The Family - Mario Puzo [132]
After what seemed like an eternity, when the men turned up nothing, they gathered on the bridge just above his head. He heard one of them grumble, “The Roman is nowhere to be seen. The bastard probably drowned.”
“He’s better off drowned than swimming in that shit,” one of the others said.
“Let’s call it a night,” came a voice filled with authority. “Nero paid us to cut his throat, not to run around chasing a wild goose till dawn.”
He listened to the footsteps of the men as they walked across the bridge above his head, one by one, until he heard nothing more.
Concerned that they had left a guard watching from a window or balcony, Cesare swam quietly along the dark bank of the small canal into the Grand Canal itself, and finally up to the dock of his own palazzo. His night watchman, assigned by the doge, was amazed to see their honored guest pull himself out of the water shivering and foul-smelling.
In his quarters, after a hot bath, Cesare put on a clean robe and drank a mug of hot sherry. He sat for quite a time, deep in thought. Then he gave the orders that he would leave at dawn. When they reached the dry land of the Veneto, he would pick up his carriage.
Cesare didn’t sleep that night. As the sun rose over the lagoon, he climbed into a large gondola, manned by three of the doge’s men armed with swords and crossbows. They were about to cast off when a burly man in a dark uniform ran out onto the dock.
“Excellency,” he said breathlessly. “I must introduce myself before you go. I am the captain of the police overseeing this district of the city. Before you depart I want to apologize for the incident last night. Venice is full of thieves and bandits who will rob any stranger unlucky enough to be caught out at night.”
“You must keep more of your men where they can be found,” Cesare said sardonically.
The captain said, “You would do us a great favor if you would delay your voyage and accompany me to the area of the attack. Your escort can wait here. Perhaps we can go into one or two of the nearby houses so that you may identify your assailants.”
Cesare was torn. He wanted to be on his way, but he also wanted to know who had planned to attack him. Yet investigating the attack could take hours and he had too much to do. Others could bring him information. Now he must return to Rome.
“Captain,” Cesare said, “under ordinary circumstances I’d be pleased to help you, but my carriage is waiting. I hope to reach Ferrara by nightfall, for the country roads are as dangerous as your alleys. So you must excuse me.”
The big policeman smiled and tipped his helmet. “Will you be returning to Venice soon, Excellency?”
“I hope to,” Cesare said, smiling.
“Ah, perhaps you will help us then. You can contact me at police headquarters near the Rialto. My name is Bernardino Nerozzi, but everyone calls me ‘Nero.’ ”
On the long trip back to Rome, Cesare considered who could have hired the police captain to murder him in Venice. But it was a hopeless task, for there were too many possibilities. If he had been killed, he chuckled inwardly, there would have been so many suspects, the crime would never be solved.
Still, he wondered. Could it have been one of Alfonso’s Aragonese relatives, seeking revenge for his death? Or Giovanni Sforza, still angry and humiliated over his divorce and the claim of impotence? Or one of the Riario, enraged at the capture of Caterina Sforza? Or Giuliano della Rovere, who hated all the Borgia, no matter how civilized he pretended to be? Surely it could have been one of the vicars of Faenza, Urbino, or some other city who wanted to stop his campaign and prevent his planned attacks. Or any one of the hundreds of men who held a grudge against his father.
As his carriage arrived at the gates of Rome, he was certain of only one thing. He must watch his back, for it was certain now that someone wanted him dead.
If being bedded