Altai: A Novel Read Free

they’re not to blame for anything.”
    Well done, Rizzi, a good observation. But I still wasn’t convinced.
    “Tell me, what makes you think it was an accident?”
    He pointed to the big chimney pots of the foundries—the area we were about to visit. “If the Turks wanted to damage us, they’d have started their fire somewhere more central.”
    “There’s not just the Turks in this world.”
    “Thank God. But what I say about them applies to anyone: If I wanted to destroy the Arsenal, I’d strike at its heart, not its heel.”
    I nodded. “And you certainly wouldn’t wait until half the barrels of powder had been taken somewhere else. Or choose a stormy night, so that the wind would carry the flames outside.”
    Tavosanis lifted the oars and took a breath, staring straight into my eyes. “Only chance is as precise as that.”
    “Chance, certainly.” I lowered a hand into the water, as if the sea might give me a clue. “Or an enemy other than the Turks. An enemy who doesn’t want to do too much damage.”

3.
     
    As I had expected, the foundries were unscathed, since they were far away from the site of the explosion. The first and second workshops were still bolted shut. Tavosanis and Rizzi slipped into the calle between one and the other and checked the perimeter.
    The third door was wide open. A sound of hammering came from within. I stepped into the doorway and walked forward slowly, checking the various departments. In the carpenters’ area there wasn’t a tool out of place. The tree trunks that had already been shaped were divided according to caliber and type, in the usual meticulous stacks. Farther along, where the pressing was done, a certain chaos was only to be expected. Bags of lime, ox hair, wax presses for relief decorations: Everything was scattered around big tables or piled up at random in corners. The foul stench of tallow oil emerged from jars that had been left open. Only the clay shells were set down carefully, ready to receive the molten bronze. On the other side, the piercing frames were silent and no one turned the lathe, the wheels of the augers, the bow-drills for punching touch-holes.
    The racks for the finished weapons seemed unmanned too, but again a metallic sound reached my ears.
    My call of “Who’s there?” received a faint reply a moment later, and a gray head appeared from behind a long, slender cannon. It was Varadian, the Armenian artilleryman who worked on prototypes. I was about to ask the man if he’d noticed anything when he suddenly spoke first: “Signor De Zante, it’s a good thing you’ve shown up, you at least.”
    He looked shattered. The room was cold and the kilns were unlit, but his forehead was pearled with sweat.
    “What’s troubling you?”
    He opened his eyes wide, as if a ghost had appeared behind me. I had to force myself not to turn round and check. “The Turks. Trust me, I’ve worked for them. This fire is just the start of it; they’re going to attack us again. I know the architect Savorgnan is reinforcing the defenses at the entrance to the lagoon. Fair enough, a good precaution, but take a look, look around. There isn’t anyone here yet this morning, no guards or workmen. The treasure that interests our enemies most is here, but no one’s protecting it apart from me, and I deserve more protection than the others.”
    “What did the workers do?”
    “They spent the night putting out the fire, they got a pay raise, and now they’re resting on their laurels.”
    I tried to assume a reassuring tone. Varadian knew how much the Mohammedans hated renegades. He had been an engineer in Constantinople for years, before coming over to us. He had become a Christian because the Republic allowed him to work, financing his experiments into cannon recoil. In contrast, the Turkish vizier of war had considered them pointless and unworthy of attention. The Ottomans wanted only one thing from a fiery mouth: that it should be big, gigantic, colossal.