~ Italian Proverb
Venice 1643
The day after meeting Brother Mario, Imbroglio arrived early at his bolt-hole – a second set of lodgings in the German quarter. The snow had stopped, but the pale winter sun was out and the place stank. It was above the night-soil collector, who took the human refuse by boat and dumped it at sea, out of the reach of men’s noses and away from the tidal flow into Venice. Though these lodgings lacked luxury, and were devilish damp, this place afforded him the privacy he wanted. On the top floor, with a sturdy door and a good firm mortise lock.
He had a semblance of luxury at the Palazzo Dario, but here the stink would certainly put off all but the brave-hearted. Imbroglio tried not to inhale. With luck and a following wind he’d be gone by summer. Thank God, he thought, because it would be unbearable here then. He thrust the shutter open to get some air, but banged it shut again as the stench increased.
Here, he was only Antonio Imbroglio, a poor pilgrim visiting San Marco. A crucifix was displayed prominently on the wall, for the sole benefit of the daily woman Signora Cicerone.
He peered out through the striated light of the shuttered window.
A few muffled-up street urchins were hanging on the corner hoping for work on the canal. They’d ignored him as he passed, as not rich enough to bother pestering. He enjoyed the switch of personalities – that one day he could be the count’s advisor, Signor Moretti, nobleman and Doctor of Law, parading in his fur-lined cloak, and another day, Antonio Imbroglio, the man who looked like a beggar.
Now to check the contents of his trunk, a nondescript looking cask covered in scuffed leather, of the type a poor traveller might use. All the accoutrements of his assassin’s trade were here. He heaved open the domed lid and brought out the contents one by one.
Picklocks, gloves, razor and whetstone, a pistol with a walnut handle, his good duelling sword.
He paused. Beneath lay the souvenirs of those he’d killed. Time was, he could draw out each object – each precious gold watch, each diamond-fobbed seal, each ’broidered kerchief – and remember the face.
Now there were so many it was a mere heap of scrim-shaw.
He ran a thumb softly over the edge of the razor. It would need to be sharpened. He’d vowed not to use the damn thing here in Venice; it was there only for emergency. But things had gone wrong, so now he’d have to re-think.
Curse Count D’Ambrosi. He shouldn’t have taken him on at cards. He should have realized the best gamblers in Europe were here in Venice at the Ridotto, and the stakes high. To his humiliation, Count d’Ambrosi had beat him playing Gillet and emptied him out. It looked bad, especially if he wanted a stake in the observatory – the biggest waste of money in Venice.
He began to sharpen the razor, thinking he’d be better off to sharpen his skills at cards. Meanwhile, thank God for Brother Mario and his pound of gold lira.
This time would definitely be the last, he swore to himself, because now, thanks to that measly monk, he was onto something. Tomorrow, he’d find out if Agnese di Napoli, formerly Agnese de Verdi, could shed any light on the whereabouts of Giulia Tofana and her Aqua Tofana. The thought of it quickened his pulse.
He liked to make people talk— before they were consigned to a place where they would never speak again. And imminent death was a marvellous incentive to loosen the tongue.
The rasp of the whetstone grew rhythmic in the quiet of the room.
Thank you for hosting me!
Deborah
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Thank you so much for hosting my extract!
ReplyDeleteYou're very welcome, Deborah. It's always a pleasure to host you and your wonderful novels. :-)
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