The Condottiero: A Tudor Deceit (Tudor Crimes Book 4)

by Anne Stevens

  Three months. Will Draper cannot believe he has done such a rash thing, and wonders what his wife will say when he fails to get home for Christmas. Dear, sweet, Miriam, he thinks. Was there ever a more beautiful, and faithful wife?

  4 A Day in Venice

  Down by the waterfront, the various small waterways, leading into the heart of the great, artificial island of Venice are choked with small boats and barges. Each one is piled high with fresh fish, crabs, lobsters and small squid. So closely packed are these craft that Richard and Mush use them to cross from one side to another, without benefit of a bridge.

  “Is everyone in Venice rich” Mush asks, as the crowd are all dressed in clothes befitting courtiers, or rich merchants. He does not know that a Venetian will spend his last sou on a new outfit, even if it means he must go hungry. To the people of the lagoon, style is everything, and a finely dressed man might be a merchant, or an apprentice cobbler.

  Richard is so busy drinking in the amazing sights, that he does not notice the two men stopped in front of him, examining some wares on a stall. He barges into them, and before he can apologise, one of them has pulled a knife from his belt.

  “Cozza!” the angry fellow curses. Richard grips the man’s wrist, and twists. The knife clatters to the pavement, and with contemptuous ease, the Venetian is tossed into the bay. He hits the dirty looking water with a huge splash, and the crowd roar, and applaud in spontaneous merriment.

  “What is a cozza?” Richard asks, grabbing the second man by the shirt front. The man’s knees give way, and he slumps to the floor. “Get up, you idiot. Are all you Venetians crazy?”

  “Not all, sir,” a swarthy man, in his middle years says, bowing low. “Permit me to present my good self to you, fine gentlemen. I am Carmino Ignazio Spinelli. You will know the name, of course, Englishman, for I am the most famous sword master in all of Italy. No … did I say that? I mean in all of Europe, and the world!”

  “Such a modest fellow,” Mush says softly to Richard. Then louder: “Signor Spinelli… why, yes. I do believe I have heard your name mentioned in the court of our king.”

  “Mentioned?” Spinelli considers if this is a compliment, or an insult, then shrugs. “It must suffice. England is a long way away. You must call me Carmino.”

  “So, what is a cozza?” Richard asks. The man at his feet goes on all fours, and tries to crawl away, unobserved. Carmino explains by grabbing his own codpiece, and giving it a symbolic squeeze. Richard growls, and kicks the escaping Venetian up the backside.

  “You are newly arrived?” Carmino asks, then before they can answer, he offers his services as a guide. “The city is beautiful, but can be dangerous to those who do not understand it.”

  “Our thanks, Carmino,” Mush replies. “We just want to see the sights.”

  “Then consider me at your disposal, my young friends,” he says. “Is the big one your servant?”

  “My companion,” Mush says. “We are here with the delegation from England, to speak with the Doge.”

  “So many foreigners come to Venice, these days, it is hard to keep track of them all.” The Venetian sword master points over his left shoulder. “The palazzo with the white front is the Holy Roman embassy, and is full of Austrian and German spies. The building on the other side of the canal is the Spanish legation. They too are spies, but of a better class. Now, you English come to us.”

  “We are friendly,” Richard says.

  “Si? Tell the man you threw into the water!” Carmino says this with a twinkle in his eye, and they all laugh. “I am a lucky man to have found you, my friends.”

  “You make it sound as if you were looking for us,” Mush says, suddenly quite wary. “Are you set to spy on us, or are you to be our nursemaid?”

  “Neither, I hope.” Carmino sees he is confusing the situation, and hurries to explain himself. “It is only that I need two friends … to act for me, in a matter concerning a lady’s honour.”

  “Act?”

  “As seconds,” Carmino says. “The Senator, Marco Duezzo has taken it into his head that I am having a… flirtation… with his new young wife, and gave me the glove.”

  “He gave you a glove?” Richard is confused, and wonders what use a single glove can be to the man.

  “No, he gives me the glove. He slaps my face with it, and calls me a filthy name.”

  “Were you having a dalliance?” Mush asks, quite intrigued by the man’s indignation.

  “That is beside the point,” he replies. “Gentlemen should not treat one another so. Were he to seduce my wife, I would leave him to it. Though, I confess, my wife is a harridan, and I would welcome the rest. So, now I must fight with him in the Ghetto Nuovo, as soon as they let the Jews out.”

  “Let the Jews out?” Mush is taken by surprise. “There are Jews living in Venice?”

  “Of course. Are there no Jews in England?”

  “No, they were all expelled, on pain of death.” Mush wishes to know more, as he is a Jew, who must hide his bloodline back home.

  “How barbaric,” Carmino says, obviously shocked. “Here, we make them live in the Ghetto Nuovo, and close the gates each night, until sunrise. That way, they are safe, and our church dignitaries can pretend they do not exist. It is a good idea, no?”

  “How do they live?”

  “Quite well, I believe. They are merchants and bankers during the daylight hours, and rank amongst the wealthiest of our people. Though, of course, we do not let them take up any sort of public office. That would be a step too far for the Pope, and he would start to make life uncomfortable for everyone.”

  “Then you don’t hate Jews?”

  “Why should I?” Carmino is now surprised. “Signor Frederico ben Joseph is my banker, and a dozen of the prettiest courtesans in Venice are Hebrew girls. They bake also the best bread, and never offer any insult to me, or to my religion. Do you hate them, my friend?”

  “No, I am Jewish,” Mush says. “My name is Moshe ben Mordecai. Why do you fight in the Jewish quarter?”

  “No city guards to interfere,” Carmino says, “and there are several fine doctors living there. This is useful, as I am …”

  “The greatest sword master in Venice,” Richard says, finishing their new friend’s sentence for him. “Come on, let’s get off. I have never witnessed a real duel before. Will it take long?”

  “A few moments,” Carmino says. “My opponent is an old pupil of mine. I did my best for him, but he is slow, and has no real finesse.”

  The Ghetto Nuovo is a pentagonal ‘campo’ or courtyard, some two hundred paces on each, irregular side, and is walled in with an array of houses, ranging from comfortable middle class, to a couple of magnificent palazzos. One of the most magnificent of them is owned by the Anselmi banking family, and the other by the rich financier, Frederico ben Joseph, who counts both the Doge, and the Pope amongst his customers.

  The two Englishmen cross one of the pair of small bridges, and go through the gate, which is closed, and locked, at each sundown hour. Any Jews found without, and any Christians found within, outside normal business hours, can receive a fine of five ducats. Many young gallants flout the regulation, and scale the vine clad walls, leaping from balcony to balcony, in search of true love. The Englishmen follow Carmino Spinelli into the bustle within.

  It is reminiscent of London Bridge on a market day, with people pushing carts, selling from stalls, or baskets, and exchanging the time of day with one another. As they arrive, those chatting in the centre of the large, open space start to move to one side, and a large, circular area is formed, as if by magic. Mush has never been with some many of his own people before, and he feels a thrill of excitement.

  “They expect me,” Carmino says. “Word will have gone around that I am going to teach the Duezzo family a lesson. They hate the man, because he owns half of their houses, and extorts huge rents from them. My opponent will be here soon. I will present you as my seconds. Your duty is to ensure fair play, and help carry away m
y corpse, should I lose.”

  “He’ll kill you?” Mush asks.

  “If he can.” the sword master replies. “Though I am the clear favourite to win, he has a slight chance. On the other hand, I must endeavour not to kill him. It would be unethical. I will wound him, a little, and honour will be satisfied.”

  “Best kill him,” Richard says. “It will stop him coming back at you.”

  “If I kill him, his entire family must swear to kill me, in return, and he has six brothers, and eleven grown nephews. There is also a son by his first wife. I would be fighting duels every day of the week, for a year. No, my friend, the gentleman will settle for a quick thrust into a leg muscle, I think.”

  “Good day, Signor Spinelli.” A thick set man, with steel grey hair arrives, with two younger men in tow. “I see you have actually managed to find two men to act for you.”

  “I have, Signor. May I name … er …”

  “Moshe ben Mordecai, and Master Richard Cromwell,” Mush says, saving Carmino’s blushes. “We are newcomers to your beautiful city, sir, and …”

  “A Jew?” Senator Duezzo grins, and shakes his head. “Is that the best you can manage, Spinelli - a stinking little Jew, and an ogre?” Richard looks over his shoulder, thinking some monster is behind him, then understands that they are both being insulted.

  “These Senators,” he growls, “buy their rank with gold don’t they? Does that mean any dog can become one? Ah, I see it does!”

  “Well said, Signor Cromwell,” Carmino says. “These men are my seconds, sir. You belittle yourself by insulting them.”

  “At least the little one is in the right place,” Duezzo says.

  “You dislike my race, sir?”

  “Christ killers, everyone of them.”

  “Enough, Duezzo,” Carmino says. “Let us get to it. I will draw your blood, and swear you are mistaken about me, and your poor wife, Ignacia.”

  “Do not concern yourself with my wife,” the man says. “She is safe from all men, now.”

  “What have you done?” the sword master asks. He sees the glint of hatred in his opponent’s eye, and fears the worst.

  “I have had her head shaved, and sent her to a nunnery,” Duezzo replies, smirking. “My two nephews here, held her down, whilst I flogged her. Then they had her dragged to the convent of Santa Serafina, near Verona, barefoot. I found the sight … most edifying.”

  “Sir, you are a dead man,” Carmino tells him, and draws his sword at once. The rules of the duel are forgotten. Duezzo’s nephews both draw, and it is plain that it was their intent to create this situation, so they might fall on him, together. Richard Cromwell draws his own sword, and the campo is suddenly full of the clash of steel on steel.

  The action is furious, and brief. Richard fells one of the nephews with a clumsy, overhand blow, that is powerful enough to almost sever his arm. The man screams and falls to the floor, as Mush with dagger and sword lunges and thrusts at the second nephew. The man is skilful, and evades the first rush. He ripostes, Mush side steps, and slashes his dagger down, across his attacker’s right wrist.

  Duezzo makes two good attempts at a lunge, parries a return thrust, and tries to duck inside Carmino’s sword arm. Instead, he finds six inches of steel in his throat. He staggers back, blood hissing from the wound, and falls over in a crumpled heap. The man is dead, and both his nephews are wounded.

  “His seconds need seconds,” Richard declares, wiping his sword clean of blood.

  “Come, the doctors will attend to them,” Carmino says. “The man was a swine. I must ride to Verona, and retrieve poor, dear Ignacia.”

  “Can you do that?” Mush asks, wondering if he and Richard have the time to go off on an adventure.

  “It is a small matter,” Carmino explains. “With her husband dead, Ignacia is now the third richest widow in Venice. Once back here, she will inherit a fleet of merchant ships, and a couple of very grand palazzos. Her hair will grow back.”

  They cross the bridge, back into Christian Venice, and make their way to Saint Mark’s basilica. There are stalls serving freshly made food, and they eat in near silence. At last the sword master speaks.

  “You saved my life, my friends,” he says. “Even the greatest sword master in Venice might not have managed to overcome three at once. Though I would have tried.”

  “He came, intending to murder you,” Mush tells their new friend. “You should tell the authorities.”

  “Is that the English way?” Carmino smiles, and shakes his head. “No, I must reinstate Ignacia, then leave Venice, until I can raise enough blood money.”

  “What’s that?” Richard asks.

  “The family will demand my death, or an amount of gold, in return for the killing. They will want at least ten thousand ducats.”

  “What a strange country,” Richard says, but he does understand. With successive relatives and friends all swearing revenge, if the circle of violence is not broken, the population will be halved in next to no time.

  “Do you have a horse?”

  “I will find one.”

  “Do you have money?”

  “Not as such,” Carmino says. “I live from lesson to lesson.”

  “Here.” Mush takes the purse of silver, given to him by Tom Wyatt. “Enough to pay for a horse, and a few nights lodging. This Ignacia must be some amazing woman.”

  “Not really,” Carmino says. “I was attracted by the idea of making the cornuto on Duezzo.”

  Mush shakes his head in disbelief. One man dead, and two more badly hurt, because one man wishes to make the other into a cuckold. The cornuto, or horns placed on the husband’s head, signify that the man has an unfaithful wife.

  “You let him find out?” he asks.

  “I wished to humiliate him, not kill him,” Carmino Spinelli explains. “His faction in the Senate do nothing for the common people. I suppose I wanted to show him up for what he was.”

  Mush understands. Powerful men cannot help but abuse their power. He thinks of Cromwell, Thomas More, and the king, and of how they each, in their own way, misuse their power. Perhaps, now and then, it is good for one of them to take a fall. he offers up a silent prayer that it will not be Thomas Cromwell.

  “Hey, look at that!” Richard grabs his shoulder, and points out into the bay. A ship is trying to gain safe harbour, but two of the sleek war galleys appear, and cut across its bow, making it heel over.

  “Is it an attack? Mush asks. Carmino Spinelli holds a hand up, above his eyes, to shade them from the glaring October sunshine.

  “No, I doubt it.” He stares, then nods his head in understanding. “They are flying a warning flag, but hope to make port. The authorities will not allow them to make dry land.”

  “Why not?” Mush asks.

  “There is sickness aboard. The ship is coming from the Ottoman lands. There is wide spread Lenticulae around the Bosporus.”

  “Lentils?” Mush does not understand. “There are small lentils on board?”

  “That is what they call the sickness,” Carmino Spinelli says, crossing himself. “It appears from nowhere, and strikes like the Hand of God. One day, you are a robust man, then comes a sort of lassitude for two days. On the third day there is the fever, followed closely by delirium.”

  “It sounds like the shivering sickness, back home,” Richard says, “What then?”

  “About the fourth day spots appear, and they look just like lentils. Fever rages through the victim, until death claims them. In a very few cases, the stricken man, or woman, for no known reason recovers.”

  “It sounds horrific,” Mush says, as he watches the two fighting ships herd the contaminated vessel further out into the lagoon.

  “It kills within seven days,” Spinelli concludes. “The doctors think it is caused by bad water, or eating rotten food. Those who have it, piss a colour akin to pomegranate wine.”

  The infected ship has given up the struggle to make port, and lowers its great, square sail. The harbour is
lined with hundreds of people now, all staring out into the lagoon. There is a sudden puff of smoke from one of the galleys, and a flash, as they open fire with their canon. The first ball cuts the ship’s mast, and it topples sideways, into the water.

  “What are they doing?” Mush cries. “They can’t … it’s murder!”

  Another couple of canon balls find their mark, and the ship is holed below the water line. It settles, and begins to sink, very quickly. Mush can see men on the deck, running around, and trying to leap into the water. On the galleys, trained Genoan gunners, raise muskets to their shoulders, and fire shot into the desperate men. Those who do not drown, or avoid being shot, try to swim for their lives, but soldiers on the waterfront are waiting with twelve foot long pikes, to dash their brains out, before they touch land.

  “Come away, Richard,” Mush says, pulling at his friend. “This is no place for us, or for any decent man. Why cannot they let them land on one of the small islands in the lagoon?”

  “We did,” Carmino tells him. “Twenty five years ago, we let some survivors from an Ottoman ship row ashore on a tiny isle, and sent them food and water. A month later, and their plague reached us in Venice. We lost a third of our people within three months. Including my parents, and two sisters.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mush has no answer for such a cruel twist of fate. “God only knows why these things happen.”

  “God?” Carmino Spinelli laughs coldly. “Dio deve andare, e farsi fottere!”

  They walk with Spinelli to one of the small ferries that ply back and forth to the mainland, and wait with him, until it is time to depart. His early good humour is gone, and he seems shrouded in a melancholy as thick as the morning mist which often masks the lagoon.

  “I hope we meet again, Carmino,” Mush says. “You have enlivened an otherwise dull day.”

  “Oh, I doubt you have many quiet days,” the sword master replies. “Not from the way you handled yourselves in the Ghetto Nuovo. You fight like professional men, Signor Moshe ben Mordecai. May I give you a word of advice?”

  “I would be honoured,” Mush says.