Dona frowned. “What books?”

The vizio bowed. “Your Excellency will recall that at the meeting of the Ten at which I had the honor of reporting on the suicide of Alexius Karagounis, His Serenity inquired what had happened to the books exhibited at this address on the night of the thirteenth. Acting on instructions from Missier Grande, I examined the literary material I had removed from the deceased’s residence. I identified all the antique papers and submitted them for His Serenity’s inspection. He ordered that they be kept in secure storage until the Council of Ten could make determination of their ownership, but he also confirmed that one was missing, a unique copy of a lost work by Euripides. His Serenity described it as ‘priceless’.”

His Excellency muttered, “Bloody books,” under his breath. “Go on.”

Vasco continued, smiling at me all the time. “I went upstairs, Your Excellency, to the Leads, where the manservant Guarana was being interrogated. I added the missing book to the list of questions he was required to answer.”

“And what did he say?”

Pulaki had crept closer and now fell on his knees, groveling before the inquisitor. “I said everything, Your Excellency, everything I know! You think I would have not told about a stupid book when they were doing such things to me?”

“What he claimed,” Vasco said happily, “was that the deceased, Alexius Karagounis, was working with that very manuscript at the time I called on him in the company of sier Alfeo Zeno. I recall clearly that there were papers on his desk. When the spy jumped out the window, I ran downstairs with my men. Regrettably, I left Zeno there unsupervised.”

“I couldn’t run,” I said. “I had a sore leg.”

Everyone ignored that.

“When I returned,” Vasco continued, “both Zeno and the papers had gone. I accuse NH Alfeo Zeno of stealing a document that the doge himself describes as priceless.”

This was obviously my cue to do some fast talking, but I felt as if I were standing on mist. “Oh come, Filiberto, you can’t hang me any higher for priceless than you can for just pricey.”

“You admit your guilt?”

“Never! What His Serenity told me was that it was worthless. He cancelled his bid for it.”

“But you did steal it?”

“No, I did not.” That was true. I had been bewitched into taking it. Regrettably, that would not be a promising line of defense. “I suggest you dredge the canal for it. The entire window had gone and there was a strong wind blowing. We were up high, remember? Papers were whirling around when I left. Besides, if you torture a man he will say anything he thinks will make you stop. Can you read and write, Pulaki?”

Wide-eyed the boy said, “No, messer.”

“But you can identify an antique Greek document lying on a desk, seen casually from across a room, when you are standing behind four other men?”

“Messer, they were crushing my fingers in the pilliwinks! Bone by bone…”

“No more questions,” I said. “If they did that to me, I’d confess to burning the Library of Alexandria.”

Vasco widened his leer by four teeth. “You removed nothing from the desk before leaving the room?”

“No,” I said. The Jesuits lost a great casuist in me. I had not removed nothing.

But I was not a good enough liar to deceive the vizio. He had me cornered and knew it. No one would ever believe I had burned the book. Even the Maestro could not testify on oath that he knew for certain what he had seen me cast into the fire. I had told him it was the Meleager, but I could have been lying. I was doomed and if he tried to support me, he would be doomed too.

The vizio glanced around. “Where is our host? Lustrissimo, will you please bring a Bible or some holy relic so that sier Alfeo can give us his sacred oath?”

Even if I perjured my immortal soul, he could still arrest me.

The Maestro said, “Have you a home to go to tonight, Pulaki?”

The footman was almost out of his mind with terror. He took a moment to find the speaker and understand the question, but then he shook his head. “I am from Mestre, lustrissimo. I have no money for a gondola.”

“Your Excellency,” the Maestro said, “this man needs medical attention. Will you release him into my custody for tonight, please? As a personal favor?”

The old rascal was taking a serious risk by coming to my rescue, which is what he was doing, because Marco Dona was another politician who knew how deals were made. He looked from the Maestro to me and back again. He could guess where the book had gone and he knew who collected books. He also knew that Pulaki was merely a decoy and I was the real favor being requested. If I were put to the question, by morning I could be made to confess to eating the Library of Alexandria and would implicate my master and everyone I knew. I would say anything at all to make the pain stop. If the inquisitor wanted to, he could take this chance to retaliate against the man who had forced him to destroy his friend Enrico Orseolo.

I’m sure he thought of it, but he didn’t do it. “And then, I suppose you will send the Republic a bill for medical services?”

The Maestro winced. “No bill, Excellency.”

Dona nodded, satisfied. Who cared about a moldering old manuscript? This was a way to reward the Maestro for service to the state without cost and without the embarrassment of having to admit what service had been provided. “Take him. Send someone to the palace tomorrow and we will issue a release. Vizio, you cannot accuse sier Alfeo on such flimsy evidence.”

Filiberto Vasco flushed scarlet and showed us every last one of his teeth. They were nice, strong teeth. I thought he was going to sink them in my throat.

“We can interrogate him!”

Dona scowled. “Are you telling me how to do my job, boy?”

Vasco crumpled. “Of course not, Your Excellency!”

I was saved. Christoforo and Corrado were standing in the doorway with eyes and ears wide open. They are not as stupid as they often pretend.

“Tell Bruno it’s time to go home,” I told them. “And warn your father we have an extra passenger.”

27

B y the time we reached the Ca’ Barbolano, another winter squall was thrashing the city, hurling rain in faces. Pulaki had succumbed to an ague, a reaction to the end of his ordeal. I had to help him up the stairs. Giorgio and his sons stayed behind to stow the oars and cushions and lamps in the androne. Bruno ran all the way up with the Maestro on his back, and had to wait for me to arrive with the key, because everyone else had gone to bed.

We took Pulaki into the atelier and put him on the examination couch. I lit lamps while the Maestro dosed him with laudanum and proceeded to unwrap the bandage on his mutilated hand. Two fingers were so horribly crushed and swollen that the only thing to do was apply leeches and wait to see if they could reduce the swelling.

“Did they do anything else to you?” I asked.

He mumbled about his back, so I helped him out of his doublet and shirt to uncover a bandage adhering to three circular burns where the torturers had branded him. Only time was going to heal those, but the Maestro did the best he could with ointment and a fresh bandage. Eventually he managed to pick some fragments of bone out of the crushed fingers and splint the entire hand. By that time the laudanum had put Pulaki almost into coma, and I thought I would have to go and waken Bruno to move him. We managed, though, the two of us reeling across the salone like a drunken snake.

When I had made him as comfortable as he could be in the guest bedroom, I went to check on the Maestro, who was not far off having a reaction himself. It had been a strenuous night for the world’s most sedentary scholar.

As I was helping him into bed, I said, “A remarkable performance, master.”