The small figure of a boy - around 12 years of age - dashed out of Campiello San Moise, swerved around the startled pedestrians, and turned right onto the salizada of the same name.
As he sped down the street, the youngster’s arms whipped furiously in rhythm with his bony legs. He nearly crashed into two priests who were leisurely walking and deeply engrossed in their conversation. Swerving sharply, he sidestepped a cart full of ale and wine barrels.
Sot! The pull should have been smoother. Now, he was in this predicament. Don Santino said I hadn’t practiced enough. Run, or you won’t have hands, he thought as he willed his legs to go faster.
“Madonna…” The startled priest almost cursed before he composed himself. The boy continued his frantic race down the street, oblivious to the commotion he had caused.
Sot! Sot! Sot! He chastised himself for being a fool, but he didn’t have a choice.
He had almost reached the shadows created by the dimming dusk sunlight when, onto the street, a plump, well-dressed merchant ran out and yelled, “Stop, thief!”
Two guards of La Forza da la Serenissima standing on the bridge on the left noticed the yelling man and hurriedly went to talk to him. Seconds later, they raced after the boy.
Noticing the pursuit, the boy plunged left onto Calle Frezzaria as fast as his legs could carry him. Moooove! He told himself as if by willing it, he would go faster. A sharp, stabbing pain clawed at his chest, each breath turning into a laborious battle, threatening to halt his frantic escape. But the image of his hands being cut off pushed him forward. Renier's thighs screamed with each jarring step, muscles burning as he zigzagged through the crowd.
Ninety paces later, he turned right, then a few paces more, another left onto a deserted alley. Taking ragged breaths, he continued coaxing, willing his legs to move. He looked back and was about to stop when a guard turned the corner behind him. The frantic running returned. A glimmer of hope showed on his face as he recognized the street as he exited the alley.
I’ll lose them at the bridge.
Many turns and four bridges later, the boy reached a plaza that was a dead end: a small church in front of him. He could hear guards on the opposite side of the bridge, seemingly searching for him.
The sun had set by this time, and deep shadows covered the plaza. A row of closed doors stood on either side. Frantically, he pushed on every door he could find, and finally, a tiny door on the right at the end of the plaza gave way.
Cautiously entering - trying not to make a sound - he gently closed the door behind him and pressed his ear to the wood, striving to listen for the pursuers outside.
His ragged breaths slowly eased as he waited—hoping for silence. Minutes ticked by—five, then ten—with no signs of pursuit. Slightly relieved, he sat with his back to the door, resting while trying to figure out what to do next.
His racing heart slowed. “Seven gold ducats and fifteen silver grossi,” he whispered after counting the pilfered loot. Almost enough to continue, Father.
Hot tears traced their way down Renier's cheek, their saltiness a stark reminder of the desperate reality he couldn't escape.
Renier's gaze fell upon a crumpled form on the floor, a dark pool slowly expanding around it. His heart thudded in his chest as he edged closer, each step hesitant. Renier's gaze lingered on the once-warm eyes, now dim and vacant, that had sparkled with laughter during their evening tales. A gasp escaped his lips, shattering the heavy silence. He whipped around to see his uncle, a sinister glint in his eyes and his henchmen looming like vultures waiting for their turn. Fear, raw and primal, surged through Renier’s veins, propelling him into a desperate sprint. His mind raced as he dodged, leaped, and twisted through the cramped space, the Inn’s door an escape hatch in his blurred vision. Behind him, his uncle's men gave chase, their heavy footsteps a constant reminder of the peril snapping at his heels. One thought pounded in his head, syncing with his heartbeat – reach Don Santino.
It was hard to believe how much his life had changed in the past four weeks. From a well-to-do merchant’s son to a destitute orphan in a moment. If not for the old smuggler taking him in, he would have been murdered, like his father, that night. Now, he hoped to reach his aunt in Constantinople, but he needed funds.
Your aunt Martha will take care of you while I travel with the caravan to Cathay. It will be grand, son; your mother’s family is part of the imperial court; the forlorn memory of his father’s caring voice, echoing from the days they started their journey east, wrenched an involuntary sob from deep within him.
The sound of his pursuers trying to open doors brought him out of his thoughts. I’ll have to go deeper. With his breathing under control, he started to look around.
Fenestra-like openings dotted the ceiling, allowing the full moon's light through. He was in a long corridor with a door on the left and stairs leading down at the end. The musty smell of wet stone permeated the hall. A dark mold streaked the right wall, and dampness could be seen filtering through.
He tried the door, but it was locked, so he continued to the stairs. He stopped at the pitch-black opening to look for a candle or a torch, searching with his eyes and hands. Two twenty-centimeter candles lay in a small niche on the left. Next to them was a firesteel. He struck the firesteel against the wall's stone several times until the candle lit and put the other one and the firesteel in his pocket. With the darkness solved, he slowly started to descend the spiraling stairs.
At the bottom were three narrow brick-lined corridors going left, right, and forward. The smell of death permeated the corridors. Driven by his urgency, he moved forward; he saw niches on either side of the walls. Each had a stone and writing on it - Benetto Barozzi MCCIII - MCCLVIII, one read.
He jumped, startled by a fleeting shadow he perceived out of the corner of his eye. Renier, calm down! Dead people can’t hurt you. The echoes of water drops hitting the stone floor made his heart race. The dampness chilled his bones.
This may be an opportunity. Who knows what valuables you can find? His mind was assailed by shadows and whispers, Renier wrestled with the tendrils of fear, each step a fight to keep his imagination from engulfing him.
Grave robbing will be a new low, he joked, trying to lighten his mood. Desperate times.
The headstones were older and worn as he moved further into the catacombs. Some had cracks or chunks missing. As he walked, he pushed on them, looking for a weak point. Without tools, getting inside to the expected treasures would be difficult.
At the first intersection, he turned left. At the next one, he turned right. He continued this pattern - walking down a corridor while pushing on the headstones and alternating his turns - until the candle was about halfway consumed, without luck.
Disheartened, hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, he leaned against the tunnel wall, put out the candle, and rested. But he stayed alert. The sound of dripping water and what he thought were whispers or murmurs put him on edge. Then he heard the flapping of wings and the echoes of footsteps. Yet he forced himself to be still and listen for the threat of pursuers.
Moments later, Renier was startled by a drop of water falling from the ceiling on his nose. His back was damp from leaning against the wall. He decided to continue moving.
He took the firesteel from his pocket and hit it against a nearby headstone to light the candle again. As the firesteel struck, the gravestone cracked, and the right side of it fell, breaking into pieces, exposing a hole from a missing brick behind, leaving an opening he could exploit. Two lines could be read on the half of the remaining headstone: Marco P and MCCLIV.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
His eyes opened wide and shone with greed as he thought, Finally, a stroke of luck! Anyone who could be buried in catacombs would be rich, so he was sure valuable jewelry would be inside and his financial problems solved.
Renier pulled and pushed on the bricks. One by one, slowly, painstakingly, they came out. With the broader opening, he could see inside.
He gasped, his eyes watering as he covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Inside, he could make out a skull and torso. The clothes covering the body crumbled to dust as the oxygen from the tunnel entered the tomb.
He moved the candle inside the opening to search for the bounty he was expecting and disappointedly found nothing, no jewelry. He could only see a rectangular translucent stone that had sunk into the skeleton's rib cage as the clothes disintegrated. It could be worth something. He reached with his right hand into the skeleton to retrieve it.
As the stone clung to his flesh, a fiery agony lanced through his hand, spreading like venom. Renier's scream was lost in the oppressive darkness as he desperately tried to shake the cursed stone free. But it stuck to his palm, glowing brighter and brighter and burning itself into it. He crumpled to the ground from the unbearable pain and lost consciousness. As he lay there, the glowing in his hand receded until it was completely dark again.
A tall woman with raven black hair and golden eyes floated before him. She wore a pure black dress trimmed with golden ribbons that seemed to be made of mist. On her head was a golden tiara with a moonstone at its center and a row of three small purple stones on either side. A large, brilliant, diamond-shaped purple ruby hung in the center of her forehead. Her forearms were covered by golden bracers with intricate runes carved on them. She was the most beautiful woman Renier had ever seen.
Below her, in the center of the temple, was an intricate mandala carved into the stone on the floor. She beckoned him to come to her side, but the fear coursing through Renier's veins paralyzed him. Since he wouldn't move, with an exasperated look, she pointed to him and then the mandala on the floor and made a complicated hand seal. She repeated the action three times, trying to get him to mimic her. But Renier only looked at her dumbfounded. Looking disappointed and frustrated, the woman faded away.
He woke startled, gulping for air - the vestiges of the dream receding from his memory. Disoriented, he lay on the floor for several minutes. How much time he had been out, he could not tell. Feeling the walls, he found a headstone and lit the candle he had stored in his inside pocket.
Remembering the pain in his hand, he inspected his palm, expecting to find it burned to a crisp, but only found a circle with an intricate pattern inside “tattooed” where the stone had been. The pain was now completely gone; in fact, he felt clearheaded, although he still had pangs of hunger and unbearable thirst.
Hopefully, it would already be morning, and he could use his newfound wealth for food and drink. He sprinted down the tunnels the way he came until he reached the stairs.
He waited, listening for the sounds of someone above. Satisfied that no one was waiting for him, he crept up slowly, his senses alert to any changes. He reached the empty corridor now lit by the light of the dawn and made his way to the door.
Again, he pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear anything on the other side. Slowly he pulled the door ajar and checked through the slit for guards. Seeing nothing, in one quick move, he opened the door to allow his skinny body through and covertly closed it behind him, keeping his back pressed to the wall.
Silently, he moved to the bridge, looking to cross, but two guards waited at the top. His only way out was blocked; he had but one option. Silently sprinting to the edge, he climbed down and into the canal, letting the current created by the outgoing tide take him under the bridge. The two chatting guards were oblivious to his escape.
Five hundred paces later, after passing ponte Lion, he swam to the canal's left side and reached an eatery's stairs. Thankfully, it was closed, and he quickly climbed the stairs to the street. Stealthily - to avoid attracting attention - he made his way to the alley at the bend on Calle Sotoportego. In the alley, he climbed on crates to reach the first-story window, pried it open, and entered.
Relieved, he thought, “Home sweet home.” However, the old decrepit house he shared with Don Santino - the last member of the Zena family - was not his own, and nothing was sweet about it. Nevertheless, it provided him with a place to rest safely.
He exited the empty bedroom, looking for Don Santino. At this time in the morning, he should already be up. He went to the kitchen, but it was empty. Then, he continued his search through the rest of the lower floor without success. Could the old man still be sleeping? he wondered. He knocked on Don Santino’s door but got no answer and decided to check inside. Maybe the old man was sick?
Renier's throat tightened, bile rising as his eyes took in the gruesome tableau. A silent sob caught in his chest, grief mingling with the horror at the sight of Don Santino's mutilated form. The body was naked, sitting in a chair, his arms tied, and his throat slit. One eye was missing. The fingers of his left hand on the floor strewn all around him. The right hand missing the fingernails. Burn marks on the soles of his feet. His scrotum was sliced off.
Renier didn’t panic. Obviously, the assailants were gone. My uncle’s men found us. I have to get out of here.
Quickly, he went to his bedroom. As he removed his wet clothes, he planned. He didn't have all the money he needed to join the tour to the Holy Land that would get him to his destination, and he wasn't a very good pickpocket, as evidenced by the fiasco the night before. But with a bit of luck, he could find a drunk merchant and get an involuntary donation. Then, he could leave with tomorrow's excursion.
However, first, he needed to get out of his wet clothes. He stripped and put on his only other shirt, tunic, breeches, and hose. As he dressed, he mused about getting to his aunt in Constantinople. He would pay to join the tour, and all would be well. One final job like last night, and he would have the twenty ducats he figured he needed. Second, he removed a loose brick from the wall and pulled out his “travel fund.”
He hid the purse in the inside pocket of his tunic and put a silver grosso in the pocket of his breeches. He also took a small burlap sack and tucked it inside his waist.
With those tasks accomplished, his hunger and thirst would no longer wait. He exited the house through the same window he had entered. There was an osteria a couple of blocks away where he could get food and drink. But he turned left at the street first and took a circuitous route that passed in front of the Carabinieri at Campo San Zaccaria. If any of my uncle's men are following, passing in front of the guards might throw them off. The streets were crowded by now, and he skillfully weaved between pedestrians towards the osteria. His stomach grumbled, his throat burned, and every passerby felt like an enemy.
Signora Tomasina greeted him with a smile as he entered the shop. Renier put his grosso and the burlap sack on the counter as she asked him, “Is that Don Santino feeding you? You look absolutely famished! What can I get you?”
“Signora, might there be any of yesterday's bread left? And perhaps a fish or two?” Renier's voice carried a hopeful note masked by the weariness of the streets. She nodded.
“Can I have two and a quarter of a wheel of cheese and a wineskin?” he asked in accented Venetian that marked him as a foreigner even if his blonde hair, fair skin, and blue eyes hadn’t already.
The day-old was cheaper, and he’d get more for his money. She turned to fill the order as he watched the door. Ready to bolt at the hint of any perceived danger.
“Here you go. Some men came asking about a boy. I didn’t say anything,” Signora Tomasina said as she handed him the sack full of groceries, a wineskin, and thirteen denarii of change.
Renier stepped away from the counter, took out one of the breads with two fried sardines inside, and ate as fast as he could. Tomasina watched him shaking her head. “Slow down, Frenchie. You are going to choke,” she admonished him with a glower.
He nodded, chewing slower as he took a long swig from the wineskin. Finishing his meal, he turned to leave.
As he left, Tomasina shouted, “Saluti to Don Santino! Be careful.” Renier caught a fleeting glimpse of her moving towards the back of the shop, her expression unreadable, a sense of secrecy in her hurried steps.
Renier, no longer famished, quickly walked towards a nearby fountain. He could have eaten more, but after not having anything for a few days, experience had taught him it would only make him sick.
A gruff-looking man of about 35 moved to grab Renier by the shoulder. But a sudden sense of danger made Renier dodge and start running in the other direction, the burlap sack in one hand and the wineskin in the other. He had no idea who it was, but it was obvious that he had nothing good planned.
He scanned his surroundings as he ran at full speed. Just in case the man had "friends" nearby, trying to cut off his flight. A mad dash, weaving among pedestrians through streets and alleys, ensued. Three men in-hot-pursuit. Renier didn't know the streets and alleys as well, but he did his best to lose them.
I need to find a place to hide, or it will only be a matter of time until they catch me, he fretted. His luck ran out when he saw the alley that he wanted to take blocked. Flustered, he ran past it and unthinkingly turned at the next opportunity into a dead end. Nothing to do but hide and hope they ran past. Weaving through the maze of trash and scraps in the cul de sac, he found a hole on the left and scrambled into it as deep as he could.
“You two that way," Renier saw the man command his henchmen, pointing down the street. "I’ll rummage through here,” he added, walking into the alley.
“Kid might as well come out. You're cornered,” he hissed in a tone reminiscent of a viper talking to its prey. Renier remained still and quiet, listening while the man searched the trash for him.
“The longer you make me look, the worse the trouncing I'm going to give you,” the ruffian snarled.
As he heard the sounds getting closer, he unconsciously pushed further into the hole. By then, the other two goons had returned and joined the search. If they found him, he’d be dead. His heart beat faster. They were quickly approaching the opening. He kept pushing back, thinking he would eventually hit a wall, but instead, the brick he expected to hit never materialized, and he plunged about three times his height onto a walkway.
He heard the leader telling the other two, “Look here! He probably crawled in. Gregorio, get in there and drag him out.” He was trapped. There was no chance of him getting out the way he came. He could hear Gregorio struggling to crawl into the small opening.
Fortuna must have been smiling at him because Gregorio only made it five feet in before he got stuck and implored his henchmen to pull him out. This was the first time being skinny and malnourished had worked to his advantage. “You’ll have to come out eventually, kid, and we’ll be… arghh,” he heard the leader's frustrated scream as it was cut off in the middle.
Oblivious, Renier looked around the crumbling walkway. It was part of a private boat dock. However, it was empty right now. On the left was an old wooden gate that led to the canal, and on the right, a rustic door he assumed would lead to a house. He discarded jumping into the canal again; it would ruin his food, and instead decided to sit and wait awhile.
A couple of hours later, as quiet as a mouse, he went to the door and listened for sounds on the other side. Like earlier that morning, he opened the door a sliver and, seeing no one, slipped inside into an empty kitchen. ‘With luck, no one will be home,’ he thought. Silently, he made his way to the house’s front door, opened it, and exited like he belonged.
At the mouth of the cul-de-sac stood a group of guards. Three bodies lay twenty steps in; a young gentleman was inspecting wounds on their necks.
Using the crowd as a shield, Renier walked past the guards, his pace quickening with urgency. He wove through the throng, eyes darting among the faces, each stranger a potential threat linked to his uncle. Reaching the alley, he scaled the window into the abandoned bedroom. There, his gaze snagged on the fleeting shadow of a man — a sight that sent a jolt of alarm through him. It stirred a memory of a similar, unnoticed shadow in the back of the osteria. Was he being followed? His mind churned with unease. With a wary eye on the quiet alley, he decided, I’ll wait till dusk to gather my supplies. With luck, one more mark and I can buy passage on the tour in the morning.