Chapter 13 : Wrong Turns

The Englishman laughed as Antonio staggered.

"There now, that was substantial enough, wasn't it?"

But there was nothing humorous in it for Antonio. His left eye pulsed with pain. Already it was beginning to swell shut.

With his right eye and both hands he grabbed Kirkland by the collar.

"It was you," he gritted out.

Kirkland raised a questioning eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It was you." Antonio dragged him closer. "You sent that man to kill me, and he got Lovino instead. It was you, wasn't it?" His voice was shaking. "You were behind all of it!"

"What?" The Englishman looked affronted—no, more than affronted. "Now why in the world would I—"

He stopped as Antonio's fingers closed around his neck.

"Don't worry," Antonio whispered, leaning forward until they were eye to eye. "I'll make it quick, just so the city won't wake up to hear your screaming. I'll kill you right here, right now. Unless you have any last words. You'd better say them now."

"I didn't do it."

"If only you could prove it," Antonio said patronizingly. "But it's too late for that."

He did not let go. Kirkland made no move to push him away. But the Englishman did reach into his belt. There was a glint of metal. A dagger appeared in his hand.

He held it out before Antonio.

"Take it."

Uncomprehending, Antonio stared at him.

"I said, take it," Kirkland growled impatiently. "You want to kill me. So take the damn blade and do it!"

Antonio's mind whirled. Any moment now some survivor of Kirkland's men might appear and send an arrow through him. He could be ambushed from behind. Or Kirkland himself would take advantage of the lapse, kick him, snatch the dagger back or pull out another, and kill him. His mind ran through all these possibilities in a flash. He was fully prepared for all of them.

He loosed his right hand and took the dagger.

Still Kirkland stood there, unmoving, even as Antonio slowly lifted the blade to his neck. He smiled a small smile.

"I never was an innocent man, except this once. So do as you wish."

The Spaniard paused for a split second, the moment weighing upon him. Here was the man who had plagued the seas for more years than anyone else. Here was the sole obstacle to Antonio's dreams of glory. He existed only to kill, to maim, to steal. His was the business of human misery. He had nearly taken Lovino with him—whether by his own hand or not, he had brought it about.

And here was the moment of truth—his payment for his misdeeds. He was going to repent. He was going to offer up his life and leave the world a better place without him.

Antonio looked deep into the eyes of the man he had once so hated for so many reasons, the man he still did hate.

His hand trembled. The sharp metal against exposed flesh—it was right there, just waiting for a small movement—a little press, a little tap, and then—he could do it—he could—

The dagger dropped from his hand.

Kirkland stared, silent, as the weapon hit the sand with a soft thud. Silence reigned. For a second the two men stood facing each other like stone statues.

And then Antonio spoke.

"I won't."

Slowly he turned and began walking away. But the Englishman called to him.

"What do you mean by this?"

"I'm sparing your miserable life," Antonio said without turning around. "What more do you need to know?"

"I want to know why."

The Spaniard laughed dryly. "I thought pirates like us weren't concerned with whys. We just do whatever we like and leave it that way."

"Except we're not pirates anymore," Kirkland pointed out.

"You must've gotten it wrong. Once a pirate, always a pirate. Isn't that what they say?"

Still the Englishman wouldn't leave him alone. Antonio had only just begun to walk faster when he heard Kirkland catching up.

"Not so fast!"

Then came a sound cuff to Antonio's shoulder, the one with the bad arm. Antonio didn't even react to the pain; glancing at Kirkland, he raised an eyebrow.

"That," said Kirkland harshly, "was for the stupid act with the dagger, you mushy-hearted excuse for a pirate."

Antonio remained staring at him. And then a slow smile spread across his face.

"You can go die in a hole. Goodbye."

Somehow they ended up entering the city together.

In retrospect, Antonio regarded it as a necessity. If he could have done it any other way, Kirkland would never have been part of it. But one lone, bruised, seawater-drenched Spaniard staggering into the city on foot would certainly have merited unwanted attention—and there was no telling whether Feliciano's party might have spread news of him.

Besides, it was different traveling with an Englishman in tow. Or rather, being towed along by an Englishman. Not that Antonio had actually agreed to it, but—necessity again took precedence. And when it was mutual necessity, civilities somehow became easier.

They had planned all this out behind a stack of crates in a quiet alley—or rather Kirkland had done most of the talking—but even Antonio had to admit that it was the best course of action for the moment.

First it turned out Kirkland actually had two eyes.

He proved this point by removing his ridiculously conspicuous eyepatch, and what Antonio saw there made him start. The man had indeed two eyes, but different in color—one green, the other blue. He had been born with them.

As Kirkland explained it, the authorities were probably looking for a one-eyed Englishman and a two-eyed Spaniard. But now they were a two-eyed Englishman and one-eyed Spaniard. Exactly the opposite of whatever the wanted posters said. It was always the old tricks that worked.

"And I could just pass for a lost wealthy foreigner if I had the clothes," Kirkland mused, reaching somewhere into his damp shirt and bringing out a few gold coins. "But as you can see, that can definitely be arranged. Money always helps in cases like these. I thought you'd know enough to bring your own."

Antonio scowled at him, his tongue only tempered because Kirkland had given him two of the gold pieces. He would not put up with this for any longer than he should.

"So what will I be, then, Kirkland?"

"You'd better call me Arthur or else they'd think you were my servant. Although having a servant sounds fairly pleasant, don't you—"

"Arthur."

Kirkland—or rather Arthur—smirked. "You'll have to play the part of my drunk friend who was stupid enough to start a fight in a bar. Which anyone can see from your black eye and slow face."

"Remind me why I'm here with you and not knocking you out cold this very moment."

"That doesn't need reminder," said Arthur cheerfully. "Now if you'll point me to the nearest shop where I can buy decent clothes, I might just be able to save your sorry ass and mine."

Antonio glared at him.

"Go out, turn right, walk straight ahead until you see the tailor's shop, and then turn right again. I saw it when we were coming over here. They sell used clothes. That's the best you'll get. Make sure you look poor and beg as much as possible—I mean bargain."

"Of course that was what you meant. Git."

"Hijo de puta," Antonio made sure to whisper loudly before Arthur vanished around the corner as instructed.

Finally the Spaniard had a moment to himself in the musty smelly air of the alley. But there was nothing to do, and he found his thoughts wandering again to a certain Italian. Something in his chest ached at the remembrance; he had now no way of knowing whether Lovino was all right. Only Feliciano's word, and his word on his own brother should be trusted, but Antonio couldn't just settle for that.

They had taken him here to Venice and planned to stay—that meant the villa was still here. Antonio still remembered how to get there, although not from this point precisely; he would have to ask where it was, or begin from the Grand Canal. Then he would only have to rely on his feet to get him there.

He wondered whether much had changed in the thirteen years since he had left. But that brought back memories he didn't want to dwell on. So Antonio wiped his mind free of them and took stock of his surroundings instead.

A quick glance upward told him he was no longer alone. They should have paid more attention to where they were talking beforehand—although Arthur's shoddy Italian and his own bad English were probably incomprehensible unless one listened closely. Still he could see a clothesline stretched across the alley. A woman was hanging clothes on it from the left, in a second-story window. Instinctively he ducked lower behind the crates. The water from the drying clothes dripped down on him, and suddenly a small white something came fluttering down from above.

"Merda," he heard the woman say, and she disappeared from the window. There was no time to waste; Antonio darted out from his hiding place and picked his way out between the boxes, trying not to make noise. The white bundle caught his eye; it was a clean white shirt, dry, which had fallen from the clothesline.

Well, it was just one shirt, he thought guiltily, discarding his own and slipping it on. After a second's thought he took out one of the gold coins and laid it on top of the pile he had left. That was a fair enough trade.

And at least he looked decent now. His trousers were still rather damp, but they were presentable enough. He did not warrant a second glance on the busy streets, not even with his black eye—which was Arthur's fault.

Speaking of Arthur, he still had not returned...

"So you were actually going to leave without me, huh?" said the familiar English voice, seemingly out of nowhere. Arthur appeared beside him, dressed in fairly well-made clothes. "I certainly wouldn't put it past you."

"Shut up."

Arthur took hold of his arm. "Be still, my drunken friend. I've found a room for you, just over here, and there's plenty of wine too! Just come with me..."

Grumbling, Antonio followed him—making sure to do his best drunk impression and slouching against him so his face was shadowed. No one took much notice of them; it seemed they were in one of the more common quarters of the city, and they kept to the shadows. But if they had been on the wealthier streets they would instantly have drawn attention.

A few minutes was all it took for them to reach a small inn, with a faded sign that read The Singing Mermaid. Nothing from its exterior supported the fancy title. The windows were slightly dusty and the door creaked on its hinges. Nevertheless Antonio was forced to go inside, though not very obediently.

The innkeeper was a sleepy-looking man with the wildest brown hair Antonio had ever seen; he stood almost with his eyes closed at the counter, barely taking any notice of the Englishman and Spaniard. Secretly Antonio was grateful that Arthur had chosen this inn and not another—they would hardly be suspected here. Especially with such an innkeeper.

"Oh, you have come," he said in a slow, easy voice. "Your room is upstairs. I will send something for your friend shortly." This last bit was addressed to Arthur, who gave a nod.

Then they went up the stairs. Halfway there, however, Antonio stopped pretending to be drunk and resisted Arthur's attempts to drag him along.

"Why did you only get one room? I'm not sleeping in the same bed with you."

"Neither am I," Arthur shot back. "You smell like shit."

"I'm leaving."

"Go right ahead then. You can get killed on the street for all I care, since I got into the city safe already. Besides, I'm leaving by boat in a few days." By this time they were already inside.

Antonio stared at him. "What?"

"What? I'm leaving the city. Did you think I was going to stay here forever?" Arthur closed the door before lowering his voice. "Listen up, idiot. I've seen the posters around here. We're wanted dead or alive. They haven't got our faces, but they will soon. I'm not going to wait around for them to catch me, and if you have any brains in your head, neither will you."

"But—"

"Oh, you still want to see your Italian lover." Arthur shrugged. "Well, don't expect me to wait for you then."

"I'm going to find him."

"You do know how dangerous that is, don't you? Going right up to the family that most wants you dead. Probably not a damn good idea."

"I don't care, I'm going anyway," said Antonio. "But why do you care? There isn't anything in it for you."

Arthur glared. "Now look here, you imbecile. I'm not going to argue this shit over with you. I'm only saying that being separated won't be good for either of us."

"Whatever." No matter what motive Arthur might have in mind, it was probably not a positive one. Once they reached wherever the ship took them, he'd likely strike out on his own and try to establish a pirate crew again, or something of that sort. And of course he'd try to recruit Antonio along with him. "What advice do you have for me then, wise man?"

"Well, listen. If you're coming with me on that ship, you'd better make it back within three days. Or else you'll get caught and you'll die. That's all I can say."

Antonio thought it over. It was a difficult job. One side of him kept screaming for Lovino, needed to feel his warmth and taste his lips and hold him close. The other told him Arthur was speaking sense for once, that he would have to leave in order to keep the promise he had made. He could not reconcile the two, could not do both things at once...

By the time he had reached a decision, it was already nighttime. Arthur had draped himself over the bed and fallen asleep. Still Antonio sat in his corner and brooded. And then he stood and went over to the window.

It would begin tonight.

In another part of the city, the same night and the same stars shone over quite a different scene. The Vargas villa was well-lit and well-guarded; the windows in one of the higher floors shed their own light. And if one were to look in, a noisy fuss would meet the eye.

Inside a wounded Italian had awoken and was yelling his head off. Servants were running to and fro, trying to tend to him, and his brother had only just entered to try to calm him down.

"Fratello! Fratello, what's wrong—"

"Get Antonio back for me! Find him! Find him right now, you assholes, or else I'll do it myself!"

And to make good on his threat Lovino pushed himself up, letting out a pained grunt as he did so. Feliciano rushed forward to help him, but Lovino only pushed him away. He did the same with any of the servants who dared come near.

"If you don't bring him back alive, I—I'll go after him!" he shouted, coughing a little.

The room fell deathly quiet. There was no mistaking what he had just said.

Suddenly it was Feliciano's turn to shout.

"Stop it, Lovino, just stop! STOP!"

"Why should I?"

"He's a pirate, fratello! How could you? Of all the people you had to go after, you had to—"

"Don't you say a fucking word about him or else—"

"He's not respectable and he's a MAN! How could you!?"

Lovino fell silent and gave him a long, hard stare. So did the servants; they were likely shocked by this scandalizing information. The Vargas heir, in love with a man, and a pirate at that?

But Lovino didn't care.

"I knew him when we were both children. And I don't give a fuck what anyone says. I want him back and you will bring him back."

His eyes flashed with a perilous anger that no one in the household, not even Feliciano, had ever seen. All shrank back from the wave of his fury. And at last Feliciano relented.

"He's probably alive," he said quietly. "My men were going to take him to prison, but Giorgio said he wouldn't go and jumped off instead. He told me he found footprints on the sand near where we landed. He's in Venice somewhere."

During the explanation Lovino sat still, his face settling into almost complete calm. Then at the very end he tried to get up again.

"I'm going to look for him."

"No, you're not." Feliciano stopped him with one arm and held him as he started wheezing. "I'll send Giorgio and the others tomorrow morning. And if they find him, they will bring him back this time. I'll make them tell him you want to see him. If he really cares about you, he'll come here."

"Good," Lovino whispered. "Good. I'll be waiting." He lay back down on the bed, sighed, and closed his eyes. In minutes he was asleep, the first true rest he had had since they had left the ship.

Quietly Feliciano signaled to the servants still remaining in the room, the ones who hadn't fled before Lovino's outburst. Dutifully they filed out through the doorway. Feliciano was the last to go, lingering to look at his brother's serene face one last time before he blew out the little flame in the lamp on the table, bathing the room in darkness.

"You don't know what you're doing, fratello," he said, almost to himself, and then he shut the door.

It was not a long way to the Grand Canal and its bridges. Antonio only had to ask a merchant going home with his wares. But he could have spoken with more if he liked; there was no fear of being recognized on the darkened streets.

He knew there were few gondolas about this late at night, and he had no reason to call one, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Instead he allowed his feet to take him along the well-traveled path, the one he had taken many a day to Lovino's home when he was a child. Strolling along the side of the canal with only starlight as his guide, Antonio felt as if he were young again, young with the promise of a free and bright future. He took a breath of the cool air and allowed it to settle inside him.

Without stopping, he followed his instinct, crossing a bridge, passing through this street, turning a corner to another. His feet and his heart told him where he should go. And finally he arrived at his destination.

He paused behind a slim tree which had been planted along the street sides. There before him was the beautiful villa, which he had once regarded with a boy's eyes, as something towering and powerful and insurmountable. Now Antonio thought nothing of it. As he watched a light flickered in one of the eastern wings—the same place where little Romano, now Lovino lived.

On an impulse he made a move toward that direction, but in the same moment noticed the guards ringing the grounds. There would be no strolling out below the stars; he would be caught, recognized, and probably taken to prison. Antonio darted behind the shadows of the trees alongside the street, and slipped quietly towards the villa, unnoticed by the guards.

Below Lovino's window—he was sure it was Lovino's window—one of the tallest trees had stretched its branches. Here was a stroke of luck; he grabbed the lowest branch, careful not to make any creaking noises, and hauled himself up. The tree limbs parted easily and soon he found himself at the top, high enough to look inside. He did so.

Although it was late, and the light in the room was dim, Antonio could clearly see the face of the man sitting up in bed. Lovino had never looked more sad and more alone. His hazel eyes, which Antonio had always seen flashing with brilliant anger or heartfelt emotion, were quiet and lusterless. His hands lay idle at his sides. He sat like a marionette waiting to be moved. And as Antonio watched him his heart beat powerfully and his mouth opened to speak.

"Lovino," he would say, and Lovino would look up at him, his eyes would regain their glow, Antonio would climb through the window and catch him in his arms. He would kiss him, hold him tightly, whisper to him that he loved him and would never let him go. And everything would be all right again.

But as Antonio opened his mouth to speak, he saw something which stopped him short.

For Lovino was not alone in the room. By the light of the flickering lamp a girl was working, bending over a pan with a cloth which she was soaking. A minute later she finished, and made her way over to Lovino. Something in Antonio's chest clenched as she moved closer to wipe the Italian's face.

"Feeling better?" he heard her ask.

"Yes," said Lovino—that familiar well-loved voice, directed toward that girl!—and smiled a small smile. "It's late; you shouldn't be here."

"Oh, you jest! Why can't I be here? I have every right to."

She also smiled. Antonio saw her smile by the weak light: it was a beautiful smile, and she had a beautiful face. Perhaps that too pleased Lovino, because he patted her hand.

"There now, Chiara. You don't need to be mother to me too. Go sleep or you'll ruin your pretty face."

The girl he called Chiara gave a chuckle. "I knew you had a silver tongue; you need to use it more often. You could move worlds with it if you just tried."

"I try," said Lovino, lying down. "But when I try you'll have to listen."

"Oh, you..."

She bent down to kiss his forehead, and patted his cheek. "Sleep well, all right? I'll be back tomorrow morning."

Lovino gave her another smile. "Goodnight."

The beautiful girl took her leave of him, blowing out the flame in the lamp once again, and closing the door behind her. The room was once more enveloped in darkness.

And Antonio remained where he sat, his hands growing numb from bracing himself against the wall, his heart still and cold. He was there for what seemed like ages, unmoving, unfeeling, unbelieving. Because what he had seen could not be true, and yet it was.

Ages later, he reached into his pocket and brought out a folded scrap of parchment. He stared at it for a moment, as if he would very much like to burn it. But at last he decided against it, and leaned near the window once more, letting it fall on the sill and flutter to the floor.

Then he made his way to the ground, leaving as silently as he had come.

x X x

Translations:

Hijo de puta (Spanish) - Son of a bitch

Merda (Italian) - Shit