2 - Painted Veil (24 page)

Ivo Peschi hesitated, a puzzled look on his thin, wrinkled face.

“Well, what are you waiting for? I’ve spoken, man,” said Florio with a sharp nod.

His manager retreated with a small bow and Benito clicked my door shut.

Not certain whether to be flattered or annoyed, I asked, “Are you sure you want to hear about my doings? They comprise the longest of long stories.”

My self-designated friend spread his hands and settled back into the cozy armchair. “We aren’t due at the theater for hours. Perhaps your man could find a bite to keep our stomachs occupied while I hear your tale?”

I nodded at Benito and beat at my pillows to make a more tolerable resting spot for my tender ribs. I thought a moment, then began, “It all revolves around this masked scoundrel called Palantinus.”

A stricken gasp from Florio stopped me short. He asked, “Dr. Palantinus? From the Temple of the Golden Seraphim?”

I nodded.

“Ah, what a wretched day this has become,” he said in a strangled groan. “Are you going to tell me that Magister Palantinus is a fraud, too?”

Part Four

Aria: Air

Chapter 25

“We must disembark here and walk over a few squares,” Florio said as he signaled the gondolier to stop at a deserted quay.

“Why?” I asked.

“It is one of the rules that Dr. Palantinus insists on. He doesn’t want to attract attention to the temple by a number of gondolas arriving at a building that is supposed to be empty.”

“I see,” I said, trading uneasy glances with Gussie. “What other rules does Palantinus require of the Brethren?”

“No masking. He says the Seraphim must be able to see each man’s naked face to judge his sincerity and worthiness.”

The ever-practical Gussie countered that one. “Shouldn’t a spirit as powerful as a Seraph know what is in a man’s heart without looking at his face?”

Florio shrugged. “I know it sounds like nonsense. After hearing Tito’s story, I can’t think how Dr. Palantinus ever took me in. It’s just that I worry so about my throat. If I were voiceless, I would sink into decrepitude while my fame dwindled away to nothing. I might as well be dead. When the masked stranger approached me and told me that he held power over beings who could guarantee my continued health, well… He was very convincing, you see. Even knowing he’s all humbug, I’m shaking with fear at the thought of incurring his displeasure.”

“When Palantinus requested such a liberal initiation fee,” Gussie continued, “did that not raise your suspicions?”

“Not so much. You see, Dr. Palantinus is no pavement charlatan hawking cheap talismans to guard against the evil eye. He is a man of intelligence who reads ancient languages and has knowledge of the most abstruse sciences.”

During the intermissions of that night’s performance, Gussie and I had discussed every nuance of Florio’s childlike belief in the Seraphim and their earthly Magister, but my friend was still curious. “I don’t suppose Palantinus ever takes off his disguise?”

“No,” replied Florio, stumbling a bit as he started down a short flight of stairs that dumped us into a narrow alley. “He always remains masked and cloaked, but he has good reason. If his true identity were known, he would be besieged with supplicants. Everyone from the poorest fisherman to the Doge himself would be after him to call on the Seraphim. The man wouldn’t have a minute’s peace.”

We fell silent, minding our footing on the rough stones. I was not particularly familiar with this district. Florio had ordered the boatman to set us down to the east of the Arsenale, Venice’s huge shipyard, in an area crowded with old foundries, docks, and warehouses. A hundred years ago, the Arsenale had employed thousands of men to construct and repair the mighty fleet that maintained a millennium’s worth of maritime superiority. But by my time, the dockyard had dwindled to a pale relic of its former self, and many of the surrounding buildings were rotting on their piles.

Florio seemed sure of his way despite the midnight gloom. A bright quarter moon enveloped in a misty halo lit the sky above, but its rays barely penetrated the maze of massive structures. The fetid odor of the docks permeated the damp alley. A bead of sweat trickled down my face. Wiping my forehead on the edge of my sleeve, I glanced at Gussie. He was following Florio with a buccaneering glint of adventure in his eyes. Before we had set out, he had tucked a pistol into his waistband and recounted the story of a wellborn highwayman famous in his home county. My aching ribs wouldn’t let me forget that the hunt for Palantinus had become a matter of great personal risk, but Gussie was still fascinated with the larking excitement of it all.

Florio paused and pointed across the juncture of several alleys. Gussie and I drew back under the cover of a top-heavy, timberframed structure and inspected our destination. It was an enormous warehouse with a lower level of thick stone blocks and upper levels of masonry punctuated by a few recessed, shuttered windows. Its foreboding façade was totally devoid of life, and its arched entryway was littered with pieces of a broken packing case and other, less identifiable, debris. I questioned Florio with my eyes.

“This is it,” he whispered. “We enter by a side door. You can’t see it from here, but you go down the length of the building, turn the corner, and proceed about twenty paces. See, someone is turning in there now.”

We leaned forward, straining our eyes. Two darkly clad men stood out from the shadows by virtue of their white stockings below and the light ovals of their faces above. They hesitated at the opposite end of the warehouse, peered this way and that, then disappeared into the passage that Florio had described.

Our guide continued. “This is where I must leave you. When Dr. Palantinus calls a meeting of the Temple Brotherhood, a boy delivers a triangular token inscribed with the time and the day. No Brother is admitted without his token. Don’t doubt it, I know. I forgot mine once, and the doorman would make no exception, even for me.”

“How are we to get in?” I asked in a low whisper.

“When it is time for the ceremonies to begin, the guard bars the door with a stout plank and goes to attend Dr. Palantinus. Wait here about twenty minutes. That should give me plenty of time to sneak out of the temple chamber and lift the bar.”

“Where do we go from there? We can’t mix with the Brethren unmasked.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. The temple chamber is in the very center of the building. It’s a large room that rises three or four stories. A gallery runs around three sides and looks down on the floor where we gather. Once in the door, you’ll be in a corridor that ends in a winding flight of stone steps. Those stairs must lead up to the vicinity of the gallery, but the exact route I cannot tell you. Once you’ve passed the first turn of the steps, you two are on your own.” Florio finished his instructions with a quaver to his voice. In the luminous moonlight, his face looked as if his manservant had applied a thick layer of white greasepaint.

“Are you all right, Francesco?” I asked. “Are you going to be able to slip away and unbar the door?”

He nodded resolutely. “We mingle for a bit before we take our places—that will be my chance. Thanks to your friendship, I have been cured of superstition and reclaimed my good sense. I don’t know if Dr. Palantinus is the murderer that you suspect him to be, but I do know that he is a perfidious rascal who preys on trusting innocents. It is my duty and pleasure to help you.”

With that, Florio launched himself down the alley, leaving Gussie and me to hug the shadows.

I whispered, “What do you think, my friend? Is tonight the night we corner our fox?”

“With luck…” he began, then pressed a quick hand to his lips. Another dark figure was picking its way down one of the intersecting alleys. We waited in silence as several others gathered from different directions, and finally it was time for us also to creep down the alley toward the secluded entrance. Florio was as good as his word. The door opened easily, with nary a creak, and we found ourselves in a dimly lit hallway with the dark mouth of the curving stairway before us.

No one hampered our anxious flight to the upper stories. Gussie and I didn’t stop climbing until the stone stairs ran out and we were in a bare passage illuminated by a hint of moonlight filtering through the shutter slats. The sound of muffled chanting wafted down the deserted hall. Feeling our way in the gloom, we followed the droning cascades. The passage turned a corner to take us into the heart of the structure, and I paused to set the turns we had already made firmly in my mind. Getting lost in the rambling warehouse was definitely not on my program for the night’s activities.

As the chanting rose in intensity, a pool of yellow light bisected the passage ahead. Gussie and I crept forward and peered carefully around the open doorway. We had located the gallery above the temple chamber.

I put my finger to my lips and pointed downward. Wincing inwardly over the ruin of a good pair of breeches, I sank to my knees and crawled forward. Gussie did the same. Years of accumulated dust, bits of plaster, and the remnants of insects and rodents crunched beneath us. Beside me, Gussie pinched his nose to ward off a sneeze.

We soon reached the railing that defined the gallery’s perimeter. It was constructed of smooth planks roughly the width of my outstretched hand topped by a rounded cap molding. If we turned our heads just so, we could view Dr. Palantinus and his converts through the slits between the planks. The cavernous space must have once stored the raw materials of the shipbuilding trade. I could imagine the warehouse owner standing at this gallery railing to inspect his lengths of raw wood, pallets of oakum, and casks of caulking tar. The rafters above soared high enough to accommodate the mast of even the largest vessel. Across the space, the opposite wall was bare except for a small balcony jutting out one level below our gallery. I had no idea of its original purpose, but I instantly recognized what a perfect stage for a magical apparition it could make.

On the floor of the chamber, Palantinus had assembled enough esoteric paraphernalia to serve as a stage set for a wizard’s den. Thick tallow candles and glowing braziers surrounded the Brethren in a circle of smoky, yellow light. At the cross quarter points of the circle stood tall lamps fashioned with glazed, wrought iron covers that transformed them into pyramidal flames of blue, red, green, and yellow. Hangings with Egyptian or Assyrian symbols worked in metallic thread shimmered in the shadows.

The Brethren occupied a semicircle of low benches arranged around a raised dais. About forty men were standing before their benches, swaying back and forth to a monotonous chant of wordless tones. Besides Florio, I recognized no one. Most of the younger men possessed the sleek, well-bred blondness of the Northerners who came south to make Italy their personal pleasure ground. The older men were Venetian, their faces harder to read. They presented a range of aspects: tentative hope, fearful longing, wry amusement, unshakable devotion. Here and there, the bright eyes of the genuine fanatic burned.

The figure on the dais needed no introduction. Dr. Palantinus wore the same beaked mask, veiled tricorne, and trailing cloak that I had seen in the garden at the San Benedetto. He was standing silent, completely motionless, yet he drew every eye and radiated a palpable energy like the waves of heat rising off a distant plain baking under the summer sun. Another masked man that I had not yet noticed banged an oriental gong. The chanting ceased immediately. Not a sound escaped the lips of the assembly, but I was conscious of a building sense of anticipation.

When Palantinus did speak, he used the familiar hissing tones, but these were not the soft, seductive raspings of the garden. For the temple, the Magister heightened the power of his voice. If the dragons of old fairy tales could speak, this would surely be their monstrous voice. I wondered if the cavities within his grotesque mask contributed to this strange effect or whether the man who played Palantinus was someone who had a professional command of vocal technique.

The Magister’s first words were uttered in a language that I was sure was pure gibberish but seemed to impress his followers. At the close of each thundering phrase, the flames in the pyramidal lamps shot upward and the gong sounded a brazen rumble. Eventually, his words became recognizable.

“You who revere the celestial guardians. You who worship the attendants of the heavenly shrine, perfect from their moment of creation. You who beg assistance from God’s highest messengers. Bow down.”

To a man, the onlookers crumpled to the floor and prostrated themselves like a bevy of Turkish slaves. I saw Florio sneak a peek up toward the gallery. “Have a care, Francesco,” I intoned softly. With darkness behind us and the spectacle of Palantinus focusing the attention of the Brethren to the fore, I doubted that Gussie and I would be noticed, but there was no sense in taking chances.

Palantinus kept his flock in this submissive posture while he lectured them on chastity and obedience and promised that the Seraphim would deliver longevity, splendid health, and a prolonged state of happiness to those who followed their tenets. As his hissing voice droned on, my right foot prickled with the pins and needles of my constricted position. Gingerly, I rearranged my arms and legs and stretched my neck. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the hazy illumination, I noticed something I had not seen before. There was a definite path cutting through the detritus on the floor of the gallery.

I signaled Gussie to stay where he was, rubbed my aching side, and followed the trail in a painful, duck-like crouch. At several notches along the gallery railing, I encountered a familiar object—a pot of the pyrotechnical substance that produces the semblance of flame. At the theater, these were used in bunches to simulate the conflagration of a palace or city, or singly to shoot through a trap door that supposedly led to the underworld. I turned the last of the terra cotta pots over in my hands. Stenciled in block letters on its side were words that didn’t surprise me very much:
Property of Teatro San Marco
.

As I made my way back to Gussie, he pointed downward and shook his head. There was trouble in the mystical realms. The Magister had withdrawn. The dais was empty and the room so silent that I could hear the quiet crackling of the braziers below. The seemingly unaccountable pause stretched from seconds to minutes. The men of the temple began to murmur and lumber clumsily to their feet.

Gussie whispered, “I think it’s time for the Seraphim’s appearance, but something has gone wrong.”

Several of the Brothers sat down heavily and crossed their arms with decided frowns on their faces. One of the men I had guessed might be particularly anxious for a boon from the Seraphim raised his voice in whining complaint. “It has been over three weeks since we’ve had a full manifestation. The Seraph Azadabel promised to return and bless me at this meeting. I’ve bathed in holy water and fasted for days. What more must I do to be worthy?”

Another, younger man declared in a mincing French accent, “I don’t understand. We’ve all paid our money, but we’ve barely seen the Seraphim. Palantinus can start delivering the spirits or be damned.”

At that moment, Dr. Palantinus emerged from the shadows behind the dais. His absurdly beaked mask was as inscrutable as ever, but a new note of uncertainty underscored his sibilant tones. “The spirits of light are angry, Signori. The solemn acts of adoration have not been fulfilled.”