Chapter 19
Caesare Aldanto leaned back in the dark corner of the tavern where he had taken a table. For a moment, he closed his eyes, scowling inwardly as he felt the continuing effects of the disease he’d contracted. It had been almost two weeks now since Marco had begun medicating him. And while that medication had certainly helped enormously—quite possibly saved his life, in fact—Caesare was still feeling some lingering weakness.
Damn Venice and its miserable swamps anyway!
He sighed. He couldn’t afford any weakness. Not at any time in his life, much less now. In Venice, less so than in any city in the world except possibly his home town of Milan itself.
In truth, he detested Venice. Still . . . it was an excellent place for a man like him to make his fortune. So, suppressing all else, Caesare reopened his eyes and gave the gloomy interior of the tavern another careful examination.
This was not Caesare’s usual haunt, but it suited his purpose today. The tavern was dark, the food and wine were inferior enough that it wasn’t very popular, and he wasn’t known here.
Sensing movement at the door, his eyes flicked in that direction. Caesare had taken a table in the rear, as he had specified to the contact. So when Sachs’s man entered, he didn’t have to stand in the doorway peering around, which would have made him suspicious and uncomfortable.
As the new arrival made his way past the tables, Caesare realized that this man would have had no difficulty recognizing him anyway. They were old acquaintances, after all.
Relishing the shock he’d give the fellow, Caesare leaned forward, taking his face out of the shadows. “Good evening, Francesco,” he said genially.
Francesco Aleri was good; Caesare had to give him that. Except for a momentary start, Aleri’s astonishment was quickly covered. Not surprising, of course, for the man who was Duke Visconti’s chief agent in Venice—which meant, in practice if not in theory, also the head of the Montagnard faction in the city.
Caesare, by sheer willpower, forced any trace of the weakness produced by the disease from his face. The grin that creased that face was purely savage. He could not afford to let Aleri suspect he might be ill.
And, besides . . . Caesare was genuinely enjoying himself. This must be a dreadful moment for Francesco, who had thought until now—and with good reason—that Caesare was safely dead. After all, Aleri had been the one responsible for cracking him over the back of the head and dumping him in the Rio dei Mendicanti.
That would have been the end of the matter for Caesare, if Francesco hadn’t chosen to dump him off a bridge rather than rolling him over the side of the canal. But as it happened, there had been a small boat tied up under that bridge, and in the boat had been a young girl, alone, and . . . very susceptible to a handsome young man in obvious danger. Especially one who was as consummate an actor as Caesare Aldanto.
“You look prosperous, Caesare,” Aleri said pleasantly, taking a seat across from him. The motion was easy, casual, relaxed—but Francesco’s back, needless to say, was prudently to the wall.
Caesare smiled. “I do well enough,” he said, in tones as smooth and bland as unflavored cream. “Despite the ungentle fashion in which I was discharged from my previous, ah, position.”
“You seem to have landed on your feet,” Francesco said, shrugging.
Aleri said nothing else, although Caesare had expected a retort, at least. From Aleri, who had been the one who had discovered that Caesare had been selling his information outside of Montagnard circles. Aleri, who had denounced him as a traitor.
Aleri, who had volunteered as executioner. As he always did, at such times. Aleri prized his position of being Duke Visconti’s “enforcer” among the Montagnards. It had been Aleri, also, who saw to the disposal of Bespi. Although, in Bespi’s case, the cause had been an excess of enthusiasm rather than cynical peculation. Like many true believers, Bespi had eventually found the contradictions between Montagnard ideals and Milanese realities . . . too difficult to handle. And had then been stupid enough to send a protest to Duke Visconti.