Unofficial chains had gone up across canal mouths to lock parishes off from each other. Barricades were being erected. Bricks being prised from campi floors as street gangs began to stockpile ammunition.
"So," the Regent said. "How would you suggest we handle this situation?"
"Call out the Watch, my lord."
"There are going to be riots, Roderigo. Do you consider the watch is sufficient?" Prince Alonzo looked from under lowered brows. "That was a question, Captain. Do you think the Watch will be sufficient?"
"No, sir."
"The Watch, plus your men?"
The Dogana guard were few in number. But well-armed, well-disciplined and regarded with a certain fear by the city's poor. They'd provide a backbone, but Roderigo couldn't pretend their spine wouldn't be broken eventually. Even adding the palace guard to the mix would be insufficient. And Roderigo doubted the Regent was prepared to leave Ca' Ducale undefended anyway.
"You could hire mercenaries, my lord."
"They cost, Roderigo. And finding good ones takes time."
"What do we do, my lord?" It turned out to be the right question. Prince Alonzo's shoulders straightened and he glowered, as if he was already on a battlefield viewing enemy deployments.
"We give them an act of utter brutality."
"My lord…?"
The parishes had long memories, and memories festered into open wounds in this city in a very Venetian way. Money might keep the cittadini sweet. And the Castellani hatred of the Nicoletti, and the Nicoletti's hatred of everyone else, keep the parishes of the poor at each other's throats. But an act of brutality by the Millioni would be remembered. More than one patrician had died for the sins of his ancestors.
"Not the parishes, you idiot."
Alonzo's father, grandfather, one brother and his sister had fallen to the dagger. Both Republics began and ended with murder. In Rome, they joked that assassins were more common in Venice than canals. The Regent obviously had no desire to inspire a third republic. What little remained of his good temper was gone.
"Have you searched the Fontego dei Mamluk?"
"Yesterday, my lord."
"We'll do it again. Properly this time."
Roderigo bowed, without bothering to say it was searched properly last time. If Prince Alonzo wanted the Mamluk warehouses re-searched that was his business.
Near la Volta, on the left bank of the Grand Canal, dangerously far into Nicoletti territory, they found an armed band of Castellani mixed with Arsenalotti. "You," Prince Alonzo said. "With me."
The mob fell in, nudging one another when they realised who the barrel-chested man in the breastplate was. Some carried swords, others daggers, one had a shipwright's adze. When they met a gang of Nicoletti, battle was averted. The black caps being stunned to a sullen truce by the Regent's presence.
There was a growing sense of excitement. No one knew what was going to happen. But everybody knew that something was. And Roderigo began to realise it was more than a simple search Alonzo had in mind for the Mamluk fontego. His suspicion proved right when they stopped in front of the building.
"Break down its door," the Regent ordered.
Half the black-clad Nicoletti rushed round to the fontego's porta d'acqua to make sure nobody escaped via one of the side canals. The red-capped Arsenalotti fanned out around Alonzo. If the Regent wanted to be seen, it was working. As a mason with a sledgehammer stepped up to the land door, the street behind began filling with spectators.
"Shouldn't we announce ourselves, my lord?"
"If the sultan's subjects do not want to be a friend to me, then they will find I am not a friend to them, or their master. If they wanted to welcome me, Roderigo," the Regent said, "those doors would already be open."
Only, thought Roderigo, if they want to die.
The Mamluk merchants had probably hoped they could remain unobtrusive until the city's temper cooled. It had taken courage to open their fontego to Roderigo's guard yesterday. But they knew Roderigo and had dealings with the Dogana. The arrival of Prince Alonzo with a crowd meant only one thing.
Lady Giulietta had not been found.
Now the mob wanted revenge. Personally, Roderigo doubted the Mamluks had done it. The sultan might be ruthless-he'd strangled his elder and younger brothers, after all-but everyone said he was a brilliant tactician. Surely a strategist of his ability would be ashamed of such a clumsy move? What could he gain from making an open enemy of the Venetians?
The Sultan's fondak was huge. Built around three sides of a central courtyard, it had one side open to the Grand Canal, where a small riva let Mamluk barges unload with trade goods for selling. Some of the mob-Nicoletti, probably-were already launching luggers. They claimed they wanted to prevent the barges escaping. It was more likely they intended to loot them later.
Faced with Istrian stone, the fontego's endless rounded arches lightened its facade. Most large buildings in Venice used colonnades to lighten their weight. Otherwise the wooden pilings of their foundations simply sunk into the mud.
The secrets of such work were jealously guarded and patricians and cittadini who ignored advice from the Masons' Guild found themselves owners of expensive piles of rubble. It was a huge man in a mason's leather apron who stepped up to the iron-bound door of the fontego and raised a sledgehammer.
Prince Alonzo nodded at Roderigo, who nodded at his sergeant. Leather and horn scales hid Temujin's half-healed shoulder. His pain was obvious, however, in the sweat beading his forehead. "Do it," he ordered.
Spitting, to make clear what he thought of being bossed around by someone half Mongol, the mason pounded his hammer into the stone arch, about three-quarters of the way up.
"Attack the door," Temujin growled.
"No," Roderigo muttered. "He knows what he's doing."
The third blow cracked stone.
So the mason pounded again and the block shattered, leaving an iron bolt jutting from broken stone. It looked almost as new as the day it was fitted. A crack of his hammer drove the bolt inwards, creating a gap at the edge of a huge door.
"Arrows ready."
At Temujin's order, eight Dogana guard ratcheted back their crossbows and slid quarrels into place. Without being told they fanned out, providing cover. Their weapons pointed slightly downwards.
"Now," said Roderigo. "He'll break the lock."
As if to prove him right, the mason swung his hammer into the key plate. Metal rang and the door rattled. A second blow buckled the iron plate and inside someone shouted a warning.
"Should have opened it earlier," Alonzo spat.
Around him the mob nodded, as if the prince might require their agreement. His voice sounded fired up with passion, fury and outrage at his niece's disappearance. His eyes, however, were ice. When he glanced at the captain, Roderigo looked away.
"Stay watchful," Roderigo hissed.
A moment later, Roderigo's sergeant relayed the order, his version centring on what he'd do to their daughters if they failed. When the mason swung his sledgehammer one final time, the lock broke free. For a second the door remained upright, supported on its remaining hinge, and then it toppled. Metal screaming as the hinge tore itself free.
The first arrow from inside hit the mason.
I'd do the same, Roderigo thought.
Dropping his hammer, the mason touched the arrow in disbelief, not daring to pull it from his throat. The Mamluks would die. Shooting the mason ensured it would be fast. At least, Roderigo hoped so. After the siege of Luca he'd seen what happened when angry men decided to kill slowly. That he'd been in the mob and the Lucans its victims made no difference in his dreams.
"Sack this place," Alonzo ordered.
His supporters didn't need telling twice. Swarming past the Regent, they charged the archway. At a nod from his captain, Temujin let them go. The first three through the arch stumbled back with arrows in their chests.
A single archer from the look of it.
Mamluk bows were half as
long as English, made from layers of hardwood and horn. Their arrows had three flights and barbed points to make freeing them more dangerous than pushing them through.
"You want me to deal with their archer, boss?"
Roderigo shook his head. Let the crowd do it. That the Venetian mob pushed forward had little to do with courage. The weight of those at the back made it inevitable, whether the front wanted to advance or not.
"We keep the Regent safe."
Temujin nodded.
Not that Prince Alonzo faced much danger. A breastplate covered his chest, while a gorget protected his throat and a crested helm was crammed on to his skull. Vambraces protected his forearms. Across his shoulders hung his broadsword. A dagger sat at his hip. With his beard and armour he looked like a condottiero.
Intentional, no doubt.
Grabbing a fisherman's gaff, a squat man hefted it, found its balance and threw with the casual skill of an old soldier. His makeshift spear arcing above those ahead of him to hit its target. Temujin grunted his approval. "Now we go in!"
Since the Regent was freeing his sword and loosening his dagger it looked like the sergeant was right.
"Let me through," Alonzo growled.
One Castellani pushed back, until he glanced round and realised who his rival was. Grabbing the man's red scarf, the Regent tied it to his arm, grinning at the man's shock and the crowd's roar. I'm like you, Alonzo's expression said.
Apart from the palace, obviously. The Millioni millions. The fact the law was blind when those who angered the Regent disappeared.
"Boss…?"
"Nothing," Roderigo said.
A merchant in a striped robe barred their way.
Behind him stood half a dozen Mamluk soldiers. The maximum a foreign fontego could keep to protect itself from thieves. Six for a foreign fontego. Eleven for a Venetian one. Thirteen for a patrician. The rule was clear and ruthlessly enforced.
"Planning to shoot me too?" Alonzo demanded.
"My lord…" The merchant bowed, decided his greeting wasn't reverential enough and adjusted it. "Your highness."
The hunger those words fired in the Regent's eyes was frightening. For a moment, Roderigo thought the Mamluk had bought himself life, maybe even freedom. His next words ruined it.
"Could your niece have run away?"
A growl of anger rolled through the mob as those in front carried his comment to those behind them. She was a Millioni princess, about to become a queen, how ignorant could the Mamluk be. Not ignorant, insulting.
The Regent dealt with the insult himself. Drawing his great sword, he stepped forward as the merchant began to plead for his life. The sword slashed down anyway.
"Now," Temujin ordered, and his troop cut down the Mamluk soldiers before they could begin to fight back. High above, Roderigo saw two boys manoeuvre a money chest on to a balcony's balustrade, their bodies foreshortened as they struggled to push it over the edge.
"My lord…"
Flinging himself forward, Roderigo shoulder-slammed the Regent so hard that Alonzo staggered, dropping his bloody sword. And then the flagstones exploded behind them. The chest landing where Alonzo had stood. As one, the mob began chasing the rolling coins across the hall floor, stuffing their pockets with silver dirham. The chest had been the heaviest object the boys could find.
"You saved my life," Alonzo said.
Perhaps Roderigo only imagined he sounded surprised. Although Roderigo was shocked himself, when the bear of a condottiero grabbed him, hugging him close.
"Name your reward," Alonzo said.
"My lord, about Lady Giulietta. That Mamluk vessel…"
"God's sake, man," the Regent said. "Ignore it." They were talking about different ships. "Your mansion is falling apart?"
"There's not a room that doesn't leak."
"Then it's settled. Two thousand ducats. Tell the treasury I order them to release that amount. What's your rank?"
"Armiger, my lord."
"I make you a baron. Subject to Marco's approval, obviously."
While the crowd scrabbled for dirham, and the Mamluk boys stood frozen on the balcony above, too scared to move, Roderigo bowed low. He bowed low to stop Prince Alonzo from seeing his face.
As Roderigo followed the Regent up the stairs, he considered the implications of accidentally choosing sides in the feud between Alonzo and Alexa. He now had money enough to mend his roof, and a title. One alone would improve his chances of marrying well. Two made it a certainty. Although Desdaio would always be beyond him. Roderigo hadn't intended to choose one faction over another, however. Something he doubted the duchess would believe. The Fontego dei Mamluk had three levels. At ground level, cargo was unloaded, goods were stored and deals made. An area of hall behind them held booths selling spices and scarlet leather. The booths were kindling now.
The floor they approached had family rooms. A library, most likely. But it was the floor above the mob wanted to reach. The kitchens were on the top floor, so oven smoke could escape through fumaioli to the sky. Here, too, valuables were kept, both living and non-living. The doe-eyed beauties of rumour.
So beautiful they had to be kept veiled like novice nuns, unable to stand temptation. It was this thought that carried Alonzo's followers up two flights of stairs. Behind them they left the Mamluk boys dead on their balcony.
"You cannot enter."
A fat man waddled towards them. He was bald, hairless and wearing scarlet silk pantaloons and a sleeveless jacket, embroidered with peacocks picked out in blue and silver thread. A gold ring hung from his ear.
"A eunuch," Temujin whispered.
Roderigo had worked that out for himself.
"My lords." Planting his feet apart, the eunuch tried to block Prince Alonzo's entrance to the harem. "This is not fitting. Please…"
He died. An arrow in his throat.
"Not ours, boss."
A Castellani had helped himself to a Mamluk hunting bow. Roderigo imagined the Regent knew he'd have to disarm the mob once this was over. But for the moment Prince Alonzo flattered them. "Help yourselves," he said.
Did he mean, help yourselves to the women? To the food in the kitchens? Or to the gold hidden in the strongrooms beyond? The crowd decided he meant all three.
Roderigo wondered if they realised Venice had just declared war.
22
"You got Mamluk blood?"
Tycho shook his head.
"Told you," Pietro said triumphantly. He swept straggles of black hair from his childish face, spreading the dirt more evenly. "They're killing Mamluks," he explained. "Rosalyn thought…"
He glanced across.
"Well, the City Watch want you. And a black girl with braided hair. So Rosalyn thought you must be Mamluk…"
"If he's not," said Rosalyn, "he must be a slave."
"That's it." Josh nodded. "Your master's important enough to use the Watch." He looked suddenly worried. "He's not Ten, is he?"
Rosalyn scrambled to her feet.
She bared her teeth when Tycho stopped her. Behind him, Pietro grabbed half a brick. "You hurt my sister…"
"I won't." Tycho put his fingers to Rosalyn's head and saw Josh's eyes narrow and his face harden at the sight.
"I mean it," Pietro said.
Tycho nodded, but kept his fingers in place.
I can do this, he told himself. If it can happen by accident, it can happen intentionally. He let the question trickle through his body, feeling how it flowed from his fingers to her mind. The black girl she talked about was the Nubian he'd seen earlier. The Watch looked like thugs everywhere.
"Witchcraft," Rosalyn said, stepping back.
Pietro raised his brick and Josh reached for a dagger in his belt.
Tycho might have had to fight them, maybe kill one, but the moon stopped the fight before it began. Sliding from behind cloud, it lit the door of his ruined wooden warehouse. It also lit his face, although Tycho only realised this when Rosalyn's own softened and she shifted, al
most unknowingly, to put herself between Josh and Tycho.
"Wait," she said.
They stood as they were. Pietro with his raised brick, Josh scowling and Tycho swaying on his feet. Rosalyn looked into the bleakness in his eyes. "Are you a slave?" she demanded. "Is that why they're hunting you?"
"I was," he admitted. "But that was before here."
"And I suppose your mother was a princess?" Josh said spitefully. "Your father was captured in battle? No doubt your grandfather lived in a palace." He rolled his eyes derisively. "Never met an escaped slave who didn't claim he was a prince."
Tycho wondered how many he'd talked to. And then, wondered how many escaped slaves there were in Venice. A dozen, a hundred, more? What happened when they were caught?
"Were you a prince?"
"Rosalyn…" Josh sounded exasperated.
"Just asking. Did you have a palace? Was your mother a princess?"
"My mother died when I was born. She was a slave before that. I don't know, maybe she was a princess before she was a slave. No one ever said. The woman who brought me up called her, Lady…"
Rosalyn tipped her head to one side. "Maybe that's the truth," she said. "Otherwise he'd say his palace was huge."
"And perhaps he's just being clever," Josh said flatly. "He looks clever. Maybe he's a Jew. His hair is strange enough."
"Jews aren't slaves."
Josh spat. "They should be."
Rosalyn flushed, her face darkened and she bit her lip, hugging herself. This only made her small breasts jut. And that only made Josh smirk. There was a tension and strangeness to the night. A chill wind holding scents that demanded Tycho find their origin even as they told Rosalyn to flee.
"You hungry?" she asked him.
Tycho shook his head.
"Rosalyn."
"What?" The girl looked nervously at…
Who? Tycho wondered. Her brother? Her lover?
Strays, thrown together by chance? He looked more closely, seeing if he could guess which. Siblings, perhaps. There was a family likeness. Unless that was simply the hunger in their eyes and the dirt.
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