“No,” said Camilio hastily. “I shall not.”
“Very good,” said Cuor, and leaned back, only to pull a cup and three dice from his pocket. “Put a coin on the table,” he said, shaking the cup.
“Why should I?” Camilio asked. “I’m not here to gamble.”
“It is best that it appears you are, so that anyone watching will think you are fleecing me,” said Cuor, going on with a determined display of tutelage. “This will make your being in my company make sense. Otherwise, someone might think it odd, and regard us more closely than either would like.” He slammed the leather cup onto the table, lifted it, and handed a silver coin to Camilio. “Again. And for a larger sum this time.”
“But we’re alone. Who will notice if I win or lose?”
“The landlord watches, don’t doubt it. Moreover, the midday rest is almost ended; men will be about shortly, and we must present a tableau that seems obvious when they come to this place. So pay attention to the dice and take the coins every time.”
Picking up the coin, Camilio leaned forward in the first sign of actual excitement. “Go ahead.” He shoved his coin toward Cuor, putting his attention on the roll of the dice as much as on what Cuor said to him.
The dice rattled in the cup as Cuor went on, “I’ll check out Polae, and I’ll let you know what I discover.”
“Be sure you provide as much information as you can, good and bad,” Camilio instructed him.
“I am not entirely new to this work,” said Cuor, an edge in his plummy voice. “Is there anything else?”
“Well, there is a second man, one to add to those you watch: the foreigner, il Conte Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano, who has a house on Campo San Luca. They say he walks to the Palazzo dei Dogei from there, preferring the streets to the canals.”
“Clearly a foreigner,” said Cuor. “What has he done?”
“Nothing obvious, or nothing that seems sinister, but his interests are such that this could well be a disguise, as your appearance is.” This last dig made no impression on Cuor, who nodded several times. “Well?”
“I know the man. Elegant sort of man, rich but not given to extravagance. He’s got ships, and a press, and the rumor is that he owns a fine collection of jewels. His house is as much a palace as anything on the Gran’ Canale.” He clapped the cup onto the table, lifted it, and paid Camilio again.
“You won that,” said Camilio, hesitating to take the coin.
“We are not playing at dice: you’re supposed to be taking advantage of me,” hissed Cuor. “Claim the money.”
Camilio did as he was told. “I will expect a report from you in a week. Shall we meet here again?”
“No, of course not,” said Cuor. “Meet me in one week’s time at sundown at San Sylvestro, near the confessionals.”
“Mightn’t that be a bit … late in the day for you?” Camilio hinted delicately. “Your disguise might be too … convincing.”
“I will be as sober then as I am now, and I am quite in control of my faculties,” said Cuor, and slammed down the cup a third time. “Rest assured, I will be there unless I am dead or taken with Plague.”
Camilio went white and crossed himself. “It is wrong to say such things.”
“What—that I might be killed, or taken ill?” He shook the dice-cup vigorously. “In this line of work, being killed is more likely than not, and the Plague comes from time to time, to cull the herd.” The slam was loud, and brought the landlord into the taproom, only to turn away in disgust.
The nearby church of San Cassiano chimed the hour of three, marking the end of the midday rest; in a moment, all the churches of Venezia joined in the clamor until the air shook with the noise.
“It’s enough to wake the dead,” said Cuor, putting one hand to his ear. “Or to summon Neptune from the depths.”
“I hadn’t realized how loud those bells are,” said Camilio. “I am usually in the Arsenal at this time of day, when I am at home in Venezia.” This was a slight exaggeration, meant to impress Cuor.
“Plenty of racket there,” said Cuor, and put down the dice again, handing over another coin.
“Not like this,” said Camilio. He took the coin and prepared to rise. “I am expected … elsewhere.”
“Tell your employer that the tasks will be attended to. If there is anything to discover, I will find it. If I find nothing, you may be certain there is nothing to be found.” Cuor dropped the dice back in the cup and hid them away in his disheveled garments.
“No doubt, no doubt,” Camilio said, trying to decide on how best to take his leave.
Cuor sensed his dilemma and waved him away. “You’ve had all of my money you’re going to get,” he complained loudly. “Away with you!”
The handsome young man obeyed with alacrity.
Left alone, Cuor let himself slump again, and began to doze—it was going to be a long night and he would need to be sharp-witted. The sunshine coming through the small, spotted windows was warm enough to ease him into sleep just as the rest of Venezia was waking up.
Camilio walked along the narrow street to the Gran’ Canale and signaled for a gondola; this one had been waiting for him, and it swept up to him promptly. “Take me to Piazza San Marco, and don’t dawdle,” he said to the gondoliere, lachimo, who had long been in the service of the Doge. “I have an appointment there, and I am expected.”
“At once,” said lachimo, accustomed to officious young gallants. He worked his single oar expertly and soon they were passing under the partially rebuilt Rialto Bridge, threading through a complex parade of boats, gondole, and barges; the day was warm when the sun fell full on the crowd, but in shadow, the cold of winter still lingered, needling the air and sapping the warmth of the day. The Gran’ Canale was a busy, clamoring place, washed by a rising tide and giving access to smaller canals along its sinuous course, fronted with warehouses and palaces intermixed, that ended in the Bacino di San Marco, where lachimo pulled out of the stream and to the landing steps of Piazza San Marco. “Here you are, signor’. In as good time as any could have made.”
Camilio alighted from the gondola and tossed a copper coin to Iachimo, then slipped through the press and confusion in the piazza toward the Palazzo dei Dogei, taking care to avoid the various officials in the gathering crowd. He looked up at the workmen on the front of the palazzo and reminded himself that eventually the city would not only be restored, it would be more beautiful than before. With that thought uppermost in his mind, he entered the palazzo and made his way through the warren of halls to the office of Christofo Sen, the senior secretary of the Savii agli Ordini; they had recently been retitled Savii da Mar, indicating that the Most Serene Republic was presently at peace, but no one used the new form, not with the Sultan’s corsairs hunting Venezian merchant-ships with arrogant impunity. Camilio knocked and waited to be summoned within.
Christofo Sen was a small, angular man with prominent shoulders, knotted fingers, and a wen on his cheek; his clothes were of silk and velvet, dark-amber dogaline-and-doublet edged in gold piping and tuck-lace, his knee-length hose of glossy satin, his leggings of knitted silk. His hair was almost white, but his eyes were a deep, intense blue, and he directed his gaze to Camilio as he entered the outer room of his office. “Well, Leoncio?”
“I have done as you asked, Zio mio: I have met your man, and I will meet with Cuor again in a week. It is all arranged.” Leoncio Sen coughed. “He calls me Camilio.”
“Just as well,” said Christofo. “It won’t do to have him learn who you are.” He gestured toward a wooden chair. “Sit down and tell me all.”
“All?” Leoncio repeated. “To tell you all, I must tell you, Zio, that Basilio Cuor is a most … a most unprepossessing individual.”
“I have seen him. I know how he presents himself. It would be a mistake to think that he is as incapable as he appears.” Christofo Sen continued to stare at his nephew.
After a short time, Leoncio grew uncomfortable under this scrutiny, a
nd he tugged at his narrow lace collar and coughed to conceal his growing disquiet. “I am sure he has been most useful to you. His … his performance is most convincing. I believed him on sight.”
“You should strive for such accomplishment yourself, Nipote,” said his uncle, then drew up a high-backed upholstered chair and stared at Leoncio. “And to accomplish it as cleanly as he does.”
“Cleanly?” Leoncio looked astonished.
“Better than extorting money to keep secrets,” said Christofo Sen.
“It spares you from having to provide me extra funds.” Leoncio’s voice was snide.
“Cuor is still more honorable in his calling.” His uncle spat in disgust.
“Are you sure he is reliable?” Leoncio could not keep from asking.
“He has proved to be so over the years, which is in itself a sign of merit; not many men get old in his line of work. Make no mistake, Nipote: Basilio Cuor is a very able, very dangerous man.”
“He implied as much,” said Leoncio.
“He wasn’t boasting,” said Christofo. “He is subtle and deceptive. Many have been revealed as traitors because of his relentlessness.”
“Mightn’t he deceive you, as well as another?” Leoncio dared to ask.
“It could be possible, I suppose, but if he has done so, there is no sign of it, and in the world of secrets, such betrayals cannot long be concealed. In the time he has served me, he has proven to be loyal.” He pressed his thin lips together while he contemplated Leoncio again. Finally, as if making up his mind, he said, “You have another responsibility being thrust upon you: I want you to seek out Padre Egidio Duradante.”
“The courier for Pope Clemente?” Leoncio was surprised.
“Pope Clemente! Ha! That de’ Medici bastard! Pope, indeed! Lackey to the Emperor is more like!” Christofo burst out, then calmed himself. “At least Fiorenzan influence is fading at the Papal Court.”
“Clemente was taken prisoner,” Leoncio said, clearly thinking this a failing. “He allowed Roma to be sacked.”
“The Spanish troops didn’t ask his permission,” said Christofo, smiling bleakly. “Find Padre Duradante and make him your friend. We need a confidant with the Pope’s ear.”
“Why should I be the one to speak to Padre Duradante?” Leoncio asked.
“Because he, like you, enjoys gaming, and that will provide a common interest so that your friendship will not be seen as what it is,” said Christofo. “I understand that he frequents the Casetta Santa Perpetua. You must know where it is.”
“I do, I do,” said Leoncio, a bit awkwardly.
“And I assume you are known there?” His uncle watched him expectantly.
“Yes. They know me,” Leoncio admitted, and hastened to ask, “How soon do you want me to begin with Padre Duradante?”
“Oh, as soon as possible. If this evening is not spoken for, you might venture there. Now that the weather is improving, evenings are busy again.”
“Won’t there be trouble? Gamblers can be imprisoned if they—” Leoncio stopped in embarrassment.
“You made the mistake of gambling during Lent, Leoncio. You mustn’t be surprised that you were punished for it. You are not so minor a person that no one will report your misdeeds.” He cleared his throat. “Now that Easter is past, gambling is thriving once more without hindrance, and Padre Duradante is a great exponent of that skill. You need not lose too much to him. In fact, if possible, do not lose any amount to him.” This last was filled with meaning.
“I have thanked you for paying my debts, Zio, and I am serving you now in order to repay your generosity: I am cognizant of my obligations to you, you need not fear.” His handsome face was wooden.
“You need not mention that. You were a foolish youth, dragged in over your head by men who prey on such impetuous young men as you were. I trust you have learned to moderate your methods, and your objectives, for if you do not, you will face a most miserable future.” He shifted the subject back to the one at hand. “Find Padre Duradante, but don’t be obvious about it. Fall in with him, and see what he will let slip in the excitement of the moment. Then try to promote Venezian interests with him. Do not be heavy-handed, for he is alert to such machinations, but do not forget your mission, either.”
“I will do what I can, Zio,” said Leoncio.
“Yes, you will,” said Christofo. “You will not bungle this, you will not over-play your hand, you will not bargain your way out of any predicament you may find yourself in.” He reached out and put his hand on Leoncio’s wrist. “You are my brother’s only son, and for that I will extend myself on your behalf to the limit of my power, and for our blood I will guard your life. But if you compromise me in any way, you will, at the very least, find yourself on a ship bound for the New World, I promise you. Your father concurs, so you need not go to him for protection or advocacy, as he will have neither to provide to you.”
Leoncio sat very still. “Do the Savii know what you are doing? Have you told them what you do clandestinely?”
“Of course,” said Christofo, taken aback. “Do you think I would abuse their confidence and my office in such a way as to act without their knowledge and permission?”
Brought up short by the harsh question, Leoncio shook his head. “No, Zio, I never thought such a thing. But I had to know, don’t you see?”
“I see what your opinion is of me and what I do,” said Christofo sharply.
But Leoncio was ready for this reaction and met it with a bland half-smile. “You may not want me to ask such things, but if I am to do your bidding, I have to understand upon what terms I do it.” He sat stiffly and refused to look his uncle in the eye; he fought the urge to justify his excesses, although he knew it would be useless. To his deep annoyance, he felt as if he were twelve and not twice that age. “You were the one who taught me to be cautious in such matters, so that I would not become a pawn.”
“Do you think you are one now?” Christofo demanded.
“I am afraid I might be,” said Leoncio.
For several heartbeats Christofo Sen said nothing, then he made a palms-up gesture of capitulation. “You’re right to question me.” He got up and went to the window. “I hope for all our sakes that you do not fail in this, Nipote mio, for the Savii and the Minor Consiglio will not entrust you with another diplomatic commission if you cannot show your dependability to their satisfaction, and I will not continue to support a wastrel.”
As exhilarating as it was to have the notice of such august personages as the Savii and the vastly consequential Minor Consiglio, a trickle of fear deprived Leoncio of any satisfaction. “I’ll do what they expect,” he promised.
“Yes. I trust you will,” said Christofo, his gaze on the distant walls of the Arsenal.
“I am grateful to you for all you are doing for me,” Leoncio added in a conscience-stricken voice.
“Ah, well; you’re young yet. In a year or so, if you acquit yourself well, your past indiscretions will be forgotten and your reputation will be wholly restored.” There was more hope than certainty in his words, but he maintained a determined optimism as he swung around to regard his nephew. “You’re a smart fellow, Leoncio, and you can go far in this work, if only you can keep from succumbing to your weaknesses.”
Leoncio nodded. “I understand you, Zio,” he said, already planning how he would fulfill his assignment and finally be rid of the blemish that had marred his family’s prestige for the last three years.
Christofo smiled at last. “I know, my boy; I know.”
Text of a letter from Jaans Marijens in Antwerp to Grav Ragoczy in Venezia, written in German, carried by messenger, and delivered thirty-six days after it was written.
To his Excellency, the Grav Ragoczy of Sant-Germain, currently residing in Venezia at the Campo San Luca, the greetings of Jaans Marijens, scholar of Antwerp and author of the book Traditions and Legends among the Danes and Swedes.
Most well-reputed publisher and master of the Eclipse Press
in Bruges and the Eclipse Press for Ancient Studies in Amsterdam, my most sincere good wishes to you, and my hope for the success of your publishing endeavors. It is in that capacity of publisher that I write to you, for I was very much surprised to discover that you are the master of not one but two significant presses, and therefore have far wider opportunities to offer your publications in terms of distribution throughout Europe. I have been informed that copies of your books have been found as far away as Novgorod in the east and the New World in the west, which has emboldened me to write to you.
My first work, cited above, was published in Frankfurt three years ago. With the recent upheaval in that city, many of the presses there were damaged or destroyed during the riots that have been the result of religious turmoil. I suppose you have heard about the damage done in Frankfurt and other cities, so I will not dwell upon it except to offer this as an explanation as to why I should seek another publisher for my next work which is nearly complete: Gods and Goddesses of Early Europe in which I identify and assess the various ancient monuments found throughout Europe, particularly the avenues and circles of standing stones, and the burial barrows of ancient Kings in all parts of Europe. I have visited many regions for myself and made extensive notes on the ancient sites as well as local tales regarding them. With the current protests being lodged against established religion, I believe there is much to learn from the faiths that prevailed before Salvation was secured for Mankind.
If you will permit me to send you the manuscript I have been preparing for consideration as a work to be included in your publication program, I would be most willing to bring it to you either in Bruges or in Amsterdam, or to receive you or your representative here in Antwerp. At this time we are still fairly safe from the Church here, and the Emperor has not acted against the printers in the region because of the Protestant presence in the cities. Yet I am reluctant to send such material into stringently Catholic territory, for, as you are doubtless aware, many books of a speculative nature, or which deal with matters not supportive to the Church, are often confiscated and added to the embers. So long as I do not expose my manuscript to such ruination, I will consider it an honor to have your consideration, and I will accord your response the highest respect, no matter what your decision may be.
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 3
