Mutiny by Julian Stockwin Page B

mists when a gun thudded next to a small tower.
As one, bows swung round and there was a general convergence on a gap in the
coastline at the tower, a cloud of small ships slipping through the narrow
opening, the trabaccolo captain at his tiller a study in concentration as he
jockeyed his craft through.
    It was only a slender
spit of land, but inside was the Venetian lagoon, and Venice. The spreading
morning vision took Kydd's breath away: an island set alone in a glassy calm
some five miles off, fairy-tale in the roseate pale of morning, alluring in its
medieval mystery. He stared at the sight, captivated by the tremulous beauty of
distant bell-towers, minarets and old stone buildings.
    The lagoon was studded
with poles marking deeper channels and Kydd tore away his attention to admire
the deft seamanship that had the deep-laden trader nimbly threading its way
through. The trabaccolo was rigged with a loose lugsail at the fore and a
standing lug at the mainmast, an odd arrangement that had the lower end of the
loose lug swung round the after side of one mast when tacking about, but left
the other on the same side.
    As they
approached, the island city took on form and substance. A large number of craft
were sleepily approaching or leaving, the majority issuing forth from a
waterway in the centre of the island. They tacked about and bore down on it and
it soon became apparent that a minor island was detached from the main; they
headed towards the channel between, towards a splendour of buildings that were
as handsome as they were distinctive.
    Kydd stared in wonder:
here was a civilisation that was confident and disdainful to dare so much magnificence.
He stole a look at the others. The crewmen seemed oblivious to it, faking down
ropes and releasing hatch-covers; Larsson gazed stolidly, while Renzi and
Griffith both stared ahead, absorbed in the approaching prospect. Amati
fidgeted next to the captain, visibly ill at ease.
    They shaped course to
parallel the shore, passing a splendid vision of a palace, colonnades, the
brick-red of an impossibly lofty square bell-tower. 'Piazza San Marco,' Renzi
said, noticing Kydd's fascination. 'You will find the Doge at home in that
palace. He is the chief eminence of Venice. You will mark those two pillars -
it is there that executions of state are performed, and to the right, the
Bridge of Sighs and the Doge's dread prison.' He spoke offhandedly, and Kydd
felt rising irritation until he realised this was a defence: his cultured
friend was as affected as he.
    Griffith broke off his discussion
with Amati and came across. 'You see there,' he said, pointing at a golden ball
displayed prominently at the tip of the approaching promontory, 'the Saluday,
the customs house of Venice. We shall be boarded, but Mr Amati says there'll be
no difficulties. They're much more concerned to levy their taxes, and foreign
seamen are not of interest to them.'
    He gave a small smile. 'I will be a
factor from Dalmatia, Mr Renzi will be my clerk.' Griffith wore the plain black
last seen on Bacchante's surgeon. 'We may disembark and take passage to our
lodgings without interference.'
    True to anticipation,
the revenue officials ignored them in favour of a lively interchange with the
captain, leaving them to hail and board one of the flat work-boats sculling
about.
    They clambered into the
forward well and settled. 'Dorsoduro,' Renzi said briefly, eyes on the colourful,
bustling shore ahead. 'And this, my friend, is the Grand Canal.'
    It was impossible
not to be moved by the unique atmosphere of Venice — a true city of the water.
Every building seemed to grow straight up from its watery origins with not an
inch of wasted space. Instead of roads there were countless canals along which
the commerce of the city progressed in watercraft of every kind in a ceaseless
flow on the jade-green waters.
    They passed deeper into
the Grand Canal, seeing the mansions of the rich, each with a cluster of gaily
coloured poles