Marco Barbarigo looked surprised, then grave. ‘Ah. Then you have not yet heard the news.’
‘What news?’
‘Emilio is dead!’
‘What?’ Silvio, as always, was irritated that his older and more powerful cousin should be better informed than he was. ‘How?’
‘I can guess,’ said Grimaldi, bitterly. ‘The Assassino.’
Marco looked at him sharply. ‘It is so. They pulled his body out of one of the canals late last night. It must have been in there for – well, for long enough. They say he’d swollen up to twice his usual size. That’s why he floated to the surface.’
‘Where can the Assassin be hiding?’ Grimaldi said. ‘We must find him and kill him before he does any more damage.’
‘He could be anywhere,’ said Marco. ‘That is why I take Dante here everywhere with me. I wouldn’t feel safe without him.’ He broke off. ‘Why, he could be here, even now, for all we know.’
‘We must act fast,’ said Silvio.
‘You’re right,’ said Marco.
‘But Marco, I’m so close. I feel it. Just give me a few more days,’ Grimaldi pleaded.
‘No, Carlo, you’ve had quite enough time. We no longer have the leisure for subtlety. If Mocenigo will not join us, we must remove him and replace him with one of our own, and we must do it this very week!’
The giant bodyguard, Dante, whose eyes had not ceased to scan the crowd from the moment he and Marco Barbarigo had arrived, now spoke. ‘We should keep moving, signori.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Marco. ‘And the Master will be waiting. Come!’
Ezio moved like a shade among the crowds and the stalls, striving to keep the men within earshot as they crossed the square and made off down the street which led in the general direction of Saint Mark’s Square.
‘Will the Master agree to our new strategy?’ asked Silvio.
‘He’d be a fool not to.’
‘You’re right, we have no choice,’ Silvio agreed, then looked at Grimaldi. ‘Which kind of makes you redundant,’ he added unpleasantly.
‘That is a matter for the Master to decide,’ retorted Grimaldi. ‘Just as he will decide whom to place in Mocenigo’s shoes – you, or your cousin Marco here. And the best person to advise him on that is me!’
‘I wasn’t aware that there was a decision to be made,’ said Marco. ‘Surely the choice is obvious to all.’
‘I agree,’ said Silvio, edgily. ‘The choice should fall on the person who organized the entire operation, the one who came up with the idea of how to save this city!’
Marco was quick to reply. ‘I would be the last to undervalue tactical intelligence, my good Silvio; but in the end it is wisdom which one needs in order to rule. Do not think otherwise.’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Grimaldi. ‘The Master may be able to advise the Committee of Forty-One when they meet to elect the new Doge, but he cannot sway them. And for all we know, the Master may be thinking of someone quite other than either of you…’
‘You mean yourself?’ said Silvio incredulously, while Marco merely gave vent to a sneering laugh.
‘And why not? I’m the one who’s put in all the real graft!’
‘Signori, please, keep moving,’ put in Dante. ‘It’ll be safer for you all when we get back inside.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Marco, quickening his pace. The others followed suit.
‘He’s a good man, your Dante,’ said Silvio. ‘How much did you pay for him?’
‘Less than he is worth,’ replied Marco. ‘He’s loyal and he’s trustworthy – he’s saved my life on two occasions. But I wouldn’t say he was exactly loquacious.’
‘Who needs conversation from a bodyguard?’
‘We’re here,’ said Grimaldi, as they arrived at a discreet door in the side of a building off the Campo Santa Maria Zobenigo. Ezio, keeping a safe distance between them and himself, aware as he was of Dante’s extreme vigilance, rounded the corner of the square just in time to see them enter. Looking round to ensure that the coast was clear, he climbed the side of the building and positioned himself on the balcony above the door. The windows to the room beyond were open, and within it, seated in a heavy oak chair behind a refectory table covered with papers, and dressed in purple velvet, sat the Spaniard. Ezio dissolved into the shadows, and waited, ready to listen to all that transpired.
Rodrigo Borgia was in a filthy mood. Already the Assassin had frustrated him in several major enterprises and escaped every attempt to kill him. Now he was in Venice and had eliminated one of the cardinal’s principal allies there. And as if that wasn’t enough, Rodrigo had had to spend the first fifteen minutes of this meeting listening to the parcel of fools left in his service bickering about which of them should be the next Doge. The fact that he had already made his choice and greased the palms of all the key members of the Council of Forty-One seemed to have passed these idiots by. And his choice had fallen on the oldest, vainest and most pliable of the three.
‘Shut up, the lot of you,’ he finally spat out. ‘What I need from you is discipline and unwavering dedication to the Cause, not this pusillanimous quest for self-advancement. This is my decision and it will be carried out. Marco Barbarigo will be the next Doge and he will be elected next week following the death of Giovanni Mocenigo, which, given that the man is seventy-six years old, will hardly raise an eyebrow but which nevertheless must look natural. Do you think you are capable of arranging that, Grimaldi?’
Grimaldi cast a glance at the Barbarigo cousins. Marco was preening and Silvio was trying to look dignified in his disappointment. What fools they were, he thought. Doge or no Doge, they were still the puppets of the Master, and the Master was now conferring the real responsibility on him. Grimaldi allowed himself to dream of better things as he replied, ‘Of course, Master.’
‘When are you closest to him?’
Grimaldi reflected. ‘I have the run of the Palazzo Ducale. Mocenigo may not like me much but I do have his full confidence, and I’m at his beck and call most of the time.’
‘Good. Poison him. At the first opportunity.’
‘He has food tasters.’
‘Good God, man, do you think I don’t know that? You Venetians are supposed to be good at poisoning. Get something into his meat after they’ve tasted it. Or stick something into that Sardinian jam they tell me he’s so fond of. But think of something or it’ll be the worse for you!’