Episode 2: Venice - Part 1: Arrival

Episode Two: Venice

Part One: Arrival

I abandoned Ol Jimmy in the modern town of Mestre.

The modern Venetian mainland was, at the time, barely inhabited. History is unclear about how long this area has had people living in it. Legend has it that Mesthles, a companion and fellow fugitive of the Trojan War with the legendary founder of Padua, Antenor – a story for, perhaps not, another time. This is about as likely to be true as Vergil's account of how Aeneas seeded the Romans. It is interesting to see how people want to attach themselves to historico-legendary events from other cultures, especially older, evidently more superior, cultures than their own. But, whatever the case, there was enough of a settlement there that Ol Jimmy would find work – or his way home to Venice, if not.

He couldn't get me into Venice. I needed a boat for that. So, passage on a boat I found with the absolute, very last of my silver. We sailed south, on the darkening horizon, the red of the setting sun like a projection of my own apprehension into the very atmosphere. What was I going to do? What was I going to find?

My arrival in Venice was one of wonder.

I am not the one to tell you how Venice looked, how it felt to be on the waters that surround her, seeing the ships filling them. Many are those more capable than I, whose eye for architecture and geography, the spirit of the men and women who filled her walls, is better attuned to describe life in the city, to tell how alive she was. I can say this: I could feel it, as we approached – the sense of density, like Rome or Chicago must have felt right before their respective Fires. Except it was not a disaster I could sense looming in the future. This felt how a building, rigged for demolition, the TNT in place, the primer set, all that is left to happen is the switch flipped, the trigger placed, and then... boom. An explosion. But not a catastrophe – something else. Something like destiny just waiting to play out, the starter's gun just waiting to go off.

But it was wonder which gripped me on that short ferry trip. Wonder that this city could and should exist at all. How did people start coming here? And why? Of course it was the Huns they were running from. Maybe it was the very same people who occupied Roman Mestre, the settlement which was destroyed by the Huns. I try to imagine the danger, the threat of ultimate extinction, which must have caused these people to found a city on an island in a brackish lagoon. They can't have fresh water. They will run out of food readily enough, if they aren't prepared to fish and eat nothing but it. They have to have been excellent traders from the beginning.

And here they are now, just waiting for the heights of their power.

The city bustled around me, not a single person paying the least bit of attention to or even seeming to notice me. I climbed off the ferry, and that was that. I was almost disappointed. After the dreams, I'd half expected to find the streets empty, this close to dark. This did not seem to be the city I saw, plagued by a red-eyed lunatic.

I stand there, taking in the city. Not so much seeing it as letting it backdrop my visual plane. I am adjusting my worldview, if you like. When I had bothered to imagine what my arrival would be like at all, this was not it. I had imagined Peitho waiting for me once I stepped off the boat, or Metus – or the Master. But did that make sense? Would the School or Metus or even Peitho accost me in the street? Of course not. How could they even know I was here, yet? I have, I decide, probably the day and another night before anyone could conceivably catch me up. And by then, I could have this Pepin – if he existed. If he didn't... I'd have that too, if they found me.

I haven't decided yet what I think of the Rod. The sister, either, by the time my eye settles on an inn. Naturally there would be one so close to the ingress to the city. I make my way over to it, feeling a little stupid and a lot overwhelmed. I had allowed myself to wander into the darkest parts of my mind, to linger for a week on fears that have now proved unfounded. I feel like I am standing at the center of a hurricane, my very life swept up in the destructive winds. How much of the destruction had I cause in my panic at the sight of the storm? Did I need to be here at all? Could I not have just stayed and waiting it out?

No, I think. No I could not. Not if I wanted to live. Not if I wanted to retain my sanity.

The walk inside is a strictly metaphorical breath of fresh air from the chaos of the street. It is, however, a chunk of Order in its dark, putrescent way. It gives me something present and strictly real to focus on, too. I stand there a moment, drinking it in. dropping the thoughts that occupied my walk here like so much heavy luggage.

Turning eventually I find the innkeeper – a fat man, in keeping with custom – smiling politely at me. I return smile and walk over to him.

“You have any private rooms?” I ask.

“Aye. Upstairs,” he says with a nod.

“They lock?”

He nods.

Not the talkative sort. Excellent.

“I'm going to need one for a few days. I'm not sure how long.”

He blinks, nodding in combination, slowly.

“What brings ya t' town?”

Ah. Right. What had brought me, a Breton, to town – alone – looking like this?

My Venetian was not as good as my Genoese – so I spoke it instead.

“Visiting from Genoa,” I say, adding after a moment of the innkeepers unimpressed face, “I came with Ol' Jimmy.”

“Ol' Jimmy! Now, why didn't ya say so in the first place?” he laughs. “I'm Jacopo. You can call me Jac. No wonder you look n act half braindead, like ya can barely talk. I'm surprised you got a whiff o brains left in ya after – how long'd ya say? Genoa, what, eh, a week? When I fist saw ya, I thought maybe ya had only half ya marbles, staring into the room like that. But after a week with Jimmy, I bet you're all but talked to death.”

Oh. Shit. What have I done?

I think I liked him better when he thought I was an outlaw or a lunatic.

I smile and try to laugh. “Jimmy's a good guy. Expensive eater.”

This makes Jac laugh so hard he slaps his counter, doubling over behind it. I sidle over, amused how like a bar his setup is.

“That means you've got news?” I ask, tentatively. Not sure I want to hear the answer – either because my ears are already chewed to nubs or because of what I'll learn.

“Have I got news?” he recovers, chuckling. “You got an hour to listen?”

If he only knew.

“Is it good news?”

He looks at me a moment, appraisingly. “It could be worth your while.”

So not good. But news.

“You got something to eat?”

He reaches across his counter and slaps me amicably on the shoulder. “Have I got something to eat. You don't know where you are, friend! I've got the best pottage this side of—“

And I'd heard enough of that.

I go and make myself comfortable at a board against the wall with only two chairs. The innkeeper joins me a moment later with a bowl, some bread, and a candle. Pottage – it's what's for dinner.

“How long you been in Genoa?” he asks, arranging his load before me.

“Two years.”

“So you know that Berengar's nobles are rumblin? You familiar with Adalbert of Tuscany?”

I nod.

“Word is he's gonna allow western armies into Italy if they'll depose Berengar. Whoever wins, Adalbert'll vote king. First come, first served's what I hear. Speculation's that they'll come across the Alps to Pavia, the old Lombard capitol. Force Berengar to defend what's his or go someplace else to lose battles n wars n Italian sons. I heard Charles of the West wants Italy, and Rudolph and Louis of the Burgundies are either working with or racing him to it.”

Hm. The Alps. Pavia. Armies fighting in mountain valleys. Armies dying. “If Adalbert is against him,” I say with a shrug, “they all are.”

“True enough. Berengar is our king in title only, friend. Change is come to Italy.”

I'm looking at this dirty innkeeper, and I'm asking myself how a man like this knows so much of the politics of his world. There are no newspapers – he can't even read. No TV. Is this how he spends his time? And then it occurs to me: he doesn't need to know elites or politicians – he probably has friends and family who work for the elite of the city. This is not a kingship, where state secrets are held in an iron fist by a monarch and his administration, their secrets the source of their power. This is... something else. Not quite a Republic – yet – but still very much repuliblic-an.

“You seem excited,” I say at length. “When did Venice start thinking of itself as part of Italy?”

“I am excited, friend. Venice ain't a part of Italy. Not the Kingdom of Italy. But we're all Italians. And Venice ain't free, either. If Italy can be free of Berengar, then Venice can be free of Rome!”

“You don't like Rome's protection?” Why am I asking for more on this topic? I don't especially care. Local politics are for locals. And yet... I want to know. Genoa was boiling under with revolutionary desire – Hell, I'd been offered a kingship by one Genoese, and to be the King's Fool by another. Change, it seemed, was coming to Italy – and I felt like I was at the center of it – like, in fact, that change was the very hurricane destroying my life.

“Protection?” Jacopo asks, scoffing. “What protection? The Saracens don't bite so hard as we say or they would like to think. Sure, they bother y'ns over on the other side of the Boot. But it's been damn near a hundred years since Agnello Participazio was elected Doge and Venice was made a province of Rome. Eh, did you know that it was Venice that caused Charlemagen and the romans to come to peace? Pretty neat, eh? And the Magyars learned just exactly what Pepin learned a hundred years ago: attack Venice at your peril. We don't like the tributes Rome demands. Let our labor be our wealth as well.”

“A noble ideal,” I agree. Then I frown. “Pepin. You know about Pepin the Great?”

“Pepin the Great? Never heard nobody called that before. I was talkin about Pepin of Italy. Third son of Charlemagne.”

“I see. Then Venice is business as usual?”

“I wouldn't say that. There's been trouble, lately.” He lowers his voice, leaning across the board conspiratorially. “The last two nights, there's been girls killed. Cut up somethin awful-like.”

My heart is thudding in my ears.

Only the last two nights?

“Cut... up?” I manage to ask.

“Aye. Don't know what killed em. They was healthy, pretty young girls. Maybe fifteen. Found just dropped dead in the streets. No blood, no cuts, nothin. Just no life in em. But their eyelids – they was cut right out of their faces. Poor girls, just starin out of their dead heads. No peace, even in death.”

I swallow hard.

Only two. That means—

“And nobody knows who's doing it or why?”

“Why would somebody do something like that? And how? And just leavin em in the street to be found? Who does something like that? Leavin his evil deed for the world to find? It's almost like he wanted us to see their shame, somehow. Like he's sayin they seen somethin that dropped em dead with fear. Oh, there's the usual chatter. But it's only been two days. If it's a madman, it'll ramp up til he's stopped. Let's hope it's not a... cunning monster – if ya catch my meaning.”

I do catch his meaning, and I'm not sure I like it.

A cunning monster – a monster smart enough not to get caught.

I regard him a long moment. “There's wisdom in that, friend. Alas, I think I need the night to think on it.”

“You're one o them polite fucks, ain't ya? Barely even touched your food.”

I laugh. “That was meant as a compliment, friend. You've given me news to think about. I'll be here for a few days. We may have cause to discuss it further later. If you don't mind, I think I'll eat, then get that room from you?”

“Aye,” he nods. A good hospitalier knows when his company is no longer welcome and takes no offense at it. “You just let me know when you're ready to pay.”

I nod, eat in silence, and return to his counter several minutes later. He directs me to his rooms, tosses me a key, tells me which door it'll work for. I have by now spent all of the silver I'd brought with me. When I reach my hand into my pocket to dig out Peitho's gold, he interrupts.

“You know, I been thinkin. That name, Pepin the Great, I have heard it before. Didn't occur to me when we was talking, cus he ain't a historical figure or whatever. No king, if you catch my meanin. People been talkin about a man who come to town a few days ago. They call him Pepin the Great, ironic-like, you see? I guess he's a madman, thinks he's the rightful king of Italy. Ravin about how Venice is his by right, and we'll all see someday. You don't think.... You don't think he's—“

Before he can finish the thought, I toss him two of Peitho's coins, one after the other. What do they matter to me? He catches them easily. I watch as his eyes light up, then darken as he looks at them. An instant later, and they are disappeared. I turn to leave.

“Mister, this is too much,” the innkeeper calls behind me.

I smile to myself and keep walking. He'd probably never seen gold, let alone held it. What I'd just given him was enough to buy two more inns just like this one. I'd made him a rich man with a casual toss.

“Just wait a second! What did you say your name was? I gotta know who to thank for this.”

“Robert Longshore,” I respond without looking at him. “But you can call me Awen. Don't thank me. In fact, I think I have you to thank.”

“Yes... sir.”

I feel his eyes watching me long after I'm out of sight.

Eventually I find the room and let myself in. It's a small space, enough room for a poor bed and a little table with an unlit candle on it. There are likely only more candles in its drawer. Leaving the door unlocked, I drop myself onto the bed. On a whim, I pull one of Peitho's coins out to inspect it. What I find is not anything I might have expected.

I don't recognize the seal printed into the coin's faces. One side is a woman's face accompanied with words in a script I cannot read. The other is a serpent spiraling in three concentric rings. A cold chill passes through me. Something about what I'm looking at speaks to me of deep antiquity, a people lost to time.

What have I just done? I just gave a decidedly unique pair of coins to that innkeeper. He's definitely going to have something to talk to people about, now.

And I told him my name.

I'm dead for sure now.

As I'm thinking this and trying not to imagine the ramifications – the visitors I will no doubt receive in the night, come to take the rest of these coins and potentially my life – the door flies open, slamming against the wall.

I shoot to my feet. Peitho is standing in the doorway.

“What the fuck,” she seethes.

“Peitho,” I say, occulting my surprise and the coin at the same time. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

“You didn't expect to see me so soon,” she corrects, coming into the room and closing the door behind her.

“That, yes." The two of us are standing in this small rented room, less than a handful of feet separating us. The awkwardness is palpable. "I figured I'd have at least a couple days' head start on you.”

“What the Hell do you think you're doing?” Peitho's hands are on her hips. Her hips are cocked, her head angled the opposite direction.

“That's my line,” I say.

She stops, blinks. “Your— What?”

“Like we're in a play. You know. You said my line. What, am I just going to stare at you and say the same thing?”

She frowns at me. She thinks I'm not taking her seriously.

“Why did you run?”

I sit slowly on my rented bed, looking up at her in an effort both to determine whether getting comfortable will get me dead and to encourage her to chillax a little.

“I told you. I'm not tangling with the Venatores Malefecarum. I decided that leaving Genoa on my own terms was a better idea - for me,” I say, adjusting my jacket and hat.

“You decided? You do not get to decide these things. Have you learned anything? Is he in Venice?”

“I'm not sure,” I admit. “I think so.”

“What does that mean? You must have some reason to be here. You didn't just come here at random.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't.”

“Is that all you're going to tell me? I paid you good—“

“You certainly paid me well, that's for sure. But I don't know how much good your coin is going to do me. What the fuck are these?” I pull out the coin and hold it up so she can see the serpent coiling around its rear face. “Where did you get this?”

“Don't worry about that.”

“I think I am going to worry about that! You're going to get me killed with these.”

“If you can't handle yourself, that is not my problem. My problem is finding my sister. And you are not exactly being helpful in that endeavor.”

“Am I not?” I laugh. “I brought you to Venice, didn't I?”

“Indeed, you seem to have. The Plant – you used it?”

“Yeah. I did. How did you—?”

“You did not wait for my return or tell me in any way that you were leaving. A girl could get the idea that you're trying to get rid of her.” Her words and her tone are teasing, even playful. Her eyes are neither of those things. Her eyes say she wants to kick me in the stomach and be done with this.

“Where would she get that? Was it when I said you brought a Iustitiarius to my door, or when you told me not to contact you?”

“I said I would come to you.”

“And here we are. What's the difference? If Metus walks through that door, you've killed me either way. How did you get here so fast, anyway?”

“It wasn't that hard,” she says with a shrug.

“Yeah, I want to know how.”

“You just want to test me—“

“Because you're a woman?" I snap, allowing my frustration to show in my voice. "Only girls think that way. If I'm testing you – which I'm not – it's to determine your veracity. Don't be stupid. I want to know how.”

She regards the coin in her hand, then gazes hard into my eyes. “I followed your money trail.”

Liar.

I don't like how simple her explanation is.

If that's true, how well did you avoid Metus?

Or did you kill him, too?

Did you kill Francis and Regina?

How would I feel to learn the answer?

I hadn't used any of her gold on the way over here. ...Had I?

She flashes me eight gold coins.

How is that possible?

“But how did you know where to start?” I almost add, I thought our route was pretty clever.

“I know everything about you, Robert. The way you think, everything. It was not hard to imagine that you would avoid the pilgrim roads, but would want to stay at or near a road of some sort. It is dangerous for two men to traverse the wilderness alone – regardless of the habits of bandits. After looking south, the rest was easy.

“Even so. Here we are. It's your move.”

“You haven't answered my original question: What the Hell do you think you're doing?”

I was pissing her off. She's always pissed off and I'm here. Six of one....

“I was trying to avoid you.”

“No. Liar. You are trying to hunt Pepin the Great for yourself because you think you can steal my prize and use it to claim the reward of my mother.”

Does everything she says seem sexual? Or is it just me?

“Part of that crossed my mind. But, really, it has nothing to do with you.”

“How can you say this?”

“I have to if I'm going to keep you from getting me killed! Dammit, girl – he's in the city. I think he's been using the... Rod... to—“I say this, but mumble it to nothing.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. It's hard to say. I think he's been killing girls in the city. I'll know for sure if he kills tonight.”

“Tonight? How long have you been here, and you know this?”

“It's all anyone can talk about, apparently. I didn't even have to look. Anyway, I only talked to one person, yet. The innkeeper.”

We say these last two words together in eerily perfect sync.

“I see you do know him.”

She sniffs. “It makes sense. So, again I ask, what the Hell are you doing? Why are you not going after him?”

“What, I'm going to stalk the streets at night? Peitho, there's a madman on the loose killing young women.”

“Are you a young woman?”

“No."

"Then you should not be in any real danger from him, should you not?"

"But if I'm found wandering the streets at night, especially if he's decided to take your arrival as his cue to get the fuck out of town, then I'll be blamed.”

“There are plenty of foreigners in Venice. Why would they assume that you are the killer?”

“Why would they not? They catch me out stalking— You know what?” Before I can clue her in, she interrupts me.

“All the more reason to provide me with his location.”

“Then how about you stalk the streets like a lunatic! You'd at least be better bait. And if you can't defend yourself from him—“

“Do not worry about that.”

I take a deep breath and loose a long sigh through my nose.

“If you had just told me—“ she starts, but I interrupt her.

“If I had just told you, there is a very good possibility I would be dead right now.”

"You fear this priest. You should not."

"But you didn't see him."

There are certain details of any story which one might prefer to share for a variety of reasons. This is one of those. I knew what my voice was going to sound like. Indeed, I heard the emotion, I heard the foreboding sort of plea I was making. I said it, althought for my fear of ridicule I might have.

My fear is warranted.

"How fearsome could a priest be?" Peitho scoffs. "Are you a coward, sorcerer? Is this why you run, scared, like a rabbit between warrens? Are you not a fox? Sly and wise, brave and cunning? Or have I turned to a meek and helpless bunny to save my sister?"

Peitho is all lithe edges and taut curves. Her face gone from disgust to revelation to encouraging to challengin, her features flowing from one emotion to the next like water through nation-state borders. But her eyes are and remain only fierce - challenging.

I roll my eyes - because, what, I'm just going to jump up to defend this assault on my masculinity? I don't care what she thinks of me. I especially don't care whether she thinks I'm a fox or a rabbit - rabbits have survived a lot longer as a species than idiots who respond to everything by escalating violence. And I definitely didn't care what she thought of Metus. She hadn't seen him. His terrible crucifix like a promise of the suffering to come rather than a reminder of that of the Christ-god.

"He calls himself Metus," I say.

This catches Peitho off-guard. Her face becomes a confusion of confusion and concern.

"Metus? Dread? What kind of Christian would choose for themselves that name?"

"Right. What kind of Order of them?"

"Do not be foolish. The Venatores Malefecarum are gone. Barely even a memory to history." Peitho considers me a moment, then asks: “You believe that priest more than you believe me?”

Now that's a question to ask. It sounds more like she's asking whether I fear him more than her.

“When you're caught between a rock and a hard place,” I sagely say, “I find it's best to find somewhere else to be.”

“Why? Why not let me handle him? I said that I would protect you.”

“Protect me! You're going to kill me if I don't help you, but protect me if I do? That's a... lot to accept on faith, Peitho.”

“Then why?”

“Plausible deniability.” I sound rational, even clever, in my ears. I'd had long enough to convince myself that this was, indeed, the reasonable decision – that I hadn't actually been running away from my problems, taking a convenient excuse to leave the boredom of Genoa behind for the unknown potential of Venice – that finding Pepin's trail had been something more than a fortuitious accident.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if I don't wait around for you to show up at my door, that priest can convince himself that I'm helping him.”

“And you can convince yourself that you actually are helping me.”

“Something like that.”

“You are an infuriating man, Robert Longshore.”

“You sound like my wife.”

“I'm sure I sound like all the women who have known you!” Peitho fumes. She takes a breath, calming herself. “Do you have any plan to actually search for him while you are in town, or are you still hiding out from your priest?”

“I hadn't really thought about it. It's late. The only thing I've considered since coming here is getting some rest. Tomorrow is another day. I'm sure I'll have to do something with it.”

“That is not acceptable to me, Robert.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Suddenly she has me by the collar of my linen shirt, and she's pulling me to my feet – holding me with my face uncomfortably close to hers. All I can see are the emeralds of her eyes. I can feel her breath on my mouth, uncannily cool. I am not afraid, but, again, I am impressed with her strength.

“I'm going to hurt you if you don't stop toying with me,” she whispers. “This is more important than you are evidently able to understand.”

I wrap my hands around her wrists. Slowly she unballs her fists and releases me. Casually, I sit back down.

“You say that,” I admit, “and maybe it's true. Maybe it's not. I have an avenue to explore. You say that you don't need my help to find him, if I just tell you where he is, right? Well, I have good reason to believe he is in Venice. Go find him yourself.”

“I did not pay you so I could find him myself.”

“You paid me to learn what I could. I learned that he's in Venice.”

“Then you spoke with your Guide?”

I say nothing. Instead I watch her face. She seems almost... excited. Girlish, in her anticipation.

“No,” I eventually admit. I'm not sure it's not a lie, but I am sure it's true enough.

Peitho makes a noise in her nose, frowning and looking away from me for a moment. Then she asks:

“Where? Where are you going to search?”

“Don't worry about it.” I give her a half-grin.

“And I have your word that you will find him tomorrow?”

I shrug. “If you need me, you know where to find me. Tomorrow. Night. If he's in the city, I will find him. It's what I do. Then I'm done. Out. No more.”

“Fine. Deal. And if he is not?”

“We will discuss that eventuality, that inevitability, when we get to it. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to lay in the dark and try not to have another nightmare.”

Peitho evidently does not know what this means. She nods, seems to think for a few seconds, then turns for the door. “Find him, and Mother will make you rich beyond your wildest imaginings.”

When she has opened it and stepped into the hallway, I call out to her.

“Tell your Mother I'm going to need more than gold and threats if I'm going to play along with your little game.”

She looks at me over her shoulder. “What do you want?”

“I guess you'll have to figure that out for yourself.”

I wink.

She slams the door.

I chuckle to myself and try to get comfortable enough for sleep. Which, as it turns out, doesn't take long at all.

Sometimes there's nothing we can do but wait.