Chapter 27
Maria had observed that hooded look in Caesare’s eyes for the last few days. He was planning something again. That always worried her. He seemed quite back to his strength now, and that new wound had nearly healed entirely. But still—it always worried her.
She often wished she’d fallen for a man who had some kind of ordinary, safe, boring job. But . . . he was so fine.
“Right,” said Caesare that evening, after they’d eaten. “I’ve got some documents coming down from Milan. Stuff from a contact back in the old days. The worst of it is one of my informers tells me half the town also knows about it. My old friend Aleri will have his watchers out for sure. I hear that someone, probably that Montagnard bastardo Aleri, has tipped off the Council of Ten. I’ve got stuff in that parcel for Ricardo Brunelli, stuff which will bring a nice sum in Rome, and some things I want none of them to see. This is worth a good bit of money, and we’re short. So I’m going to use people they’re hopefully not watching. I haven’t used you, Maria, for much of the serious stuff. And I’m pretty sure you boys aren’t marked at all.”
He paused, pulling a wry face. “The parcel is being dropped off at old Grazzi’s factory on Murano. That’s close to your regular Wednesday run anyway, Maria. Marco goes across under that tarp and jumps out under the Ponto San Donato. Marco, you wait a bit and when no one’s around, you can go and pick the stuff up. I’ll give you a ring to show the old man. Then you come and meet up with Maria. Then, coming back, Marco can slip off under the Ponto at the Calle del Erbe, go across and into Ricci’s for a brioche and glass of wine, as if he was just on his way to work at the booth on the piazza. One of the barmen, the Greek, is one of mine. I have him absolutely by the balls and I’m damned certain nobody knows it yet. He’ll come up to you and say ‘I’m Nicothedes.’ You give it to him. Then you go to work at Ventuccio’s as usual.”
“I’m much better at sneaking than Marco!” protested Benito. “Let me do it. I’ll be out of Maria’s gondola like a greased rat and into old man Grazzi’s so quietly—”
Caesare looked coldly at him. “If you’ll just wait a moment, boy. Your job is the tougher one. The way this works is the other side doesn’t know exactly when it’s coming into town. They’ll be watching me. They’ll be watching my associates. They’ll be looking for any break in the pattern. So you’re going to be both yourself and your brother. He normally leaves here a good bit before you.”
Benito punched Marco’s arm. “He likes to dawdle along the way.”
Caesare smiled wryly. “Fortunately. You—in his clothes—will go as far as Ricci’s. That hat he’s been wearing to show off to the girls is quite distinctive. Then you cut out and come back here over the rooftops. Then, in that green cotte of yours, you go out again and to work. Marco can’t do the rooftops. It’s a pity you’re shorter than he is, but ten to one it’ll be foggy tomorrow morning and at that time of day the light’s bad. You’ll also have to get Marco out of here and into the bottom of the gondola, maybe two hours before Lauds. Maria’s gone long before then, but they’ll be watching that water-door. She must leave alone.”
Maria looked at the boys. Marco looked nervous. Benito . . . well, Benito looked delighted.
* * *
Marco had found it a grim morning so far. Firstly, Benito—whom he normally had to roust out of bed—had woken him in the pitch-black; then made him dress in the dark and climb out of a tiny window next to the kitchen-chimney. It wasn’t meant for someone his age and size.
Benito had led him across what seemed a mile of coppo tiles to eventually bring him back to Maria’s gondola. He lay cold, and decidedly uncomfortable, on the duckboards under the tarp. The tarp smelled of old spilled wine—probably from the barrels she sometimes transported. The wait seemed interminable.