“Then you must sign this, and impress your seal on the wax,” said Gennaro Emerenzio, spreading the parchment open to its fullest extent and holding it firmly while di Santo-Germano signed his name and reached for the small dish of heated sealing wax. “Just fix it there.” He tapped the place provided for the seal with one finger, watching critically as the dollop of hot, dark-red wax settled on the page. A speck of wax stuck on the pleated lace at the cuff of his long, dark-plum pourpoint, and he hissed at his own clumsiness.
“This should satisfy everyone, even the Church,” said di Santo-Germano as he pressed his seal into the hot wax, leaving the impression of his device: a disk with raised, displayed wings. “This gives you access to my funds for eighteen months or until my return. You have my schedule of payments and my usual household expenses, and the authorization to meet them. All my servants are allowed three weeks each year to visit their families, and an allowance for their travels; it is stipulated in the material I have brought to you.” He laid his hand on the small, bound account book. “I also am leaving jewels with you to cover any unanticipated expenses. In this purse”—he held up a black-leather pouch—“are six rubies, nine sapphires, four diamonds, seven emeralds, twelve moonstones, ten opals, eight yellow topazes, and five blue ones. The largest jewel is the size of a hen’s egg—a ruby; the smallest—an opal—is about as large as a pea. Most are about the size of the end of my thumb.”
As he listened to this impressive list, Emerenzio’s eyes grew large. “That is … that is a sizeable fortune, Signor’ Conte.”
“They are provided to cover very high expenses, such as ransoms for my ships and crews, repairs on my house, and any untoward expenses that come about on the press. Giovanni Boromeo will inform you if the gold I have advanced him is insufficient.” He smoothed the front of his pleated black doublet, and twitched the French cuffruffles of his white-silk camisa.
“If your generosity to him is anything approaching what you are entrusting to me, he must consider himself the most fortunate printer in all Venezia.” This fulsome praise was sincere but overly flattering, so Emerenzio, who knew di Santo-Germano disliked excessive plaudits, did his best to modify them. “You are a very wealthy man, of course, and that enables you to be a truly generous master and patron; you set an example many Veneziani would be well-advised to follow.”
Di Santo-Germano held up his hand. “Do not continue this adulation, prego.”
“It is richly deserved,” said Emerenzio, unable to stop himself. “You are—”
“I am,” di Santo-Germano interrupted firmly, “an exile who knows how much his well-being depends upon the good-will of those around him.”
“So you say,” Emerenzio attempted a smile and managed only an obsequious grin. “If that is your understanding, I will say no more about it.”
“Thank all the forgotten gods for that,” di Santo-Germano remarked with another of his elusive smiles.
“Regarding your patronage, you are more generous with your musician than you need to be. No woman requires the kind of life you have given her. You provide too much temptation, and you know how women are: she will take advantage of it, I warn you.” He coughed. “I do not speak against her, but you know what women are when they are indulged.”
“But I do not consider Signorina Salier to be indulged; she has an ability, and in order to explore it to its fullest, she does not need to be burdened with the worries and demands of everyday life. I am in a position to make this possible for her.” His dark eyes held Emerenzio’s hazel ones. “It is the least I can do.”
“Of course, of course,” said Emerenzio hastily. “I only hope that you do not live to regret your kindness to her.”
“You need not fret,” said di Santo-Germano with a faint, enigmatic glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “I have lived long enough to regret many things, but I doubt it would be possible to regret easing Signorina Salier’s life.”
“But it is—You are unlike so many others.” He gathered his thoughts and rushed on, “I have dealt with many of the fine merchants in Venezia, and I know many of them to be pinch-purses, unwilling to part with a single ducat unless they can realize two from it.”
“How unfortunate that they are unwilling to enjoy their success,” said di Santo-Germano levelly.
“Gaining more gold is their enjoyment, spending it causes them distress,” said Emerenzio. He tested the sealing wax to be sure it was cool, then rolled up the parchment, circled it twice with a silk ribbon, reached for the dish of hot wax and dropped it on the ribbon and the parchment, then pressed his personal seal on it. “There. I will see it is recorded at the Collegio.”
“Thank you,” said di Santo-Germano. “I trust you will see to the administration of the various funds I have left for my absence?”
“As we have agreed. Living money and household expenses to Pier-Ariana Salier, publishing money to Giovanni Boromeo, household money to your palazzo in addition to the servants’ wages, anonymous household and living money to Claudio Cinquanni while he prepares his work on the movements of the stars, anonymous household and living money to Gianni Parenti to allow him to devote his time to the collection and study of herbs. You have a grant for Fra Zacco at San Pietro di Castello for his repair on the old organ there. Also you will continue to provide living expenses to any and all Captains of your merchant-ships while they remain here in Venezia, and equal shares of ten percent of the profits of the sale of cargo to the crews on all merchant-ships arriving during your absence, just as you have done since your arrival in this city.” His expression was increasingly exasperated. “Your magnanimity occasionally borders on absurdity.”
“Nonetheless, it is my wish and you will see the conditions fulfilled, I am confident,” di Santo-Germano said, and went to the window to look out on the busy morning as boats and barges bustled about with the first deliveries of the day. He felt the weight of the angled sunlight and was keenly aware that he would need to reline the soles of his shoes with his native earth very shortly, for the heat that bit into him was not from the August day alone, but from the sapping power of the sun itself. He recalled the time, ten centuries ago, when there had been a darkening of the sun, and he had found much less discomfort in direct exposure to its rays. He turned away from the window. “Do you require anything more of me today?”
“Only that you present your household inventories, so that I may tend to keeping you properly supplied.” He removed his soft velvet cap and rubbed at his thinning, russet-colored hair. “I must think of some place to secure this purse,” he said, as much to himself as to di Santo-Germano. “It isn’t safe to let it be exposed. Servants get into everything.”
Di Santo-Germano regarded Emerenzio steadily. “Do you have the brass tiger I gave you? the one with the emerald eyes?”
“I keep it in my strong-room, with all the official papers I handle. It is locked day and night, and I alone have the key.” He straightened up, not wanting to seem unmindful of the value of such a gift. “I could put the pouch in a strongbox and secure it with a heavy lock.”
“And announce to anyone who sees it that something of value is contained therein,” said di Santo-Germano. “I think not. Let the tiger guard the purse.” He saw the startled look Emerenzio was quick to conceal. “The figure is hollow, and there is a clever slide-door in its belly. I have the key to open it—it is very small, and you will have to find a place where it will not be lost.” He held up an elaborate brass key no longer than his little finger; it was beautifully ornamented, with patterns of leaves entwined from the tiny, circular bow-grip to the little spine of irregular cuts that ran most of its blade. “This was made in India, as was the tiger,” he explained. “You do not insert and turn it, you fit the shaft into the pattern on the belly that matches it, and then you press and slide, and the compartment will open.”
Emerenzio stared, fascinated. “What a clever invention,” he said as he reached for the key.
“This key, if lost, cannot be replaced.” Di Santo-Germa
no handed it to him. “Keep it on a cord around your neck during my absence,” he recommended. “That way you are unlikely to lose it.”
Emerenzio held the key carefully. “It’s exquisite,” he said. “I will do as you suggest. I can imagine that this key could easily be lost if it isn’t handled carefully.”
“Yes. There are only two keys. I have the other one, and it is always within my reach,” said di Santo-Germano.
“On a cord around your neck?” asked Emerenzio.
“No; in a place much safer than that,” said di Santo-Germano, and offered nothing more.
“Just so,” said Emerenzio after a short, awkward silence. “Is there anything else, Conte?”
“I will send my manservant with the inventories for you after the midday rest,” said di Santo-Germano, offering a single nod. “I will take my leave of you.”
A sudden burst of shouting rose from the meeting of the canals on the east, the yelling echoing off the tall, marble fronts of the buildings, and bringing angry cries for answers.
“I can think of nothing more at present, not with that din raging.” He reached up and closed the shutter, reducing the noise to a muffled drone. “If I remember something, you still have a month before you leave, and doubtless, we will meet again several times before your departure. Surely that will be enough time to complete anything left undone today.” Emerenzio inclined his head respectfully. “Thank you, Conte, for all you have done.”
Di Santo-Germano made his way toward the door; the shouting had died down to occasional outbursts and a few trenchant oaths. “It is I who should thank you for your diligence in attending to my business affairs.”
“That is most gracious of you, Conte,” Emerenzio said, keeping half a step behind him. He paused in the small, square loggia of his house and glanced toward the narrow Rivi San Pantalon which connected two slightly larger canals. “I see your gondolier is waiting for you, in spite of the ruction.”
“I should hope so,” said di Santo-Germano, the tap of his heels on the marble floor echoing in the loggia.
“I imagine you want the same for him as you do all your servants?” Emerenzio asked as he hastened after di Santo-Germano.
“He is in my employ,” said di Santo-Germano as if his expectation were obvious.
“Yes, yes; you are very even-handed with your servants,” said Emerenzio, nodding emphatically.
“Such methods avoid carping and jealousy among them,” said di Santo-Germano, almost as if he were offering an apology for his fairness.
“So you have said.” As Emerenzio reached the steps down to the water, he paused, holding out his arm, as courtesy demanded, to assist di Santo-Germano into the waiting gondola.
“Grazie,” said di Santo-Germano, accepting his help. “Have a care with that key.”
“I will,” he promised, and stepped back onto the next tread; he glanced toward the canal ahead and saw it was clear of traffic. “Good day to you, then; may God give you prosperity and good health.”
“And to you,” said di Santo-Germano, and signaled Milano to shove off from the steps. He felt the annealing presence of his native earth in the keel of the boat permeate him, restoring his energy and lightening his mood. “Any news, Milano?”
“Nothing to mention,” said Milano, working his long oar expertly.
“Ah. Then there is something.”
Milano was occupied with turning the gondola in the narrow confines of the intersection of the two canals, and so said nothing until they were gliding under the Frari-Santa Margherita Bridge. “Three nights ago, while I waited for you near Signorina Salier’s house, I happened to see that young man I have mentioned before: the one who was following you.”
“And you suspect he was following me again?”
“I think he may have been, yes,” said Milano, checking the speed of his gondola as they slid past a narrow barge piled high with apples and lemons; they approached the Gran’ Canale with no increase in celerity, for there was a great deal of traffic maneuvering along its broad, sinuous curve. “He is not easy to miss, skulking like a mummer!”
“Is this the only time you have seen the fellow?” di Santo-Germano asked as Milano found his place in the stream of water-craft.
“Since I first brought him to your attention? No. I have seen him once with the Papal courier, Padre Duradante, at the Casetta Belle Donne.” He waited for anything di Santo-Germano might say about his visiting such an establishment; when there was no response, he continued. “I believe the grand little puppy lost a considerable amount to Padre Duradante that evening.”
“Did you happen to find out his name?” Di Santo-Germano winced as the morning sun struck the side of his face as Milano prepared to turn once more.
“I understand he is related to one of the Savii’s secretaries, or so the porter boasted,” said Milano. “Signora Giuletta does not allow her wealthy patrons to mingle with humble workers—with the exception of her women, of course.”
“Of course,” said di Santo-Germano.
Milano leaned on his oar and the gondola turned toward the narrow canal that passed the side of Campo San Luca. “They are cleaning one of the canals near the Arsenal, and so there are many delays there.”
“They blocked the section of the canal two days ago, as I recall. When they set up the barriers and pumped the water out, they found a dead body, or so I have been told,” di Santo-Germano remarked as the gondola slipped into the entrance of the smaller canal.
“That they did. I talked to one of the cleaners that night, he was still rattled by it. The man was not identifiable, but there is some speculation that it was a sailor from another country, because among the bits of clothing left on him, there was a bronze ring marked with Greek letters, and he had a Greek medal around his neck on a chain. The cleaner said that the body will be sent to the Greek church on the Giudecca for rites and burial.” Milano pulled heavily on his oar, then performed a complicated feathering, and the gondola went easily into the space between the marble pillars in front of di Santo-Germano’s house. “The Greek priests came and took the body yesterday. All the workers were glad to have it gone.”
“It’s always better if the unknown dead are foreigners of humble birth,” di Santo-Germano observed sardonically.
“And this one was so humble, he left no name, and no means of being certain where he came from,” Milano observed as he waited for di Santo-Germano to step out of the boat.
“Truly,” said di Santo-Germano, stepping up into the loggia. “Go have your cumuo. You have earned it.” This Venetian drink was a combination of wine, honey, and cream, heated, and then cooled, and considered a treat. “Tell Pompeo that I will do myself the pleasure of visiting the kitchens after prandium.”
“That I will,” said Milano. “You know, for a new fellow, Pompeo is working better than I’d hoped.”
Di Santo-Germano laughed. “In a Venetian household, everything depends on the cook, does it not?” He waved Milano away and strolled across the loggia, a preoccupied stare in his eyes. Then he heard one of the pages call him, and his full attention was on the youngster. “Yes, Enrici?”
“There is a letter for you. Ruggier has it in your study.” The youth, whose eyes were far more worldly than the other two pages’ were, gave di Santo-Germano a calculating look.
“Indeed?” Di Santo-Germano waited for Enrici to say more.
“It was brought by a courier. From the Lowlands; at least that’s where the courier came from.” His face showed nothing but a kind of reckless anticipation.
“Did he,” said di Santo-Germano, and handed the lad a brass coin. “For your trouble,” he said as he turned toward the stairs to the upper floor.
“Rinaldo’s pretending to be sick today,” Enrici called after him. When he was certain that di Santo-Germano was listening, he added, “He says he can’t work.”
Di Santo-Germano paused on the third step of the flight upward. “Are you certain he is truly well? that this is only sham?”
“He claims his guts ache, but no one else has such a malady,” said Enrici in a tone that bordered on smug. He hesitated. “He is pale and sweaty, but we all sweat in such weather. Rinaldo! You know how much he coddles himself. When it is hot, he is exhausted, and he has a cough from October to April.”
“Where is he?” di Santo-Germano asked as he came down the stairs again.
“In his bed, of course. He doesn’t want to get up.” It was easy for Enrici to express his contempt; his lip curled and he rocked back on his heels.
“I shall deal with him at once,” said di Santo-Germano, striding purposefully across the loggia toward the servants’ corridor. “Tell Ruggier that I will be with him in a little while.”
Enrici bowed. “I will, Signor’ Conte.”
Di Santo-Germano continued on, paying no attention to this minor concession that Enrici had made; he was reminded of the many times in the desert that he had seen men laid low by heat and lack of water. Venice was no desert, but fresh water was rare here, and from time to time men suffered from want of it. Di Santo-Germano hoped he would not find such a condition in his youngest page.
Text of a letter from Onfroi van Amsteljaxter in Bohemia to Grav Germain Ragoczy of Saint-Germain in care of Conte di Santo-Germano at Campo San Luca in Venezia, written in Latin, and delivered by messenger eighteen days after it was dispatched.
To the most respected and well-reputed Germain Ragoczy, Grav Saint-Germain, in care of the Conte di Santo-Germano residing at the Campo San Luca in Venezia, capital of the Most Serene Republic of Venezia, the greetings of Onfroi van Amsteijaxter, currently teaching in the household of the Landsmacht Dieter Flugelshund von Grussenwald,
Your Excellency, I write at the instigation of my sister, Erneste van Amsteljaxter, who has assured me you would not be adverse to having communication from me at this difficult time. She says she has written you in regard to the predicament in which I find myself, and that she has broached this matter on my behalf. I have seen her book, Lyrics and Tales of the Peasants of Brabant, which you were kind enough to publish, and so I have some reason to hope that her convictions regarding your goodwill are not wholly without foundation.
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 11
