nervously. He turned toward it, took a step, and then stopped. “You are a man whose heart Anubis is weighing, only you are alive,” he whispered. “What an amazing thing.” He crouched down closer to the book. “Alive. There is the heart of the matter. Refute this, and you live. Live to become…someone.” John continued to look at the book.
“Are you afraid of death, John Milton? Are you as afraid as poor Sir Gregory? Is that why you are even considering writing for Wentworth?” He slowly eased his hand forward, as if the thin book were a poisonous snake. He snatched it up suddenly. Standing, he opened it to he first page, started to read, and then quickly slammed it shut. “Damn that man!
“That John Milton will never live! No matter what I choose, he is dead!” He used the book in his hands to point to others in succession. “I am a different person than this one. Different from this one too. At each age, I wrote in a different tone, a different timbre, with a different mind.”
He sat heavily onto the pallet. “The second question is: can you live with who you may become? Who you will become. What you will become.” Bile rose in his throat. “Traitor.” He coughed the word, and his throat burned. He swallowed and cursed silently to himself for a while.
He then stood and looked defiantly at the bookshelf, as if it were another man in the room. “Will I be a traitor to you? To me?” He paused as if listening to the answer from the shelves. “You cannot judge me, old man. Not now, not ever. Great works. Epic works. Can I do it again?”
He stopped, puzzled. “What was it that Wentworth said? Shades. Colors. A man who can see different colors?” He noticed he was still holding the book and had an impulse to throw the cheaply bound folio against the wall with all his might. He could almost see it splashing against the stone, pages flying.
But something held him back, stayed his arm.
His frustration flowed out of him like a river, leaving him dry.
He eased himself to a seat on his pallet.
Perhaps, one day he would be able to define what it was that stayed his hand. Define the moment when he decided he should live. Perhaps he could write a great work, discussing the nuances of human thought and rationality, fear of death. Yes. He would do that, some day, when he was older.
But for now, with his quill in hand, John Milton began to write.
To End the Evening
Barnabas Marcoli gingerly ran his fingers up along the side of his head. Dried blood had already matted his hair into clumps, around a lump half the size of a small goose egg.
This was definitely not the way he had planned to end his first evening free in nearly two weeks.
Barnabas sagged back against the wall of the tavern and closed his eyes. From the far end of the room he could hear voices speaking a variety of languages-Italian, mixed in with a flurry of German and something that sounded vaguely eastern European-the sort of mixture that could be found in most places like this in Venice.
Someone pressed a mug into Barnabas’s left hand; his fingers closed around the pewter surface automatically. He hesitated for a moment, and then downed the contents in two quick swallows. The wine was sharp and bitter, not the kind that he normally preferred to drink, but at that moment he didn’t care.
“Easy lad; take a few deep breaths and see if you can get your wits about you before you tear into any more of this miserable excuse for wine.”
Barnabas found himself looking at a tall, lanky man, several years his elder, dressed in plain, slightly worn clothing with a sword hanging at his waist. The stranger had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair. From his accent there was no doubt that he was French; his Italian was good but not quite good enough to hide his origins.
“Can I ask a stupid question?” said Barnabas. “What in the hell happened to me?”
“Oh, that.” His companion chuckled. “Seems a pair of ruffians wanted to relieve you of your purse and weren’t too picky in the way they did it. I’m glad I happened along at the right time.”
Barnabas nodded. He remembered how he had been cutting through a narrow alley just east of the American embassy when a man had appeared in front of him and demanded money. Before Barnabas could react, someone else struck him from behind. Everything after that, until this stranger had guided him into the tavern, remained something of a blur.
“Damn,” Barnabas muttered as he reached inside of his shirt but found nothing there.
“Would this be what you might be looking for?” A small burgundy coin bag slid across the table.
Barnabas let out a long sigh. It was true that there wasn’t much money in it, apprentice metal workers weren’t rich, but it was his money. Not to mention the fact that Barnabas knew full well that his cousins would not let him forget it if they discovered that he had been robbed.
“I thank you, sir. My name is Marcoli, Barnabas Marcoli. I owe you not only my life, but my dignity. I will pray for you at mass,” he said. “And who might I name as my Good Samaritan?”
“D’Artagnan, Charles D’Artagnan.”
Barnabas stared at the man for a time.
“I have the feeling that I know of you, sir.” Something about that name was familiar, but the throbbing in Barnabas’s head didn’t help his concentration. He repeated it over and over in his mind; the memory was there, and close, infuriatingly close, but he could not bring it to the surface.
“I think not. I am new come to Venice. Before the little altercation with those ruffians, had you dined?” When Barnabas shook his head, D’Artagnan smiled and motioned for the tavern girl. “Good. Neither have I.”
A few minutes later they had plates of chicken, cheese and bread set in front of them.
“I hope you ordered enough for three.”
Barnabas turned with a start and found a small man dressed in brown sitting next to him. The newcomer looked like he could only be five foot one or two. He had an ordinary looking face with nothing on it that would have distinguished him from anyone else on the streets of Venice.
“I wondered when you were going to show up,” said D’Artagnan.
The small man shrugged, motioning for the serving girl to bring him something to drink. “I was working. After all, we do have a reason for being here besides wenching and drinking.”
“Pity,” laughed D’Artagnan. “Barnabas, let me introduce you to my traveling companion, Aramis.”
“Aramis? D’Artagnan?” Barnabas cocked his head at both men; suddenly feeling very pleased with himself. “So where are the other two?”
“Other two?” said D’Artagnan.
“Obviously, he’s read the book,” said the small man called Aramis, switching from Italian to English.
“Indeed I have,” Barnabas responded, somewhat unsure of his English, but wanting to use it now, nonetheless. “ The Three Musketeers was only one of several novels that Frank Stone, that young man my cousin Giovanna has been making eyes at, lent me. He said they would help me learn American faster. So are you really the one in the book?”
“I suppose I really should to get a copy of that book sometime,” muttered D’Artagnan. “Yes, I am the one that book was about.”
It occurred to Barnabas that there were several things that might be interesting to ask the Frenchman about concerning the events in that book, but the look on the man’s face suggested that this might be a good time to let those questions lie.
“I obviously owe you my life, Monsieur D’Artagnan. If there is any way in which I can repay you, do not hesitate to say so. Had you not come along I suspect I would have ended up face down in the canal,” Barnabas said.
“Think nothing of it,” said D’Artagnan.
“Actually,” said Aramis, a thin smile on his face, “I think that you can help us.”
“I take it you have a plan?” D’Artagnan said in a whisper to Aramis.
In the time that D’Artagnan had known Aramis, he had learned that the small man had a sharp sense of
