Teodor

Teodor walked solemnly along the cells. He played with the keys in his packet, twisting them between his fingers. It was a nervous habit. He hated it in here. The crowds of people stuffed into each wooden cell stunk the place out. Every breath he took, he smelt a new combination of vomit and shit. His nose had never got used to it, and even after all this time he still felt queasy with the foul air.

The one thing that really creeped him out, though, was the silence. In the Doge’s palace there were eighteen cells, and each cell contained at least ten prisoners, and yet most days all you could hear was the scuttle of incests that infested the prisoner’s food, and infested every wooden surface. Teodor had seen other prisons. He had lived and worked in Naples once. There prisoners would shout about injustices. There prisoners would play games with each other or at least issue harsh, loud threats. Here no one spoke. When he came to visit, no one complained about the justice handed out to them, most simply sat in silent acceptance of their sentence. Not even the sick cried in pain. Teodor wondered how long it took for the dead to be removed.

It was all Casanova’s fault. After he had published his damn book about escaping the prison the Doge had ordered that prisoners be treated with far less care. Food was rationed and stale. The prisoners starved and rotted. The Doge never had to see it. It wasn’t on his conscience. At least nobody tried to escape anymore.

Teodor got to the cell he wanted and unlocked the door. There was a time when he would make sure that he had several guards with him, scared of being rushed and killed. Not any more. He opened the door and was greeted by a new wave of stench and the hollowed out eyes of ten men.

The light from the the corridor seem to infect them, and they recoiled slightly and some put their hand over their eyes. Teodor scanned the room for the prisoner he was looking for.

“Bartholomio Capello” he said. There was no need to say any more. Bartholomio lifted his head slightly. He looked barely human. His beard was long and even from this distance and this light Teodor could see that it was infested with lice. His cheekbones were almost bursting out from under his skin, as his face and features had been wasted away. His legs ands arms frail and bowed.

It was easy to think of the prisoners as animals. They seemed not to think or dream like regular men, and indeed to many of Teodor’s colleagues this is what they were, but he always made a point of trying to remember what they looked like before the crossed the Bridge of Sighs, to remind himself that these where men with ambition and families once. When he was growing up, he had stolen to keep the hunger away. He had threatened and beaten men to steal what they had. It was only sheer luck that separated him from these men. Sheer luck that meant he wasn’t caught and they were. Sheer luck gave him the keys to this place and made it a prison to these men.

He had arrested Bartholomio Capello himself. It had been a difficult task, and one that brought him not insignificant injury.

Bartholomio Capello had been begging near the Rialto Bridge. He had not managed to bring in a large income. It was hard to take pity on a hulking drunkard like Bartholomio Capello. He swore and stumbled at passers by, and when he felt the drop of Lira into his cloth hat, he would go straight to the nearest whorehouse and fuck whichever unfortunate girl happened to be the cheapest. That day he’d been thrown out of the whorehouse for hitting  young girl. He hit the streets. Fighting seemed to be in his blood that day.

When Teodor had come across him Bartholomio Capello was in the middle of arguing with a merchant at the market. Then, with a punch, he was off down the alleys, apple in hand, beer in head.

Teodor had not enjoyed the chase. The alleys of Venice were much tighter than at home, and they veered and forked off in bizarre directions. In his first few weeks in the city he had often set off down the alleys confident that he was going north or south, only to end up in the exact same place he had started from.

The local Venicians in the watch had laughed at him, then given him advice. They told him to navigate by the churches and the bridges. Every bridge looked different, they said. He still couldn’t fathom it. To him all the bridges looked like fucking bridges.

It was down one of these alleys where Bartholomio Capello had surprised him. He had hidden around corner and when Teodor had turned after him Bartholomio Capello stuck out a thick arm across Teodor’s windpipe. Teodor had fallen to his knees straight away, and whilst he was clutching his throat Bartholomio Capello had set upon him. Teodor still had no idea why Bartholomio Capello had not just run. He must have been really in the mood for a fight. Teodor had given it to him.

Bartholomio Capello had punched and kicked and bit him Teodor had been no more chivalrous. Eventually, Teodor’s clear head had won out. Bartholomio Capello’s punches slowed, his bearings deserted him. Teodor had landed a final, crushing blow that had sent Bartholomio Capello to the floor. Teodor had tasted the blood between his teeth and he felt happy and alive.

Looking at Bartholomio Capello now, the fight seemed like a strange fever dream. Teodor could barely believe that the might who had fought with such vigour six months ago, who had fought and fucked himself into this cell was the same man standing before him.

Teodor walked over to Bartholomio and lifted him up by his arms. Bartholomio didn’t react. He knew there was no point pleading or begging. His sentence had been set in stone the second that he was caught for the second time. There would be no mercy. To Teodor’s eyes Bartholomio almost seemed relieved for the call of death.

Teodor lead Bartholomio down the corridor, and into the prison’s courtyard. The  courtyard was small but bright, the white walls of the building reflecting the sun’s rays, and Bartholomio again had to shield his eyes from the light. In the centre of the courtyard was the hanging platform and the hangman. It looked like a boarded-up brick well, with a large metal arch looping above it. A noose had already been tied around the arc in preparation of the hanging. When the time came the boarding would be removed and the criminal would hang in the well. It was a system that was very clearly thought through. All of the piss, shit and vomit from the hanged would go into the well and avoid ruining the well maintained courtyard. Venetians liked to keep up a respectable appearance.

Teodor doubted anywhere in the world had managed to make the process of execution so neat and efficient.

The hanging platform had a rectangle of white paint surrounding it, a signal to stand back to avoid being hit by a flailing limb or projectile bodily fluids. Iacomo stood outside of the white paint, leaning on a wall. He was smirking. He was always smirking.

The Teodor lead Bartholomio towards the hangman. He didn’t need much persuading. The hangman took Bartholomio and lead him towards the noose. Teodor went and stood by Iacomo. Bartholomio climbed a small set of wooden onto the hanging platform, struggling to lift his legs with his wasted muscle and the hangman read his sentence.

“Bartholomio Capello. For the crime of theft and assault, you have been sentenced to death by hanging. Do you have any last words?” Bartholomio did not say a word. There was a thin line between making your peace and giving up, thought Teodor.

Iacomo leaned in towards Teodor and whispered. There was no need to keep his voice down, he just liked to act.

“You know, you don’t have to be here.” Iacomo said, picking a cigarette from his Night’s Watch jacket and lighting it.

“I like to see things through.”

“I think you just like to watch men die. You’re a sick fuck at heart, Teodor.”

Teodor ignored him. The hangman gave a signal to him and removed the wooden support. Bartholomio Capello struggled for a few seconds, enough for Teodor to be briefly surprised by the life he showed, before his fire was snuffed and he hung silently and still, his trousers dirtied by his final act.

“What the fuck do you want, Iacomo” Teodor said attempting his best snarl. You had to snarl at the young ones, otherwise they would start to get ideas you were soft or old or slow. They’d start to get ideas that they could replace you, if only they sat back whilst you got beaten, or if you fell in the night.

“It’s Rizo.”

“Rizo is a moaning cunt. What’s wrong with Rizo now? I think it’s about time we gave him another visit. Make sure he’s not selling anything he shouldn’t be.”

“You’d have to find him first.”

Teodor stared at Iacomo. Iacomo grinned back.

Helena

Helena danced. At first she had not wanted to, but she soon found that gaiety of the evening had slowly seeped into her bones and now she felt like doing nothing else.

She was quite used to fabulous parties since arriving in Venice, but this was something else. The ballroom was magnificent. As the dancers twirled around the marble floor, the two elaborate golden chandeliers flickered with candlelight, casting the shadows of the dancers in their own spins and pirouettes. Helena flung her head back and laughed, marvelling at the gilded ceiling and the painting which formed its centrepiece. Jesus and his disciples, their carriages drawn by horses, riding over the clouds. Helena could not quite believe they weren’t natives, and this wasn’t their home. Venice to her seemed as close to enlightenment as one could imagine.

This was a world away from the squalor of The Argyll Rooms. At least the men in Venice hid their lust behind fancy clothes and wonderful traditions. She appreciated the pretence. Back in London no one made an effort. The men would turn up to the dancehall with grease on their chins and grope and her with their fat fingers and greedy eyes.

Paris was no better. There her procurer treat her no better than an animal. Monsieur Roubisse treated her no better than a dumb animal. She was bought and sold, but she rarely knew at what rate. Monsieur Roubisse kept her out of all decisions. Her life was his. She hated him for it. Her contemporaries had said she was lucky. She was tutored in mathematics, taught how to ride and speak in four tongues, but Monsieur Roubisse never did anything that didn’t benefit himself. Everything she learned increased her price. He helped her gain posture and poise, but only so that he could bleed a few more Francs from his desperate and filthy clientele.

As she spun, she made sure to take in the men of the room. The men of Venice were fast with rooms and rubies and she fully intended to find one capable of paying her a regular upkeep.

She locked eyes on the Doge. He did not seem to be having a good time. She had seen him flit in and out of parties before, holding court with gaggles of women, telling stories that initiated gales of laughter and fawning applause. He looked distant today, staring into the pack of dancers as though they were a funeral possession. She had never seen him alone before. She decided to spin and twirl her way towards him, she would never get a better chance to whisper something softly in his ear or arouse his attention. He look vulnerable.  Vulnerability of the heart always leads to vulnerability of the wallet. Monsieur Roubisse had taught her that.

“Good afternoon Your Serenity” She said, holding her head still and trying to make sure he made eye contact with her.

“Good afternoon. I don’t believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before.”

“Madam Franco” she said, curtseying. She held her hand out for him to take. He gave it the most cursory of kisses. “May I ask, Your Serenity. You seem rather distant.”

“A very impertinent assumption, Madam Franco. I am merely watching my party.” The Doge seemed irritated. She had made a mistake coming over to talk to him. She had grown heady with excitement and overstepped her mark. She did not want to alienate the most powerful man in all of Venice, especially not this early in her career. She had spent months near the Rialto Bridge, trying to find a suitable sponsor. She had to use every bit of skill and all the guile she had to be invited to this particular party. She had only just arrived, she would not leave so quickly. She would not go back to Paris.

“I’m sorry Your Serenity, I did not mean to be impertinent, but I am also no fool. I have seen that look before, I have seen it in London and seen it in Paris. It is a look of boredom. A look of a man who has achieved everything he wants to and thinks there is no more to see or do.”

The Doge looked at her and she instantly panicked. She was holding her back up straight but she felt like she was collapsing inside. She was locked on this path now.
“You believe me to be wrong, young Lady? Is there more to see? Is there more to do?” She had his interest now. She tried to conceal her joy, but a glimpse of a smile crossed her face. She decided to forgive herself this professional transgression.

“Why, my most serene Prince. There is almost always more to see. And definitely more to do.” She held her hand out again and backed away slightly. Without hesitation he took her hand in his. His gloves were of the finest silk. She felt ashamed she had allowed her last suitor to buy her such poor quality gloves. She would not allow the next man that same leniency.

Helena lead the Doge into the middle of the ballroom and they started to dance, disappearing into the crowd.

Rizo

Some said that the first settlers came to the lagoon out of fear. They were chased here by the weapons of men and the teeth of monsters, forced to the edge of their country, hounded and harried into the marshlands. The lagoon provided shelter from enemies. Just deep enough so that even the most humongous and vicious giant could not wade, people huddled together in channels and shoals.
Fear can only sustain a people so long, however, and the inhabitants soon realised that the lagoon was rich with fish and salt. Trade came, people from far away lands arriving on boats bringing spices and lace appeared. The lagoon was awash with gold.
Giant pillars of wood were driven into the seabed, millions of trunks brought from all over the world, pushed deep into the clay. Stone was laid upon the wood and a city was laid. A city overflowing with wealth and decadence. Detached from the mainland, isolated from attack, free from the interference of those on the shore.
The most dazzling and beautiful city in the world.
Venice was born.
Nowadays, no one talked of monsters. Notions of giants and magic were seen as the domain of the uneducated masses. If you broached the topic amongst the educated, ridicule would follow. Science was the ruler of the day.
Rizo wasn’t so sure. As he stood on a jetty, looking at the boats in the distance cutting across the water it occurred to him that those who dismissed monsters as the infantile fantasies of the poor were perhaps being too hasty. Some of the things that had been brought to Rizo in his shop made him shiver. Strange fossils, bones of animals, twisted and massive. People laughed at Rizo. He heard them, giggling at him and the things he sold, spreading rumours about him, about how he dealt in the unscientific, the unchristian. Forgeries designed to undermine the church. Those learned men have such small minds. They chatter about intellect and learning, but when something challenges their idea of the world they still resort to smashing the windows of his shop.
Rizo took a drag at his cigarette and coughed. The cold was biting against his cheek, he was glad for the warming inhalation of the tobacco. He shivered. The sun was setting and darkness was beginning to close in. The cities torches were being lit, the boats drifting home to their docks.
Rizo didn’t like nighttime encounters, but he had little choice. Business was slow, he was increasingly having to hide his better offering behind the counter, weary that he might get another fine from the church, or another priest might launch into a sermon against him. Only last month he’d lost the bone of a griffin, taken by a zealot, jealously trying to protect the church’s image. He hoped that he could source another griffin bone tonight, maybe even part of a wing. The note he’d received had promised him that what he would see would be very special.
He heard the boat before he saw it, the lapping of the water against it’s wooden hull alerting him to it’s presence. The boat was a simple wooden rowing boat, completely bland in appearance, featureless in design. Inside sat a robed man. Rizo tried to get a good look at his face, but the man had pulled his hood over his head.
“I was told to meet you here. A-a-are you Marcantonio?” Asked Rizo. The words would barely leave his mouth, he felt like they were becoming stuck in his throat. Rizo was used to dealing with secrecy, but this was different. Normally his sources would come to his shop, full of foppish delight at the latest wonderful marvel they had uncovered, found or stolen. Normally Rizo would pour them some wine as he listened to their elaborate tales of daring, of the wounds they suffered and the difficulties they encountered to bing whatever object they had to him. Normally they would tell him how much they could get for the object from the elites of Venice, from the sellers of Constantinople and how they only brought it to him because they did love him so much and had found him such pleasant company, and such an honourable businessman. Normally Rizo would rolls his eyes and laugh, his bartering position destroyed long ago by his thirst for the unknown and his reputation for paying whatever it took. Rizo did not think this night that he would be indulging in wine and cheeses.
“Marcantonio ? No. I am honoured that you would even think such a thing. I am merely his servant. Marcantonio waits for you across the water. We must hurry.” The man spoke softly, his words barely audible as they crept out from underneath his hood.
Rizo hesitated. His thirst for adventure was rapidly diminishing as the last vestiges of light were disappearing under the horizon. The hooded figure said nothing.
“This better be fucking good.” Rizo said, sure that his bravado was transparent, but keen to put on a show anyway. Rizo lowered himself onto the boat, and tried to straighten his back. Marcantonio’s servant appeared unmoved.
Rizo sat, feeling the saltwater in the boat seep through his trousers. He shifted slightly. Marcantonio’s servant picked up his oars and started rowing robotically.
Rizo tried to find his bearings. The boat was leaving the south side of the city and heading between the straight between La Giudeca and San Giorgio Maggiore. What lay beyond were a smattering a small islands, beyond them was Croatia. He did not fancy that journey.
Rizo looked back at the city. For the first time in a while it occurred to him that it was beautiful. It was often remarked by visitors, but he had come to take for granted how splendid it looked. Now, as he looked back, full of dread, and saw the Piazza San Marco and Doge’s Palace lit with torches he remembered again why he had stayed and why, when people at parties launched into long monologues that Venice was the greatest city to have ever been created, that it was the centre of everything that was enlightened and good in the world, he nodded and could not find it within himself to launch a coherent rebuttal.
Marcantonio’s servant continued rowing for another five minutes, until they came to a stop near a small island. They had not quite reached Pourgia, of that he was sure, but he he could not place which island they had landed on.
On the island stood a solitary ruined building, with a strong light emanating from within. Rizo could see that the roof of the building had collapsed and that the sea was trying to reclaim the rest of the island. Seaweed and algae covered the side of the brick.
Marcantonio’s servant thew a rope from the boat and tied it around a post. He gestured to Rizo to step out. He did. Marcantonio’s servant remained on the boat, motionless.
Rizo’s shoes slipped and slid on the algae covering the floor of the island. He slowly regained his footing and steadiness, holding out his arms for balance, and gazed into the dilapidated building.
There stood Marcantonio. Rizo laughed out loud and all his fear evaporated. Marcantonio was barely taller that Rizo’s shoulder, but seemed to be trying to make up for what he lacked in height with width. To Rizo’s eyes the man seemed almost spherical. His face was covered in the most garish, bright makeup that Rizo had ever seen, with bright pink cheeks and apple green eye shadow. Marcantonio’s clothes where golden and reflective with green layers of silk peaking through behind slashes in his jacket. In his hands, however, stood the most amazing and enchanting object Rizo had ever seen. It looked to him to be a glass orb, about the size of a watermelon, but it was glowing with it’s own internal, bright, yellow light, a light that was like no other Rizo had ever seen. It shifted and moved around the orb, almost as if it were alive. The patterns the light made transfixed Rizo, and he moved for closer inspection, keeping his eyes on the trails of florescence coming from within the orb.
“Do I amuse you, sir.” Marcantonio spoke in sing-song voice, his tone rising and falling with the lapping of the waves on the shore.
“No. I am sorry for the laughter. It was not meant with an disrespect.”
“Do you like the object, Rizo?” Marcantonio raised a single eyebrow. Rizo looked it his eyes. He could swear Marcantonio was flirting with him. He did not mind.
“It is the most beautiful object I have ever seen. What is it? Where is it from?” Rizo kept drawing closer, lured by the ever shifting light.
“I heard that you like magic. This is magic. I cannot tell you when it was made. It is older than me, and I am older than I appear.”
“Magic?” Rizo was now crouching down, putting his eye level with the orb. He could not remove his eyes from it.
“It is everything you have ever searched for, dear Rizo. It is proof of magic. Proof that all that you have endured was worth it. Proof that there exists a world more profound than our own. Imagine.” Marcantonio was enjoying his speech. His face was a cacophony of expression as he regaled Rizo. He savoured his audience. “Imagine going to those parties and showing this to those who doubted you, those who laughed at you, those that threw rocks through your window,”
Rizo broke his gaze from the orb and looked at Marcantonio. Marcantonio looked straight back into him, leaning forward, pushing his second chin out around the side of his face.
“Touch it.” Marcantonio said and suddenly Rizo felt uncomfortable all over again. Marcantonio’s face was twisted, his grin full of mischief.
Rizo stood back.
“Touch it.” Marcantonio repeated.
“Why?”
“You can only experience it’s true beauty with your hands. Your eyes only tell half of the story.”
Rizo held his hand out tentatively and touched the orb. It was cold. He felt it vibrating. He felt his hand pull towards it, as if it were magnetised. He smiled.
Then he felt his hand pulled further.
And further.
He hand started to enter the orb, moving past the glass coating as if were not there. For a second, Rizo was in awe, until he felt the most tremendous pain rushing up through his arm. He cried out. Something inside the orb had a grip on his hand. He felt his fingers crush, as if they were being smashed between two rocks. Blood ran down his arm. He shouted, but his agony was carried away in the wind. His arm was now being pulled into the orb. Marcantonio was staring at him, unmoved. Rizo felt his arm snap in two and them crumble as more of it was drawn into the orb. The floor was now sticky and wet with blood.
As the orb reached Rizo’s shoulder, Marcantonio yanked it away. Rizo collapsed onto his knees, his arm severed at the shoulder. Silently, Marcantonio started to spread his arms. As he did, the size of the orb increased until it was so big that Marcantonio looked ridiculous holding it, his short stubby arms struggling to spread to accommodate it’s width. Rizo whimped. His head was too full of pain and confusion to say a single word. Slowly, Marcantonio lifted the orb as high as he could, and brought it down upon Rizo’s head. Rizo immediately began to be pulled up into the orb, until his nose and mouth were completely consumed by the orb. The sound of his skull being crushed rang out across the island. Blood and viscera fell out onto the floor, landing with a splat.
It was five minutes before Rizo had been completely consumed. Marcantonio waited patiently, before moving his hands towards one another slowly, collapsing the orb until it was completely disappeared.
Marcantonio brushed his hands together and looked at the sea of blood on the floor. He face betrayed his distaste at the mess that had been caused. He took a handkerchief out of his jacket, wiped his face and climbed into the boat. The boat rocked.
Marcantonio sat and his servant rowed away into the night.