In the late autumn afternoon of 1572, Morosini's carriage slowly moves along the muddy road leading to Mantua. The air smells of rain and rotting leaves, while the sky is colored by the day's last rays. Inside the carriage, Morosini mulls over business and negotiations, unaware of the omen hanging over his journey.
Around him, the Venetian escort proceeds silently, with the order and caution of those who have learned to distrust the quiet of the woods. As the caravan enters the narrow gorge between two hills, the light gives way to darkness and the wind grows colder. Nature seems to hold its breath, and what follows shatters the balance like a sudden flash in the dead of night. Nothing will ever be the same again after that descent into the shadows.
The Ambush at Mantua: between shadows, betrayal and Morosini’s twilight
Tales. 1572 Blood Carnival. Chapter 22: The Throat of Silence
Morosini had sunk lazily into the padded sofa of his carriage, his hands resting on the cane and his gaze lost beyond the glass misted by his breath. The late afternoon air smelled of damp earth and dead leaves, carried by a wind that slipped through the window slits with an intermittent whisper. The horses laboured on, their shoes sinking into the hardened mud, while the wheels groaned over the ruts carved out by the previous days’ rains. Every jolt made the inside of the carriage vibrate, lightly clinking the buckles and chains of the wooden chests fixed to the frame.
Tired and silent, he let the swaying cradle him into a sort of torpor, but his mind would not stop running. He had spent the last few days immersed in calculations of profits and risks for the journey: the chests with precious stones, the letters of credit, the diplomatic letters for Antwerp. And yet, in that moment, nothing seemed more real than the sound of the wind slipping through the trees, the shadows stretching over the paths, or the rhythmic creaking of the carriage wood that seemed to breathe like a living being.
In the distance, through a curtain of copper-coloured vapours, the dark outline of Mantua could be glimpsed, girdled by the reflections of the Mincio and lit by the first torches kindled along the walls.
The sun, now low, set the sky aflame with orange and violet streaks, and the glare was mirrored in the puddles that dotted the road. Behind him, the mounted escort followed in a compact formation: seven men, chosen and disciplined, advancing without speaking, their eyes fixed on the woods they had to cross.They entered a long dip in the ground, a treacherous stretch where the road snaked between wooded hills that closed in like two living walls: shady, almost hostile. The tall, twisted trees bent over the track as though to spy on travellers, and among the foliage one could hear the ceaseless rustle of the wind, mingled with the calls of the night birds that were already announcing evening. The wagon wheels sank into the tracks left by previous travellers, and every bump made the chests tremble and the horses’ harnesses jingle....
