The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

Ahead of them, Fosca heard the jibe and smiled.

  Giacomo looked abashed, then said haughtily, “Well, it wasn’t in any way a sure thing. I felt that I didn’t have any right to endanger anyone else’s money but my own. The man is a hot-head, you know. I could have lost everything!”

  Their gondola dropped them at the Molo, the broad embankment in front of the Doge’s Palace. Government office buildings on the left faced the Palace across the Piazzetta, which flowed into the large Piazza of San Marco. The brilliant mosaics that decorated the Cathedral of San Marco gleamed in the sunshine. Banners whipped in the wind, which sent white clouds scudding like kites across the dazzling blue sky.

  The area was jammed with bodies. It was Twelfth Night, January sixth, which marked the start of the Carnival season after the Christmas hiatus. Dozens of small booths had been erected in front of the Cathedral to house hawkers and quacks, imposters and freaks, dispensers of magic potions and good advice, thieves and saints. A bearded Franciscan monk stood at the base of the Campanile, the tall pointed bell tower located at the place where Piazza and Piazzetta met. He harangued the passers-by and entreated them to repent of their sins. His show drew the smallest crowds of all.

  An Irish giant, seven feet tall and weighing seven hundred pounds, flexed his amazing biceps and seemed not to feel a thing when dirty-faced urchins pelted him with fruit and pieces of shell and rock. Nearby a man entertained a knot of gawking onlookers by swallowing live mice whole and vomiting them up again. Some of the less hardy members of that crowd vomited, too. His neighbor, a dark-complexed Arab dressed in flowing robes, pierced his own cheeks with long pins without drawing blood. A sword swallower ingested a steely lunch. A cluster of red-capped gondoliers played dice at the base of the Campanile, within spitting distance of the ranting cleric. A woman sold chances on her daughter’s virginity.

  A puppet show attracted an enthusiastic younger crowd, which shrieked delightedly as Pulchinello scolded the boastful soldier Brighella and was clubbed soundly by him in return. Bearded, black-robed priests mingled with Moslem traders. Painted harlots plied their trade among the masses of gaping tourists from England, Holland, and Germany. A dwarf worked his way through the throng, offering his hump to be stroked for luck while he picked pockets. Red-robed Senators, and Council members wearing the traditional black tabarro draped toga-like over their clothes, moved towards the entrance of the Doge’s Palace. Atop the tower on the other side of the Piazza, two burly Moors cast in bronze went through the mechanical movements of striking the large bell that stood between them. In answer, the bells of the Campanile began to toll the Angelus. The mob fell silent and, except for a scattering of visiting infidels, dropped to its knees in a great rippling wave. In a moment they were all standing again and the din was greater than ever.

  Inside the Doge’s Palace, the hallways were more crowded than usual. The Senate Hall, a vast chamber with gilt-encrusted ceilings and a lining of wooden benches around the walls, was filling up with the curious as well as the conscientious. Men like Giacomo Selvo had heard about Admiral Sagredo’s return on the Maga, and they wanted to see the Jew who had done what the Venetian Navy could not do: made the Venetian shipping lanes safe for commerce. This news was welcome in many circles.

  The members of the Commission of the Seas and the Council of Ten had already taken their places at the front when Fosca and her cicisbei arrived, a little late after having encountered some friends in the anteroom outside and engaged in a half-hour’s conversation. The crowd in the hall was restless and noisy. Small boys, sons of noblemen, acted as messengers, carrying slips of paper and cups of coffee to this member or that.

  Alessandro Loredan stepped to the front of the dais and began to speak. He wore a full-bottomed white wig and rich red robes, with a special stole to mark his position as Commissioner of the Seas. Fosca, who had heard him pontificate in private on too many occasions, turned a deaf ear and absorbed herself in conversation with Giacomo and Antonio, who were similarly uninterested in what her husband had to say.

  . . great day for the Republic ... rid of the scourge of the seas . . . fine example of Venetian cunning and vigor . . . highest praise from Admiral Sagredo . .

  The bored hum of voices around Fosca grew louder.

  “Did you see La Tron last night? Stood at the door of her box at the Teatro San Benedetto, half naked. The Inquisitors gave her a warning.”

  “What do you suppose ever happened to that ship the Benedetti brothers sent to America two years ago? The Jew’s returned in only fourteen months.”

  “Who is that divine young man over there? It must be one of the Baldini’s. They all have such bandy legs.”

  “. . . we commend the actions of this loyal patriot . . . offer our profoundest thanks . . . fervent hopes for a new day . . . restoration of honor and glory ...”

  “Look, there he is now, the Jew!” Giacomo hissed. “My God, do you see that? He’s—he’s wearing the red hat!”

  “What do you mean?” Fosca asked. “Has the Church made him a Cardinal?”

  “No, no. Long ago the law required all Jews to wear a red hat, so that the rest of the population could look out for them. He’s an ugly looking brute, isn’t he? Hair all over his face!”

  Fosca stretched and craned but she couldn’t distinguish another red dot among the sea of red robes.

  Raf Leopardi mounted the dais and came forward to receive from Alessandro Loredan the thanks of the Republic of Venice and his commission as Captain in the Venetian Navy. He was dressed in black, except for the startling red turban-like affair on top of his head. He wore a full beard, in accordance with Jewish law. He did not bow to Alessandro Loredan, or kneel when Loredan presented him with the parchment scroll containing his commission. The crowd around Fosca stirred and muttered.

  Raf pointedly turned his back on Loredan and faced the crowd.

  “Senators!” His voice was deep and cutting, accustomed to shouting orders over the roar of the waves and the wind. The audience hissed and murmured but fell silent. “I wonder if you understand what happened here today,” Raf went on when he had their attention. “You have given thanks to a citizen for doing no more than any man should for the country of his birth, the country which he loves. I accepted thanks for completing a mission from the hands of the one who spoke out most strongly against it. How could such a thing happen to this once-proud Republic? How did the Venetian fleet come to be reduced to one crippled warship? How did you Senators, who authorized the campaign against the Bey of Tunis and his Barbary hoards, come to turn your backs on Admiral Sagredo and his men? Was it so much easier to refuse his request for additional ships and men than to find the money to finance his needs? I can’t believe that any of you was so eager to see his flag disgraced, to see Venice beaten to her knees by uncivilized pirates. What cowardice, what laziness made you renege on the commitment you had made? Instead of rejoicing in my victory, you should be ashamed for yourselves. In praising the bravery of one man, an outcast among you, you have shown the world that one man is stronger than the pitifully weak whole.”

  There were angry shouts at the man’s incredible boldness and impudence. All eyes turned to Loredan, the man under attack, but his face was impassive.

  Fosca noticed that her heart was thumping, that her whole body was tense and taut as she waited to see what would happen next. She fanned herself briskly in the heat of the hall. This really was unexpected excitement.

  “The men who lifted our country to greatness and power were brave men,” Raf said. His big voice filled the hall easily and drowned out the murmurs of protest. Every man there felt the impact of his words. “They were not like the eunuchs who now serve the hag who was once a beauty, Venice. The hag is old and toothless now, sightless and feeble, a hideous mockery of what she once was. There are many among you who still praise her beauty and her lofty charms, but your hollow lies fool no one. These lies are dangerous. They have led you to believe that Venice is strong, when in reality she is weak. Your a
rmies are in disarray, your arsenal is empty, your industries are dying. Your leaders are mindless pleasure-seekers, corrupt and spineless men. The first greedy tyrant who comes along can have the hag—if he wants her.”

  The anger in the audience grew louder and more menacing, but Raf finished with a roar:

  “You offer me a commission in your navy. I decline. I am a Jew, but even a Jew has pride. I will not serve the grotesque whore Venice has become, because I loved too well the beauty she was long ago.”

  He faced Alessandro Loredan squarely. Neither man moved for a whole minute. The crowd held its breath. Then Raf tossed his scroll at Loredan’s feet, climbed down from the dais, and shouldered his way through the crowd to the doors at the back of the room.

  Shocked by his harsh words, which carried the unsettling ring of truth, and afraid of his taint, the Senators parted to let him pass. Their feet scraped on the marble floors. Their robes rustled. An appalled silence settled over the chamber.

  Then a woman laughed. The sound was high and bright and merry, and it cut through the thick silence like birdsong through fog. Her laughter broke the tension and shook the members of the audience out of their stupor. The began to talk loudly and excitedly.

  The sound stopped Raf Leopardi in his tracks. He whirled quickly and saw the woman, standing with a couple of masked fops near the doors. She, too, was masked, and she waved a little fan under her nose.

  Quivering angrily he took a step toward her. Instinctively, her companions moved in closer to her side to protect her. Her eyes glinted mockingly at him through the slits in her mask. They were strange eyes, iridescent and gray.

  His look engulfed her. His black eyes were fringed with long black lashes, which made them seem uncommonly large. His brows were thick and black and drawn low over his eyes in a menacing frown.

  He was solidly built, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, and his stance was fittingly earthbound. Fosca noticed his hands: big and blunt and rough-looking, with nails that had never known the manicurist’s art. His clothes were laughably awful. The red satin hat that sat rakishly on top of his unruly black thatch was particularly ridiculous. He wore soldier’s boots instead of pumps, loose-fitting pantaloons, and a black coat that bound his big shoulders and fell short at the cuffs. His linen seemed clean enough, but there was no show of lace.

  As Fosca regarded this crude specimen with her pretty lips curved into a smirk of superior disdain, she felt a strange warmth spread through her entire body, even down the backs of her legs. She had the sensation that they were alone in the room, just the two of them, and that he was going to touch her. She was amazed to discover that the thought did not revolt her.

  She could no longer bear the scorching heat of his gaze. She turned her face aside and said something to Giacomo. When she looked around again he was gone, striding briskly through the exit. The crowd closed behind him. Fosca’s heart pounded and her lungs began to ache. She had forgotten to breathe.

  Outside Raf was engulfed by a surging, cheering crowd. Miraculously, they seemed already to have heard everything that was said in the Senate Hall, and they greeted him like a hero. Shouting lustily, they lifted him up and bore him away on their shoulders. Women reached out to kiss him, to touch him. His red hat was swept away.

  Fosca and her two cicisbei sat drinking coffee in Florian’s. Her morning doldrums were gone, vanished. Her cheeks were still pink under the lower edges of her mask, and her eyes sparkled.

  Giacomo was groaning. “He had them in the palm of his hand, and he threw them away. He’ll never be able to get ships now. They’ll probably confiscate La Maga, and my share of the cargo with it! What’s the matter with the man, spouting revolutionary cant at a time like this?”

  “It didn’t sound so revolutionary to me,” Fosca remarked.

  “More treasonous than revolutionary,” Antonio decided. “That moment when you laughed at him, Fosca—delicious! Took the wind right out of his sails!”

  “I don’t know what possessed me,” Fosca said. “But all that stuff about eunuchs and whores—it was really quite absurd.”

  “Damned idiot,” Giacomo muttered darkly. “Just wait until I see him. He’ll not get a cent of my money! You ought to thank me for saving you from that scoundrel, Antonio.”

  Sipping her coffee, Fosca shuddered a little. “What a perfectly dreadful man. Quite a ruffian! He’s certainly no gentleman. Why, I doubt that he’s even human!”

  “I might have known that he’d use the occasion as an invitation to speak his mind. Jews! If I had had my way, they would all have been driven out long ago. Throwing the commission in my face—damned cheek!” Pietro Salvino, Alessandro’ secretary, seemed to cringe as he listened to his employer’s harangue. Pietro had a twisted back and a crippled leg, and his normal stance was obsequious, through no fault of his own.

  “What is the Senate supposed to do?” Alessandro demanded. “Tell me that? Every time somebody wants something—a new ship, a church, a bridge—we’re supposed to pull the money out of thin air, or raise taxes, or conjure up a miracle. It wouldn’t surprise me if that Jew and Sagredo cooked up this whole thing just to humiliate me. It would be like Sagredo to use his failure and incompetence as an object lesson. He’s been fussing about the decay of our defenses for years. Just his luck that that Jew happened along to save him from martyrdom.”

  “It might have been worse if the entire fleet had been lost and Admiral Sagredo with it, Excellency,” Pietro suggested. “Do you think the Inquisitors will have the Jew arrested?”

  “How can they?” Alessandro asked angrily. “He’s a hero! The people would storm the Palace and hang us all. Didn’t you hear about what happened in the Piazza? They’ll wait until the public has found some new distraction, then they can pull him in.”

  “The world is watching—” Pietro murmured suggestively.

  “The letter from France. That’s right. How would it look if we gave him a citation one day and jailed him the next?”

  “But they’ll set spies on him,” Pietro said softly.

  “Oh, yes. I can trust them to do that much, I suppose. Find out what they know, Pietro. Everything. You know the people they use. I wonder if they’ll manage to get someone inside the ghetto. The man’s a menace. Just back from America with his head stuffed full of democratic ideals and the Great Experiment. Find out what you can about his background, will you?”

  “Of course, Excellency,” Pietro said smoothly. “In fact, I have already compiled a partial dossier. Time was short, you understand.”

  “Oh? Well, go on.”

  “This Leopardi is illegitimate, Excellency. Rather unusual for Jews, I understand. They are careful of their daughters. His father is unknown. His mother died after he was born and he was raised by his grandfather, a merchant in the ghetto. Apparently the old man’s business did well. The boy had good tutors and he went to Padua to study law. But his grandfather died on a voyage to Greece, and Leopardi abandoned his studies and took over. He proved to be a shrewd, astute businessman. He invested in several trading ventures before acquiring his own ship and learning to sail it himself. La Maga is registered in the names of Christian owners, although they are really only small investors. The ship is actually owned by Leopardi and two other Jews, merchants.”

  “Is that legal?” Alessandro wondered.

  “Oh, perfectly. Excellency. He has never had any troubles with the law. His training at Padua has served him well.”

  Alessandro scowled. “Damned scoundrel. He’s dangerous, because he’s naive. Revolution is a young man’s game, Pietro.”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  Loredan issued a few further instructions and then left his chambers for the day. Alone, Pietro shambled over to his master’s desk and settled himself in the high-backed leather chair, still warm from the heat of Loredan’s body. He knew that his employer was repulsed by his grotesque shape. But Pietro was a brilliant secretary, discreet, loyal and efficient. And as Loredan gained power and influe
nce, so did Pietro, his indispensable ally.

  IV

  THE GHETTO

  Raf Leopardi was drunk.

  He had spent the day in taverns and wine shops, where he had enthralled listeners with what he had seen in America, what he had learned about democracy, and universal suffrage. He talked about Venice, her glorious past, her uncertain future. As he spoke, his ideas seemed to crystallize and achieve a new depth of meaning for him. His cause was clear: change. The world was changing. Men were changing. They were becoming educated, enlightened. They were throwing off the shackles of oppression and superstition. Change. Venice, too, would have to change.

  He had actually drunk very little—a few glasses of wine, some beer—but the experience had left him feeling light-headed, intoxicated with a sense of his own powers.

  The bells of San Marco tolled midnight. The Piazza began to clear of its host of freaks and thieves and showmen. Working people went home to sleep while the nobles continued to play. Raf decided to walk back to the ghetto, to clear his head a little. He followed the shortest route from San Marco, along the Merceria or shopping street, behind the beautiful palaces that lined the Grand Canal.

  Façades, he thought bitterly. Like set pieces in a play. Behind them narrow alleys teemed with the poor, the sick, the crippled.

  He heard a cry, like someone in pain. Then a shout. He stopped and looked around. The sounds came from a dark cul de sac. He followed them. In the light of a single lantern standing on an upended barrel, he saw a large, bald-headed man savagely beating a child who shrieked so loudly that householders threw open their shutters and peered out.

  “What’s going on? You, what are you doing?” Raf shouted.

  “You little bitch, I’ll teach you a lesson!” the man growled. “Steal from me, will you?”

  Raf pulled the man away from the child. The bully whirled on him and began to swing his arms wildly. He reeked of sweat and cheap wine. Raf grabbed his arm, twisted it behind him, and drove the man’s head into the wall. The brute made a hissing noise, then slid to the ground and began to snore.