“More than four thousand,” Leoncio repeated, agog at the staggering sum. “How much more?” The twenty ducats he had been given three days earlier to delay reporting on Emerenzio’s whereabouts, which then seemed more than sufficient to secure his silence, now felt insulting.
“That hasn’t been determined yet; perhaps a great deal more,” said Christofo, his blue eyes crackling the brilliant light of the edge of night lightning. “But whatever the amount, the Savii and the Minor Consiglio will want to have a comprehensive auditing of all the accounts di Santo-Germano has in Venezia, so that some measure of restitution may be made—assuming such is possible—once we have Emerenzio in custody. Di Santo-Germano has already pledged to bring us his own accounts of his businesses here. From what I have seen thus far, the foreigner has not lost all his money, as Emerenzio has claimed—far from it: the man is so wealthy, you might think he coined gold himself.” Christofo gave a dry little laugh at his own witticism.
“I should say so, if he had so much gold to be stolen,” Leoncio seconded his uncle. “More than four thousand ducats! Who would have thought there was so large a reserve to be pilfered, and from an exile?’
“Emerenzio, for one,” said his uncle, and turned his eyes toward the door as a servant tapped upon it. “What is it?”
“There is an emissary from Cyprus here to meet with you, Signor’,” said the servant through the door. “He says you are expecting him.”
“That I am. Have him wait in the reception hall with the ivory chairs,” said Christofo. “I will be finished here shortly.” He looked toward his nephew expectantly.
“Is there anything more you want of me?” Leoncio asked, knowing what was expected of him.
“Only to find out what is your next move, Leoncio?”
“I must unearth more informants, and use their—He stopped.”Is there nothing from the Lion’s Mouths? Surely there must be someone other than di Santo-Germano with a complaint against this man who would entrust it to the Lion?
“Nothing that I am aware of,” said Christofo.
“But there may be,” said Leoncio. “Have your clerks look.”
“We cannot accept anything unsigned,” Christofo reminded his nephew.
“Then you have seen something, something unsigned. Perhaps neither Consiglio can use it, nor the Savii, but I might be able to put it to good use,” Leoncio exclaimed. “Won’t you tell me what it says?”
“I regret I cannot,” said Christofo in the tone of a man used to refusing.
“Emerenzio must have a great deal to answer for,” said Leoncio darkly, thinking of the various casette where Emerenzio gambled frequently, and the places he might have taken refuge in the two days since they spoke. “I will go out this afternoon and continue my search.”
“Very good,” Christofo approved, but without much conviction. “See you are not distracted along the way.”
Leoncio ducked his head. “Not I, Zio Christofo. I know where my loyalty lies.”
“I should hope so—and that should not be at a gaming table or in the bed of a courtesan,” said Christofo, unpersuaded by Leoncio’s protestations. “When shall I expect to see you again?”
“Later tonight or, if I find reliable information, tomorrow. If I make a discovery, I will send you word of it at once,” he promised, adding to himself that he would get more than a paltry twenty ducats out of Emerenzio to remain silent this time: Emerenzio had misappropriated a fortune, and Leoncio would get his share or he would reveal all he learned about Emerenzio to his uncle and the Savii whom he served—they would reward him for his diligence if Emerenzio would not.
“I shall await your news eagerly,” said Christofo, his anticipation as much a warning as an expectancy.
“Si, Zio mio,” said Leoncio.
Christofo touched the wen on his cheek—a sure sign that he was considering more than he intended to reveal—and said nonchalantly, “Have you been to the gambling establishments near San Alvise il Vecchio, or Santi Apostoli recently?”
“Is that what the Lion’s Mouth—” He hated the thought of an informer knowing about the game he was playing, so he shook his head vigorously. “No. You must not tell me. Whatever you have seen was unsigned and cannot be examined or substantiated. I do understand that. But I am curious why you ask about San Alvise il Vecchio and Santi Apostoli.”
“It is simply a question,” said Christofo in a tone that did not encourage more inquiry. “The Cypriot emissary is waiting for me. I must leave you, Nipote, to your work.”
Leoncio nodded several times. “Yes. Just so, Zio. I thank you for giving me the benefit of your advice.”
“Then go and make use of it,” Christofo said as he moved to leave the room. “I cannot extend my patience indefinitely. The Doge himself knows of our present investigation, and I will have to tell him something to the point by noon tomorrow.”
“I understand,” said Leoncio, and held the door for his uncle.
“Do not disappoint me again, Nipote.” With that, Christofo Sen left Leoncio standing in the corridor and hurried along to the reception room with ivory chairs.
Leoncio watched him go, and allowed himself the luxury of swearing under his breath. This was becoming more difficult by the hour, and all he had hoped to gain from the protection he had extended to Emerenzio he now saw as paltry amounts for a much greater risk than he had realized he was taking. He lowered his chin onto the umberdamask silk of his doublet, unaware that he had left a smudge of sweat on the glossy fabric. Moving at a steady pace, he left the Palazzo dei Dogei and stepped out into the Piazza San Marco. The hot wind raked the open square, and a number of passersby grasped at their clothing as the frisky air snatched at them. Muttering at the sky, Leoncio hurried along past the Bacino di San Marco to the footbridge that led to Santa Maria del Giglio. As he reached the handsome church, he ducked inside and, after his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, found himself an empty seat in a rear pew where he could sit and think in relative tranquility. He made an effort to keep his eyes open, so he would not be accused of sleeping in church.
“Are you waiting for the confessional, my son?” asked a priest when Leoncio had been pondering his next move for almost an hour.
Startled, Leoncio looked up. “No, Padre. Not just yet. I am trying to sort out a difficult question, and I hoped your splendid church would help me to—”
“Oh, yes,” said the priest, whose face had the weathered texture of a man who had spent many long years at sea. “Contemplate your problems in God’s Hands.” He sketched a blessing in Leoncio’s direction and went off toward the row of private chapels along the side of the nave.
Left to himself, Leoncio found his thoughts supremely blank. No efforts on his part could summon forth a scheme that would benefit him without exposing him to hazards he was unwilling to accept. When the chimes sounded for midday, Leoncio shook himself inwardly and rose, planning to make for the door and the increasing bustle outside. Slowly he made his way to the door and glanced out at the wind-battered throng as if hoping to find some indication of what he should do in the behavior of strangers. “Veneziani,” he grumbled as he joined the multitude hurrying to prandium, and then the midday rest.
At San Samuele, Leoncio decided to speed his activities and walked down to the Gran’ Canale to signal for a gondola; being well-dressed and having the Sen arms on his dogaline, he was sure he could command one of the sleek Venezian boats without long delay or excessive haggling. When a gondola finally came up to him, having discharged two prosperous merchants across the Gran’ Canale at San Barnaba, Leoncio held up a silver Foscar and said, “Santi Apostoli, and two more of the same if you get me there promptly.”
The gondolier bowed Leoncio aboard, taking the one Foscar from him, and saying, as he held the boat steady while Leoncio made himself comfortable under the amid-ship awning, “There is a crush of barges and gondole around the Ponte Rialto. If you want speed, I shall have to go around it, past Campo San Angelo, then along to the
Merceria, and on from there.”
Leoncio sighed. “Do as you must, so long as you move with dispatch.”
With a bow that also worked his oar, the gondolier moved off toward his indirect approach to Santi Apostoli, along the busy, narrow waterways to the oddly shaped Campo Santi Apostoli, where he brought the gondola up to the landing and held it steady, allowing Leoncio to disembark. “I have done my part.” He doffed his soft cap and held it out for his tip. “No one could get you here any faster at this hour.”
At another time, Leoncio would have found a way to keep his coins, but now he cocked his head and handed over the whole amount. “You did well, gondolier, and you have earned this,” he said in a rare demonstration of good-will; the last thing he wanted was an argument to draw attention to his presence in this place. “May the Adriatic bring you good fortune.”
“And to you,” said the gondolier, and shoved away from the landing, bound for the Gran’ Canale; his voice floated back on the hot, hard air, calling to the Star of the Sea to look upon him with favor.
“Gondolieri are a superstitious lot,” Leoncio said to himself as he stepped away from the landing. Sauntering in an unconcerned manner, Leoncio moved along the narrow walkway that led behind Santi Apostoli to a cluster of buildings near the bridge on his right. Two of the houses were simply what they appeared to be, but the one immediately next to the tavern was something less than a casetta and more than an inn: this was a house of assignation, clandestine and discreet; it was called Le Rose, both for the flower of secrecy and the climbing brambles that went up the walls of the hostelry. Leoncio entered the iron-work gate and stepped into a minuscule courtyard that still carried the perfume of flowers although most of the blooms were spent. Here he was met by an unctuous landlord, who bowed several times and began a long recitation of compliments that Leoncio cut off curtly. “Yes, yes. I am here to see someone.”
“Of course, signor’, of course,” said the landlord, Benedetto Maggier, all but rubbing his hands. “That is one of the purposes of this establishment—to provide a discreet place for private encounters, or for negotiations for uncommon goods. Le Rose is a place for all manner of meetings. Whom did you wish to see?”
Leoncio coughed delicately. “You have a guest—an unofficial guest, as I understand it—a man whose name is not to be mentioned, but who has been here three days; a man who has good reason to keep his presence secret. He is known to be a gamester, and—”
The landlord held up one soft, long hand. “Alas, the man you are seeking is no longer here.”
“Not here?” Leoncio did his best not to reveal his annoyance. “That is unfortunate, for I have come with money he is owed.”
“That is unfortunate,” echoed the landlord.
“Do you expect him to return? Did he mention if he would be back?” Leoncio could feel cold panic rising in him; if he failed to run Emerenzio to ground, he would lose more than money, and he was unwilling to give up his way of life for the sake of one miscreant’s treachery.
“The guest did not inform me; he departed with three men bound for Murano, or so one of them declared.” He bowed again, more deeply.
“Murano—how very traditional,” said Leoncio: Murano was one of the first-settled islands of Venezia, and some distance from the main part of the city now—famed for its glass-makers, Murano was used by smugglers to avoid taxation on such things as water and wine, fresh vegetables and flour; slaves and runaway sailors took refuge there as well as escaped criminals who could afford to bear the expense of such surreptitious flight.
“He said he was going to the home of his niece,” the landlord offered at his most obsequious.
“Oh, yes—Bellanor,” Leoncio improvised glibly. “I had forgot about her.”
“That is the one,” the landlord said, capping Leoncio’s lie with his own. “Bellafior.”
“Then I suppose I must seek him at Bellafior’s house,” said Leoncio, and handed the landlord his last Foscari, thinking as he did that wherever Emerenzio had gone—if he had gone at all—it was not to Murano. “I thank you.”
“You are truly welcome,” the landlord assured him, bowing again before retreating into the interior of the house.
Leoncio did not linger, for he feared he was being observed, and that his inquiries might be noted by those who would use them against him. As obsequious as Benedetto Maggier had been, Leoncio knew he had lied, and that worried him. Deciding that most of Venezia was at table for prandium, he made up his mind to leave while there were few people on the canals and walkways, and his business here could go unnoticed. He satisfied himself that no one was immediately outside Le Rose, then eased out of the courtyard. As he closed the iron gate, he noticed a small boat drawn up beneath the foot-bridge; he slipped into the shadow of Le Rose, prepared to listen, if the boatman turned out to have something useful to impart, and to observe. That the boatman might merely be sheltering from sun and wind did not occur to Leoncio, for there were more comfortable places to do that, and there was no need for such a surreptitious act. So he waited for a quarter of an hour, to be certain the boatman was alone, and then made his way to the edge of the bridge, and called out, “You there!”
The boatman swung around sharply, revealing a pockmarked face and a missing ear. “You want me?” He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and a wedge of cheese laid out on an old piece of linen.
The sight of this ordinary repast calmed Leoncio. “Yes, boatman, I do,” he said, moving a little closer. “I have some questions to ask you. I will pay you well for honest answers.”
“Ask as you want,” said the boatman; his voice was flat and his accent was that of Grado, to the east.
“Perhaps I should come down to your boat? We could speak more privately, and—”
“—we would not be easily observed,” the boatman finished for him. “Come ahead if you must.”
“Very good of you,” Leoncio said as he climbed down beneath the bridge.
“You have something you want of me,” said the boatman, a cynical light to his lopsided smile. “Tell me what you are looking for, and what you are willing to pay, and I will tell you if I can assist you.”
“I am searching for a man and a woman. They are not together, and the man is the more urgent matter,” said Leoncio as he got into the boat. “If you can help me find the man by this time tomorrow, I will give you four ducats for your help.” He hated offering so much, but he wanted to convince the boatman that he was serious in his pursuit.
“A fair sum. The man must be a desperate rogue,” said the boatman, rasping the stubble on his jaw with his thumbnail.
“He has absconded with—” Leoncio suddenly realized he might be inciting more greed in the boatman if he said too much, so he finished lamely, “—with the funds from a foreign merchant’s voyage.”
“A shabby thing to do,” said the boatman, setting his oars in the oarlocks and beginning to row. “Such things give Venezia a bad name in the world.”
“I have been sent to find him, so he may be brought to court,” said Leoncio, hoping to impress the boatman.
“Then you may ask what you like.” He was a short distance from the bridge by now, moving slowly but steadily toward the lagoon. “If you find my information useful, you may pay me when you have secured that criminal you seek.”
Watching the blank-faced buildings, Leoncio had a moment of panic. “Where are we going?”
“We are going where we cannot be overheard,” said the boatman. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Text of a letter from Ulrico Baradin in Venezia to Franzicco Ragoczy, il Conte di Santo-Germano, Campo San Luca, Venezia; carried by footman and delivered the day it was written.
To the most esteemed Conte di Santo-Germano, Franzicco Ragoczy, the greetings of Ulrico Baradin, broker of paper and inks in the Repubblica Veneziana:
I have your order and the orders from Giovanni Boromeo, and I am just about to receive three pallets of paper, each pallet holding four hundred e
ighty-eight sheets each, of fine-grain heavy stock, rag-based, all sheets suitable for quartering. If you are willing to authorize the purchase, I will need ten ducats to secure the paper, and another ten upon delivery, to cover not only the cost of the paper itself, but to pay my commission for the work I have done. I will accept the equivalent amount in other coinage-florins are acceptable, and reals-should your coffers not be full at this time. Also, I am about to bid on another six pallets of similar weight and content, and sheets twenty percent larger, if this order may be of any interest to you. I will need to have your answer in five days, and your deposit of twelve ducats.
In addition, I have found a supplier of ink that is especially high quality: the density is excellent, and it does not bleed through the paper in spite of its density. The characters it prints are sharply delineated, and it resists smudging once dry. The ink is available in black, red, and an intense blue, all of which may prove useful to Signor’ Boromeo, and which I have already demonstrated to him, to show its worth for all of you.
It may be that the inks will not be available next year, for they are made near Zurich and the maker has warned me that he has been informed that he is not to sell to Catholics or to Catholic countries, for fear that what they publish may not be used to the benefit of Protestants. This man has given me his word that he will honor orders placed before All Saint’s, but he cannot vouch for his inks being available after Christmas, at least not to Venezia. If you have some means of purchasing inks in Protestant regions and having them brought here, I not only urge you to take advantage of them, I ask you to make such buying arrangements available to me, in return for which I will halve my commission from you.
If you are uninterested in the ink or the paper, please send me answer by my messenger so that I may notify my other clients that these lots are available. Your patronage has been so constant and so generous that I have offered these to you before telling anyone else about them. With summer coming to an end, and the autumn storms about to begin, you will want to have a good supply of paper and ink on hand; you do not want to have a slack winter for lack of supplies, I am certain.
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 30
