The Deadliest Sin (16 page)

‘I saw your hand when you tried to stab me, just after you had killed Baglioni. All those rings gave you away. And then there was that ring on your thumb that looks as though it swivels
round, leaving the stone on the inside.’

Rosso threw a glance down at his hand, already knowing what Zuliani meant. It was a nuisance, that ring.

‘So that’s why you were shaking everyone’s hand at the Doge’s reception earlier. But what of my thumb ring?’

‘It matches a bruise I saw on Saluzzo’s neck where you held him and choked him as you slid the knife in his heart.’

Rosso looked startled for a moment, then grinned rapaciously.

‘So it was you in this place that night. I thought it might have been, but you disappeared without trace before I could get a look at you.’

Zuliani silently thanked God that Rosso and his men hadn’t seen him. It meant they were also ignorant of Katie’s presence that night. All he had to do now was get out of this alive,
and make sure Katie did, too. He saw that Rosso was unconsciously twisting the ring on his right thumb with the fingers of his left hand. It was his moment to strike, while both his
opponent’s hands were occupied. He slid his dagger out, and lunged at Rosso. But the younger man was quicker, and when Zuliani’s stiff right knee gave away slightly, he danced
backwards, drew his own dagger and thrust out.

Zuliani grunted in pain as he felt Rosso’s dagger skitter across his ribcage and dig into his flesh. His stumble turned into a fall, and he cracked his head hard on the stone floor,
dropping his dagger. Rosso smiled coldly as he looked down at Zuliani’s prone figure, blood already seeping out from underneath him. He dashed over to the hessian sack he had set by the door,
wrapped the loop of rope that tied the neck off around his wrist for safety, and stepped out of the narrow wicket gate into the night.

Katie had been stunned by the swiftness of the attack on her grandfather, but as Agnolo Rosso disappeared, she came to her senses. With a groan of anguish, she ran over to Zuliani’s body
and grabbed his dagger, which still lay on the ground. She was determined to avenge her grandfather, and the three other men that Rosso had killed. She skipped over the sill of the wicket gate, and
saw Rosso walking away along the quay. She ran after him and, just as he turned on hearing her light footsteps, swung a murderous blow with Zuliani’s dagger. She missed Rosso’s body
completely, but as he dodged the blow, he lost his balance and fell backwards off the edge of the quayside. There was a loud splash as he hit the water in the great basin of the Arsenale. Katie
looked down into the water, and saw Rosso flailing with one arm, splashing the water around him. She watched in horror as he struggled to disentangle his wrist from the rope binding the
sack’s neck. Unfortunately, he was unable to get his arm free, and the heavy sack of gold dragged him beneath the waters. A few bubbles broke the surface, and then there was nothing except a
ring of ripples growing out from where his body had gone under.

Katie Valier looked round her audience as she concluded her tale of greed.

‘You may have guessed that the young girl was me, and I witnessed the price that greed extracts from sinners.’

Every eye was on her, and the fire had been left to turn to a glowing redness. She leaned down and tossed another log on to the glow. It broke the spell, and the old man with the long white
beard spoke up.

‘I am sorry that your grandfather died, too.’

Katie smiled.

‘Oh, Grandpa Nick didn’t die. You see, Rosso’s knife was diverted by his ribs and left him with just a flesh wound. Hitting his head on the ground knocked him out
temporarily, but he was soon by my side to witness Agnolo Rosso’s demise.

‘“The reward for greed is death,” he said to me in a rather satisfied way. “Too much gold is a burden that only served to drag you down.”’

‘And what of Perruzzi?’ asked the old man. ‘Did he pay too for his greed?’

Katie had to admit that the banker Perruzzi had escaped any blame for the three murders. Someone on the edge of the group of pilgrims, who was sitting outside the circle of light cast by the
fire, made a comment on that.

‘Is it not always the way, that the rich escape punishment, while the poor are ground down?’

Katie had an answer to that.

‘But then, as you all probably know, justice came to those who were driven by greed to try to accumulate great wealth at the expense of others. It is only a few years ago that your King
Edward reneged on England’s debts, and drove the Florentine banks to a collapse. Antonio Perruzzi was a very old man by then, but he lived to see his world fall down around his ears, and died
destitute. The sin of greed found him out in the end.’

It was not long before the old man who had expressed his regret – rather prematurely – about Katie Valier’s grandfather, and had asked about
Perruzzi’s fate, had another question for her. He moved closer to her, and with his eyes strangely not on her but on the glowing fire, spoke quietly so that only she should hear.

‘Is it true that your grandfather travelled in the East?’

‘Oh, yes. He had many adventures there, and made his fortune. Though that was soon gone when he returned to Venice, for he cared little about keeping it. The fun was in the making of it
for him.’

The old man nodded, and stroked his long, white beard.

‘I understand that perfectly. But tell me, you said his name was Zuliani?’

‘Yes, and he was nothing if not a true Venetian. But he was also proud that his mother was English. And that is why I am in these parts. I am looking for any of his family that might
remain in England. They were from Bishop’s Lynn, and were called de Foe. The plague has interrupted my journey, but I shall get there eventually.’

‘So you are not, like me, on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Walsingham? Well, I will pray that you are spared this horror. And that the family of your grandfather are, too.’

He reached out his hand as if wishing to reassure her but seemed to grope a little in the air before finding her arm. Before she could say anything, though, he moved on.

‘But there is another question I would like to ask. You see, my father and mother travelled in the great empire of Yuan and I was born there.’ He laughed and shook his head.
‘I don’t know if I am English, like my father, Jewish, like my mother, or Chinese by birth.’

Katie Valier was surprised at his confession that his mother had been Jewish. The Church expressly forbade any sort of relations between Christian and Jew on pain of death. She wondered if
that was why his parents had travelled far away from England. She was also curious about something this old man had said earlier.

‘Tell me. Why did you ask about my grandfather’s name?’

‘Ah. That is to do with the question I wish to ask. You see, when I was growing up, I was told tales of a Chinese demon called Zhong Kui, who righted wrongs. It was an old tale, but it
seemed to have got mixed up with a real-life foreigner whose thirst for justice meant he was called by the demon’s name too. His real name – to the Chinese – was Zu
Li-ni.’

Katie laughed and clapped her hands like a young girl.

‘It must have been Grandpa! He investigated crimes for the Great Khan. He would be so flattered that he was remembered still.’

The old man smiled and nodded his head.

‘My father may even have met him. He certainly knew many stories about him. And my father had no small fund of his own tales too. In fact, your story of Zuliani has reminded me of one
of them.’

He turned his head to the group of pilgrims, who still sat close to the fire, too bound up in a fear of their possible fate to fall asleep. The old man raised his voice so all might hear
him.

‘My name is David Falconer, and I have a story to tell which, though it is brief, will get you thinking about another of the Deadly Sins. This one is about . . .

More than thirty years ago, I was travelling through the fabled land of Trebizond. Of course, many tales are told of the place, not least that it was the land where Jason and
the Argonauts sought the Golden Fleece. But I have another tale to tell – a tale of a land that was all too real, populated by mortal men with similar failings to our own. It is a tale of
murder.

The Empire of Trebizond is a splinter of the Byzantine Empire, which has come to rest on the southern shores of the Black Sea. Barely forty miles deep and two hundred miles long, it is,
nevertheless, an opulent and secluded paradise made rich by the trade that flows through it. I came to it from the east by following the Silk Road to Erzerum, where several camel trains came
together, bringing dyes and spices from Baghdad, Arabia and India, together with raw silk via the Caspian. This single great caravan of a thousand camels, each bearing three hundred pounds of
merchandise, then wound its way over the Pontic Mountains, which protect the back of Trebizond, and down into the city that gazes out over the sea that is its lifeblood. Traders from the west
venture there by water on a four-month journey that culminates in the protective, curved arm of the harbour wall. We, as I say, had come overland from the east.

Descending on the swaying back of a mule, I felt almost as though I had arrived by sea, with a lurching feeling of sickness in my stomach. My travelling companion and secretary, the monkish
Brother Philip, chattered eagerly as we passed along the edge of the western ravine that protects one side of the city with its tumbling waters. I learned later that the eastern side of the city is
similarly protected by another natural moat.

‘Master, you cannot imagine the view from here. The city falls away at our feet, and sweeps down to the waters of a great sea. And it is so lush. The trees grow steeply on either side and
the colour of the flowers is overpowering.’

Being sightless, I drank in his description. And I shared his excitement, for I could smell the heady scent of pines that grew along the path. That, and the scent of the camel train’s
contents – pepper, cinnamon, myrrh and spikenard – mingled with the local scent of fruits and musk and incense. It was the very essence of the city I was going to get to know well. We
descended the Zagnos valley, skirting the upper town and the Citadel, and broke off from the caravan train to enter the lower town through a grand gateway. Philip led the way and my mount followed
obediently. The monk’s voice piped up with excitement, describing all he saw. He was barely twenty, and his beard was a mere wisp of soft down on his cheeks. Everything he saw was a marvel to
him, but I valued his description of the lower part of Trebizond as we rode through its narrow streets. It seemed the arrival of the caravan was an occasion for celebration. The main road that led
back up to the Imperial Citadel was hung with patterned carpets and lined with men in glittering livery. Many walls were covered in holy paintings in ochre and red and dark blue. The inhabitants of
this lower town, where the foreign merchants dwelled, were gaily dressed in tight robes quite unlike the loose garments of the West. Their chatter, and the noise of playful children, made it
difficult for me to hear what Brother Philip was saying. I asked him to speak up.

‘I was saying that we shall have to dismount soon or we shall trample some child underfoot. It is like swimming against the tide. Everyone is making for the gate we have just
entered.’

I called out to someone in the throng, ‘Where is everyone going, pray?’

A woman answered with a voice that had laughter in it. ‘Why, to the Meidan, where there will be games and food stalls to celebrate the arrival of the caravan from the East.’

‘Yes, we came with it part of the way ourselves. But I am seeking an official of the Emperor’s court. He is the keeper of the Emperor’s library, and goes by the name
Theokrastos. Do you know where I might find him?’

I had an introduction to this scholar, given me by a Nestorian monk in the Yuan Empire. In truth it was a tenuous connection, for the grimy monk in furthest Tatu had only heard of Theokrastos
second-hand through travellers on the Silk Road. But I had heard many stories of the library of Alexios II, Emperor of Trebizond and Autocrat of the Romans, and would use any influence I could
exert to get to see it. The woman I spoke to doubted I would see the scholar today, however.

‘Everyone in the court will be on the Meidan, sir, and I must go or I will be at the back of the crowd and see nothing of the acrobats.’

I let her go, and dismounted from my tired horse. Philip did the same, and took my reins from me.

‘If we look for the sign of the Lion of St Mark, master, we will be sure to find accommodation. The Venetians are acquisitive but generous with their hospitality.’

I agreed and followed wearily beside the horses, as Philip led them down towards the harbour.

It took longer than I had expected to meet George Theokrastos. The Emperor’s court was a strange mixture of strict formality and indolence. And its officials were hidden
behind a screen of bureaucracy. Written requests had to be made for any meeting, and these documents languished in stacks of similar entreaties, only to be dealt with in the mornings. Afternoons
were a time of torpor. I made use of my frequent spare time by walking around the city in the company of Brother Philip. We were fortunate to witness a procession one day as the court made its way
from the Citadel to the monastery of St Sophia beyond the western ravine. Philip called out excitedly as servants with golden axes, eunuchs in white robes, and Imperial Guards in shiny breastplates
passed before us. We were forced back against the walls of the houses as princes in cloth of gold and black-clad Orthodox priests swinging gilded censers moved slowly by. The air was heavy with
incense and excitement.

‘Look,’ cried out Philip over the buzz of the crowd. ‘There’s the Emperor carrying a crozier, and wearing a dalmatic with a design of eagles woven in purple and gold
thread.’