Michel clapped him on the shoulder. “Courage, mon brave. We can surely not have been missed until late yesterday, and no pursuit will be properly on its way until today. If we are vigilant, we will see any assassins on our trail before we are struck.”
“Assassins?” Frank’s stomach churned. “You think so?”
“It comes as naturally to Venetians as hiring a gondolier, especially to their Council of Ten. The Spanish as well.” The narrow face creased with something you might call a smile if you were inclined to be charitable. “And so, to be perfectly honest, my own French.” Michel held up his heavily bandaged right hand in the way of rueful proof.
Frank had a vivid mental image of some Venetian senator at a big desk somewhere, barking orders to kill someone into one phone and for an anchovy pizza into another. The image wasn’t improved by Michel’s next words.
“The creature that did for Monsieur Buckley is almost certain to be the closest one on our heels.”
Frank shivered. Having poor Joe murdered back in Venice was bad enough. The thought that the murderer or murderers would be chasing after them across all Italy . . .
“Do we, uh, do we need to change our travel plans then?” he asked uncertainly. “I mean, we’re taking the main road to Rome, after all.”
Michel rubbed his chin with his uninjured left hand, pondering briefly. “There is reason in what you suggest. In fact . . .”
Another ponder, before the hand came away from the chin and clenched into a decisive fist. “Yes! We should change our route! There will certainly be ample opportunity for the assassins of the Inquisition and of the Council of Ten to lie in wait for us on the road to Florence. We should take a less obvious route. Well thought out, Monsieur Stone! Perhaps the route by way of Ravenna?”
“You know the way?”
Ducos shook his head. “Not as such, no. I had to deal with maps and the like when I worked for the embassy, but I have no clear memory of the roads as they are in Italy.”
“Maybe Messer Marcoli will know?”
“Better yet, he almost certainly has a map,” Michel said. “Let us consult with him.”
* * *
Antonio Marcoli looked better than he had the night before, that was for sure. He was sitting up in bed in his room in the inn, being tended to by his daughter. Frank had his usual moment every time he caught sight of Giovanna—warmth; tenderness; okay, yeah, sheer lust too—seeing his girl play the ministering angel for her poor hurt daddy.
Damn, I love her. If only—
He shook the hopeless thought away, and looked around. Massimo was lying in another bed, still out cold. He seemed to be breathing normally, though. In fact, he was more than breathing normally, he was snoring. At least the Paduan doctor who’d attended Massimo also the night before hadn’t done any actual harm. Frank had been worried about that, from all the stories he’d heard of the standards of seventeenth-century medicine. But, according to Giovanna, the doctor had never even mentioned using leeches.
“How’s Massimo?” Frank asked.
“He rests,” Giovanna said. “He was awake a little while ago, while you were outside. He had some bread and some water, and went back to sleep.”
“Uh, okay,” Frank said, although he was troubled a little. Weren’t you supposed to keep concussion victims awake? But he didn’t really have a clue. Sharon Nichols would know, but she was left behind in Venice. He hoped she was okay, but then the embassy had guards and that old Spanish guy she was seeing a lot of lately—for reasons that Frank couldn’t begin to fathom—seemed to be able to handle himself.
Maybe they should send Massimo back to the embassy? He decided to see what Messer Marcoli thought.
“Maybe we could ask the embassy for asylum or something, for Massimo? I mean, he’s not going anywhere like that. They could get medical help, proper up-time medical help that is. I mean, they wouldn’t want to help with the Galileo business, but they’d keep Massimo safe while he gets better.”