“Of the stamps, or molds,” di Santo-Germano translated from a Roman dialect earlier than the one spoken there now.
“Yes.” Delle Fonde stared into the darkness at the middle distance, and went on, still somewhat enveloped in the hazy dream the tea imparted. “Sabinus—my ancestor—accepted employment and brought our family to Lyon, where he was authorized to mint coins for the Crown and the city, as he had done in Roma. After many years, he became a convert to the teaching of Piere Waldo, and for that, his sons were arrested and imprisoned, and he was branded on the forehead and told to go to the Holy Land to pray for forgiveness at Jerusalem; when he did not return, all the family was excommunicated and threw in their lot with Waldo’s followers and settled in Savoia, remaining close to our religion—Christian but not Catholic—down the generations. Many of my family have been executed for being heretics because we have remained faithful to the Waldensian Creed.”
“But not so faithful that they would not wed you to a Catholic,” di Santo-Germano pointed out.
“You understand,” said delle Fonde with visible relief.
“I grasp the problem,” said di Santo-Germano, taking up delle Fonde’s account. “So you left, and gradually, you have come to value what you left behind. It is not an uncommon experience.” He recalled the many times he had seen such forces working in someone’s life, and felt the familiar pang that accompanied his own recognition of how far he was from his own family, his people, his breathing days, his gods who had made him one of them. “You have a feeling of interrupted circumstance, of lost continuity.”
“Just so,” said delle Fonde with a little sigh as he began to walk the camp perimeter again.
“You would like to have that familiarity again, before it is lost,” said di Santo-Germano, walking beside delle Fonde.
“Yesi You,” delle Fonde dared to say, “must know the same—being an exile. You must miss them as you would a severed arm.”
“True enough, but I cannot return to them,” said di Santo-Germano, making no other remark about his past. “However, if you visit your family, do not be astonished if what you are seeking is difficult to find—you have had years apart, and you have had experiences that none of your family will share with you.”
“Do you fear that for yourself?” delle Fonde asked impulsively.
It took di Santo-Germano a moment to frame his answer. “It is difficult to be without context; it is a burden that does not lessen with time.”
Delle Fonde made a face of chagrin. “I should not have—”
“Clearly you wish to speak to someone, and of this group, I or my manservant are the least likely to use this information against you,” said di Santo-Germano.
Now delle Fonde made a gesture of regret. “It was wrong for me to speak to you, Conte. If you will forgive my impertinence?”
Di Santo-Germano held up his hand. “No. You have said nothing for which you should ask pardon. If anything, it is I who should ask pardon of you, for permitting you to say so much.” He saw delle Fonde take a step back, shocked. “I could easily have silenced you when you began to speak, but I did not; I brought your questions on myself.”
Delle Fonde smiled uneasily. “But I imposed upon you, Conte.”
“Hardly imposed. Rather let us say that you and I have taken advantage of our parting to come to comment upon matters that cannot be shared with closer associates.”
“Like those we meet in taverns,” said delle Fonde, “to whom we impart secrets without worry.”
Di Santo-Germano nodded in what could be considered agreement. “You may rest assured I will keep your confidence, and by tomorrow you and I will part company in any case. Whom could I tell of your family’s religion, and why should I speak of it at all?”
“Yes,” said delle Fonde. “Why should either of us say anything?”
As they continued on their rounds, neither spoke again until they were relieved at midnight by Ruggier and Yeoville.
Text of a letter from Basilio Cuor in Amsterdam, to Christofo Sen in Venezia, carried by private courier, and delivered fourteen days after it was written.
To the most estimable Christofo Sen, secretary to the Minor Consiglio, in Venezia, the greetings of Basilio Cuor in Amsterdam on this, the 23rdday of July, 1531;
I am confirming my note of ten days ago: Saint-Germain, or di Santo-Germano, if you prefer, is gone from Amsterdam, and from Antwerp. I presented myself at his houses in both cities, and was misdirected-deliberately, I believe-back to Amsterdam, which lost me precious days in following him.
It is my belief, based upon what I learned from the woman occupying his house in this city, that di Santo-Germano has returned to Venezia, and may even now be in his house on Campo San Luca; she was careful to tell me very little, but I mentioned that I had business with his trading company which would prove profitable for him, and she suggested that I speak to his advocate to learn to whom I could broach this matter, for the advocate has di Santo-Germano’s direction in Venezia and other places. Proceeding on this information, I made inquiries of one of the clerks of his advocate, but the man is as tightlipped as a clam, and would tell me nothing useful, but the assistant to the factor Altermaat confirmed that di Santo-Germano is bound for La Serenissima, and so I am confident in expressing my certainty that he is once again in the city.
I have arranged to accompany a group of merchants bound to the south, and I will stay with them until a faster-traveling band will admit me to their number. I anticipate arriving in about three weeks—sooner if it is possible—when I will present myself to you to make a complete report as regards this Saint-Germain or di Santo-Germano. I do not think I should commit such information to paper, for fear it may fall into the wrong hands.
Until I present myself to you,
I remain your most truly devoted servant,
Basilio Cuor
3
All the windows in Giovanni Boromeo’s print-shop were open, but the heat of high summer lingered, pungent from the canals, and undisturbed by breezes. The water had a harsh, brazen shine, and the sky glared down with the full weight of midday. Four apprentices struggled to align paper in the main press while another two busied themselves in preparing the type for the next page. Boromeo himself, his giaquetta set aside and his camisa pulled out from his hose, redfaced with effort, wrestled a pallet of paper nearer the press itself.
“Feel the grain!” Boromeo ordered the pressmen. “Follow the paper, don’t force it!”
The sound of an opening door from the side of the print-shop that faced the Campo San Proccopio provided all the sweaty, aggravated men the opportunity to stop working, at least long enough to see who had arrived.
“Gran’Dio e tutt’santi!” Boromeo exclaimed as he swung around to face the dark figure outlined in the hazy brilliance. “What do you want?”
“I am here in answer to your summons,” said di Santo-Germano, coming through the door and into the print-shop. He was superbly dressed in a black-silk doublet piped in silver, with silver lace at throat and wrists; the dogaline that topped this was also silk: fine black satin lined in silver taffeta. His hose were black, slashed and studded in more silver, and his leggings were black, as were his low, thick-heeled boots. He wore a sword, but had not bothered with a hat, and in spite of the heat, there was no trace of moisture on his face or clothes.
Boromeo stood very still, as if disbelieving his senses; all around him work ceased and the men stared, the only sounds in the room drifting in from the canal just beyond the open door. Slowly Boromeo took a step toward the man in black-and-silver. “Conte?”
“Eccomi,” said di Santo-Germano, bowing slightly, sounding more Fiorenzano than Veneziano.
“Thank merciful Heaven,” said Boromeo as the noise in his print-shop resumed.
“I came as quickly as I could,” said di Santo-Germano. “Your letter dismayed me.”
“At last!” Boromeo exclaimed. “I had feared you had been thrust into a Protestant prison—or worse�
��a Spanish one.”
“Fortunately neither. Yet I find that I might as well have been, for all the information I have been provided.”
“But I have been telling you for months how badly we were faring here,” said Boromeo. “I prepared my report every month, and put it into Emerenzio’s hands to be copied and sent on to you. I even provided him paper for his clerk.” His face darkened, as if this were the ultimate betrayal.
“I have had only superficial reports from Emerenzio,” said di Santo-Germano. “Nothing from you until you sent one to me on your own.”
“Only superficial reports,” Boromeo repeated. “Nothing about the precarious state of your business? from anyone?”
“No. Emerezio assured me he was sending me all information entrusted to him. He claimed that the earthquake in Lisbon had caused a delay in some of my profits, and that he needed time to prepare an accurate assessment of how much would be needed to restore the trading company there, and in the meantime, those of my ships bound for the New World would be setting sail from Oporto, and a new wharf and warehouse would have to be built there.” Di Santo-Germano held up his hand. “I have spoken to one of my ships’ captains already, and he informs me that no such building is taking place.”
“I am astonished to hear it,” said Boromeo with heavy sarcasm. “If you were not informed of how matters stood here, then why should the state of affairs elsewhere be any different? I understood that you had been informed by Emerenzio of what your circumstances were here and in Lisbon—that you knew of the severity of your losses.”
“Alas, no,” said di Santo-Germano. “Had I heard earlier, I would have taken steps to correct matters.”
“Delfino, do not bother yourself with our discussion,” Boromeo snapped suddenly, rounding on one of his apprentices; when the youth turned away, Boromeo gave his attention to di Santo-Germano again. “You certainly acted swiftly when I contacted you, and I am grateful to you for such swift response: I had the funds you sent from the north six days ago; the courier came directly here, requiring only twelve days to make the journey—a punishing pace, to be sure. Apparently he took your instructions to make haste to heart. As you see, I have put the money to good use.” He gestured to indicate that his shop was busy. “That paper was delivered this morning.”
“Excellent,” approved di Santo-Germano. “If you haven’t sufficient money to complete your projects, you have only to inform me of that fact, and I will see you have what you need.” He glanced around the print-shop. “I do not see Niccola here, or Mascuccio.”
“Niccola is carrying messages for me; I suppose you’ll want him back again? Mascuccio has gone to work at the Casetta Santa Perpetua ; he left when my funds could not continue to cover his wages.” Boromeo coughed delicately. “He was given a reference by Gennaro Emerenzio—he said he regretted he could do so little for your former servants.”
“No doubt,” said di Santo-Germano sardonically. “I have called at Signor’ Emerenzio’s place of business, without being permitted to speak with him.”
Boromeo stared, shocked. “Conte?” He glanced around his print-shop again, aware that the men were listening.
“That was after I went to my house on Campo San Luca and found only a single footman left there with an under-cook, and half the household furnishings gone,” said di Santo-Germano. “I have left my manservant there to make inventories of what is missing.”
“You say there has been theft at your house? On top of all the rest?” Boromeo exclaimed.
“No; I say that many things are missing—I have not yet determined the reason, although theft is likely.” He paused. “I also went to Pier-Ariana’s house and found a merchant from Pisa in it. What do you know of this?”
Boromeo was about to answer when he realized that what was being overheard would provide fodder for gossip. He straightened up and waved vigorously. “All of you: take your prandium now, and return after your midday rest. The Conte and I have much to discuss.”
Reluctantly the men gathered up their wallets and straggled to the door leading out of the side of the shop, onto the Campo San Proccopio, and the small cluster of hastily erected canvas-sided stalls where food was being prepared to supply the many craftsmen who worked in the immediate district.
“A good precaution,” di Santo-Germano approved.
“By nightfall there will be dozens of versions of our conversation circulating in the city,” said Boromeo as if he were acknowledging a fault.
“That will suit me very well,” di Santo-Germano declared, and went on as he saw confusion in Boromeo’s face. “How else am I to rout out Emerenzio if not through questions from his fellow Veneziani?”
Boromeo blinked. “You want my workers to talk?”
“Oh, yes. And to spread as many rumors as possible, without too much invention in their telling; let it be known that I have returned and that I am making inquiries into the state of my businesses. If Emerenzio wants to hide from me, so be it. But he shall not be allowed to do so without scrutiny.” Di Santo-Germano walked to the center of the shop, out of the blocks of light from the open windows and doors. “Tell me all that you can.”
“About Emerenzio?” Boromeo speculated. “Or would you like me to cast a wider net?”
“At heart I want to know about Emerenzio, yes, but include all that his acts have entailed.”
“That may take some time,” said Boromeo, going to shut the quay-side door. “And you will have many false accounts to sort through.”
“More than you suppose: today I have as much time as you need; tell me as much as you know,” said di Santo-Germano, and leaned back against the tall rack of type-trays, prepared to listen, asking only a few questions as Giovanni Boromeo told him of all that had transpired here in Venezia over the past year. The midday rest ended, and the men and apprentices returned to their work, but Boromeo took another hour to finish his account. At last he thanked Boromeo, saying, “You have given me much to deliberate; I must take my next steps after heedful consideration.”
“For your own sake, and others,” said Boromeo. “All of us could be at risk if Emerenzio has the chance to oppose you.”
“Yes; that is clear. But what puts you in danger is also dangerous to him, for he has overstepped himself,” di Santo-Germano said with calm purpose. “He might have managed if he had only stolen from an absent foreigner, but from good Veneziani—that is another matter entirely.”
“If Emerenzio had played you so foul, then he will be a desperate enemy,” Boromeo warned.
“No doubt like a cornered crocodile,” said di Santo-Germano in grim whimsy, and went on in a more detached voice, “When the White Gull arrives from Amsterdam, she’ll be carrying books from the press I have there. I have ordered them delivered directly to you. You may sell them yourself, or arrange with a dealer to handle them. All I ask from you is a full record of—”
Boromeo interrupted. “—of all our transactions, and the amounts paid. Of course. I will copy all that I have on hand and bring it to you myself, tomorrow. After what Emerenzio has done, it is the wisest course to have as much proof of his crimes as you can obtain. You will need to gather your proofs circumspectly if you are not to lose more to Emerenzio’s avarice.” He folded his big arms and studied di Santo-Germano. “Will you permit me to help you in your dealing with Emerenzio?”
“I may, depending upon how this all falls out,” said di Santo-Germano. “You have been damaged by his actions, so you should share in his comeuppance.” Di Santo-Germano straightened up. “I am going to return to my house now, and see what my manservant has found out. Then I will try to find Pier-Ariana.” He lifted his brows. “Would you have any information on where she has gone?”
“I don’t know. She brought a manuscript of songs to me at the start of summer, but I haven’t seen her since then,” said Boromeo uncomfortably. “The book has yet to be set, so I have had no reason to speak with her. Had I known she was bearing so onerous a burden—” He stared at the press and
the men working it. “Perhaps I should have done something, but I knew you had secured her that house, so …” He finished with a bunglesome shrug.
“I understand,” said di Santo-Germano, aware of the many difficulties Emerenzio had caused. “I will return again, not long from now; if you need to send me a message, direct it to the Campo San Luca house. I will be staying there.”
“And Niccola?” asked Boromeo. “What is to become of him?”
Di Santo-Germano considered. “If he wishes to return to my service, I will be glad to have him; if he desires to stay here, then he shall.”
“You are most generous, Conte, most generous,” said Boromeo.
But di Santo-Germano met this praise with a self-effacing turn of his hands. “No, I am not. What man is well-served by a reluctant page? And who wants to train a recalcitrant apprentice?” He inclined his head. “I thank you again, Signor’ Boromeo.”
“You have no reason to thank me, Conte,” said Boromeo as he bowed di Santo-Germano out of his print-shop to the canal. “Shall I summon a gondola for you?”
“No, it is not necessary. I still have my own,” said di Santo-Germano, and raised his hand to signal to Milano da Costaga to bring his craft up to the steps that led down to the water.
“Signor’ Conte?” asked Milano as he helped his employer into the special, earth-lined boat.
“Back to San Luca, Milano,” said di Santo-Germano, offering a single wave to Boromeo.
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 28
