his eyes move slowly, eloquently, up and down the figure before him as his mouth lengthened in a pure contemptuous sneer.
In an instant, he lunged forward, the knife jabbing in front of him, his left hand plunged into that black wool for the frail arm he knew to be there.
But the tall dark draped figure swept back from him as if it were an illusion, the gesture so swift he could not even see it, and turning, he heard the zing of Tonio’s sword. A thin streak of light closed the gap between them as the pain shot through Carlo’s chest.
The knife clattered on the floor.
His fingers reached for the blade of the rapier, the flash of fire that skewered him, and when he tried to speak his mouth filled with a warm gushing liquid that spilled down his chin.
It is not finished, not finished! But his voice was lost in a horrid gurgling sound.
And as he felt himself slipping down, and the darkness rising about him, and his mind was turned to absolute terror, he saw the glimmer in Tonio’s eyes breaking and flowing, and he saw Tonio’s face stricken just before it smoothed itself into that innocence once again.
2
FOR TWO HOURS Tonio remained in the room with Carlo.
Carlo’s body grew cold, and finally all the lights were gone out, the candles melted away, the coals turned to ash in the fireplace. Tonio wanted to cover Carlo with his black tabarro. He wanted to gather Carlo’s hands closer to his body. But he did not do these things, and when the room was dark, he rose and left the house silently.
If anyone saw him emerge from the side door, he had no sign of it. No footfall followed him through the calli he knew so well. No shadow stalked him across the vast emptiness of the piazza.
And when he came to the doors of San Marco and found them locked, he stood as a man in a daze, unable for the moment to understand that he could not gain entrance.
At last he rested back against the columns of the portico, and he looked at the black sky beyond the dim outline of the Campanile.
Only a few scattered lights burned in the Offices of State. Cafés on the piazza now and then opened their doors to the rain. And those who hurried against the wind took no notice of him.
Soon his face and his hands were iced from the cold. Yet he did not move, and the slanting rain gradually soaked through his garments.
The night wore on. The clock struck the hour over and over. The cafés went dark, and even the beggars deserted the arcades as the city went to sleep around him.
And all that was left of civilization here was the tolling of the clock and the uncertain glimmer of a few distant torches.
It seemed his pain and the cold he felt were one. And he could not believe in the rectitude of a single action. He struggled to envision those he loved, to feel their presence. It was not enough to say their names as if they were prayers. He imagined himself with the Cardinal Calvino in some quiet and safe place where he could try to explain what had happened.
But these were dreams.
He was alone and he had killed his father.
And if he were to go on from this moment now, it would be to carry this burden with him always. He would never tell anyone what had taken place. He would never ask anyone for absolution or forgiveness.
And finally, when it was very close to dawn, he pulled up the hood of his cloak to conceal his face, and he walked out into the piazza.
He looked on these monumental buildings that had once seemed to him the very limit of the world, and then he turned his back on Venice forever.
3
FOR DAYS HE TRAVELED south towards Florence. It was winter still, and a light frost lay over the fields. Yet he could not endure the company of others in the post carriages. Rather he took a saddle horse at each stop, and walking it along the edge of the road, was often far from shelter at nightfall.
By the time he reached the city of Bologna, he was on foot His cloak was caked with mud, his boots worn through, and had it not been for his sword, he would have looked like a beggar.
He was pushed about in the streets, the noises jarring him. He