still mercifully open and all the customers gone. The landlord,
busy mopping the floor, looks up shocked as the white-faced priest
stumbles in.
‘What is it?’
‘Water,’ gasps Vivaldi.
Pouring a tumbler full, the landlord helps him sip and
takes him to a seat. He is breathing so fast and shallowly that he
can hardly speak. Instead he fumbles for his purse and takes from
it a ducat.
‘Quick,’ he wheezes, shoving the money across the table.
‘Fetch Signor Coopman here immediately, adjutant to the Count. I
am Don Antonio Vivaldi. This is an emergency, a matter of life or
death!’ The landlord wastes not a second in snatching up the coin
from the table.
‘You’ll get another the minute Coopman gets here,’ pants
Vivaldi.
Shouting something into the back kitchen, the landlord
throws off his apron and is gone. Antonio leans forward over the
table and rests his head on his arms to ease his breathing. After a
few moments he removes his hat and drags his sleeve across his
forehead to wipe away the sweat. He closes his eyes. Per l’amor del
cielo. Please heaven let them be safe. Mother Maria, what can I do?
Just wait!
It seems hours before Antonio Vivaldi hears the clatter of galloping
hooves. Slightly recovered, he puts on his hat and goes outside to
see Walter Coopman approaching, another rider close behind him.
Recognising the priest, they immediately slow their horses.
‘Don Vivaldi,’ Coopman calls out, slipping lithely from the
saddle, ‘what’s going on?’ Antonio quickly explains. The adjutant
scratches his head thoughtfully.
‘I’m not sure if I have the right to walk unannounced into
someone’s house, even given the seriousness of the present
situation,’ he says.
‘Does there have to be a murder first?’ demands the
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