“Your doge lived for nearly a century,” Ettore said. “A miracle in his day. Superstition attributed his longevity to his brave act of rescuing the bones of Saint Lucia from Constantinople and bringing them back to Venice. Saint Lucia lost her eyes to—”
“He plucked up the bones of the blind!” Sienna blurted, glancing at Langdon, who had just had the same thought.
Ettore gave Sienna an odd look. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
Ferris looked suddenly wan, as if he had not yet caught his breath from the long walk across the plaza and the climb up the stairs.
“I should add,” Ettore said, “that the doge loved Saint Lucia so much because the doge himself was blind. At the age of ninety, he stood out in this very square, unable to see a thing, and preached the Crusade.”
“I know who it is,” Langdon said.
“Well, I should hope so!” Ettore replied with a smile.
Because his eidetic memory was better suited to images rather than uncontextualized ideas, Langdon’s revelation had arrived in the form of a piece of artwork—a famous illustration by Gustave Doré depicting a wizened, blind doge, arms raised high overhead as he incited a gathered crowd to join the Crusade. The name of Doré’s illustration was clear in his mind: Dandolo Preaching the Crusade.
“Enrico Dandolo,” Langdon declared. “The doge who lived forever.”
“Finalmente!” Ettore said. “I fear your mind has aged, my friend.”
“Along with the rest of me. Is he buried here?”
“Dandolo?” Ettore shook his head. “No, not here.”
“Where?” Sienna demanded. “At the Doge’s Palace?”
Ettore took off his glasses, thinking a moment. “Give me a moment. There are so many doges, I can’t recall—”
Before Ettore could finish, a frightened-looking docent came running over and ushered him aside, whispering in his ear. Ettore stiffened, looking alarmed, and immediately hurried over to a railing, where he peered down into the sanctuary below. After a moment he turned back toward Langdon.
“I’ll be right back,” Ettore shouted, and then hurried off without another word.
Puzzled, Langdon went over to the railing and peered over. What’s going on down there?
At first he saw nothing at all, just tourists milling around. After a moment, though, he realized that many of the visitors were staring in the same direction, toward the main entrance, through which an imposing group of black-clad soldiers had just entered the church and was fanning out across the narthex, blocking all the exits.
The soldiers in black. Langdon felt his hands tighten on the railing.
“Robert!” Sienna called out behind him.
Langdon remained fixated on the soldiers. How did they find us?!
“Robert,” she called more urgently. “Something’s wrong! Help me!”
Langdon turned from the railing, puzzled by her cries for help.
Where did she go?
An instant later, his eyes found both Sienna and Ferris. On the floor in front of the Horses of St. Mark’s, Sienna was kneeling over Dr. Ferris … who had collapsed in convulsions, clutching his chest.
CHAPTER 75
“I think he’s having a heart attack!” Sienna shouted.
Langdon hurried over to where Dr. Ferris lay sprawled on the floor.
The man was gasping, unable to catch his breath.
What happened to him?! For Langdon, everything had come to a head in a single moment. With the soldiers’ arrival downstairs and Ferris thrashing on the floor, Langdon felt momentarily paralyzed, unsure which way to turn.
Sienna crouched down over Ferris and loosened his necktie, tearing open the top few buttons of his shirt to help him breathe. But as the man’s shirt parted, Sienna recoiled and let out a sharp cry of alarm, covering her mouth as she staggered backward, staring down at the bare flesh of his chest.
Langdon saw it, too.
The skin of Ferris’s chest was deeply discolored. An ominous-looking bluish-black blemish the circumference of a grapefruit spread out across his sternum. Ferris looked like he’d been hit in the chest with a cannonball.
“That’s internal bleeding,” Sienna said, glancing up at Langdon with a look of shock. “No wonder he’s been having trouble breathing all day.”
Ferris twisted his head, clearly trying to speak, but he could only make faint wheezing sounds. Tourists had started gathering around, and Langdon sensed that the situation was about to get chaotic.
“The soldiers are downstairs,” Langdon warned Sienna. “I don’t know how they found us.”
The look of surprise and fear on Sienna’s face turned quickly to anger, and she glared back down at Ferris. “You’ve been lying to us, haven’t you?”
Ferris attempted to speak again, but he could barely make a sound. Sienna roughly searched Ferris’s pockets and pulled out his wallet and phone, which she slipped into her own pocket, standing over him now with an accusatory glower.
At that moment an elderly Italian woman pushed through the crowd, shouting angrily at Sienna. “L’hai colpito al petto!” She made a forceful motion with her fist against her own chest.
“No!” Sienna snapped. “CPR will kill him! Look at his chest!” She turned to Langdon. “Robert, we need to get out of here. Now.”
Langdon looked down at Ferris, who desperately locked eyes with him, pleading, as if he wanted to communicate something.
“We can’t just leave him!” Langdon said frantically.
“Trust me,” Sienna said. “That’s not a heart attack. And we’re leaving. Now.”