderini take such a step? What better revenge could he hope for than to have his enemy left to rot in one of the lower dungeons of the Leads? Surely he would use such influence as he had to prevent the case ever being raised again, so that after a few months the prisoner would become only a number in a cell and all else about him be forgotten.

Some hours later, the door of the dungeon opened, a bearded jailer set down inside it a jug of water, a hunk of bread and a crock containing a few spoonfuls of luke-​warm vegetable stew. By then, although from time to time Roger had endeavoured to warm himself up, he was blue with cold; so he eagerly snatched at the blanket that the jailer, with a surprised look at his nakedness, threw to him. The door slammed and once more the darkness of perpetual night shut out his grim surroundings.

After rubbing himself fiercely with the blanket, as though it were a towel, he wrapped it round him, and cautiously felt about until he could find and eat his meagre supper. His clothes, he found, were nearly but not quite dry; so, still wrapped in the blanket, he lay down on the bench and pulled them on top of him for extra warmth.

The night seemed endless. At times he dozed, but he never fell properly asleep and for hour after hour remained semiconscious of his physical discomfort and hopeless situation. It was not until the jailer brought another skimpy meal that he realised morning had at last come. After eating it he dressed again in his now dry clothes, then sat huddled on the bench staring into the darkness.

Hours later, as it seemed to him. but actually about nine o'clock, he received a visit from the head turnkey. This functionary knew nothing of the crime for which he was imprisoned or of how long he was likely to remain; his sole interest being in whether Roger had money, or friends who would find it on his behalf, to pay for various privileges such as better food, a light, writing materials and books to read.

When Roger had been searched his money-​belt had not been taken from him and in it were twenty-​six sequins, so he felt a natural impulse to jump at the chance of securing these amenities: but the caution inherited from his Scots mother saved him from being too badly swindled. By hard bargaining he reduced the turnkey's extortionate demands to the still extravagant figure of a sequin-​which was about nine shillings-​a day for better food, rush lights that would last eight hours, two extra blankets, and a book to be changed twice a week.

The book brought to him was Dante's Divina Comedia, which was long enough to hold his interest for many hours, and his improved ration was to include a litre a day of cheap wine; so at the thought of this new dispensation his spirits revived a little. But only temporarily, as these small comforts could do nothing to improve his future prospects, and those filled him with abysmal depression. There seemed no reason why the Municipality should release him and every reason why Malderini should use all the influence he had to keep him there. In less than a month, unless he were to forgo the better food and books so that he could prolong his purchase of rush lights, the awful darkness would close about him for good.