Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  I nodded sagely, trying to hide my irritation. If he could come to a better arrangement, perhaps he should do the bargaining. The boy looked at me and I nodded. He grinned and went to fetch the oxen. We unhitched the horses from the carts and replaced them with the oxen which took it all very calmly; it was clear they knew the routine and were used to the winter ice. Our horses were much less happy and we had great difficulty in tying the chopines on to their hooves.

  It must have taken an hour before we were ready, by which time the local carts had ventured on to the ice and were almost across. We could see carts coming towards us from the other side, too, and our route across the ice was becoming much more clearly defined. The oxen drew the carts to the edge of the ice, where the half-boxes were placed in readiness. As the wheels rolled into them, the boxes acted as skids, spreading the weight of the wheels and sliding easily across the ice.

  We set off, as instructed, one by one, walking behind an ox-drawn cart and leading a string of horses. The earl followed the lead cart closely, holding on to its tailgate for balance. I followed behind the next cart, while Thomas hung back to act as rearguard and to ensure our whole party got across in one piece.

  We must have been two-thirds of the way over when the driver of a cart heading in the other direction decided to show off to his passing colleague. He suddenly whipped the oxen into a trot, standing on his platform and shouting noisily. The two oxen became excited and began to slither and stamp their feet for grip. A large crack began to appear in the ice. The skid under the right-hand front wheel cracked and broke and the wheel in turn began to cut its way into the ice, the cart slowly heeling over to the right as it did so.

  I could see the load on our leading cart begin to shift, and the box containing most of my treasured possessions, including Bullinger’s Of Christian Perfection, began to slide towards the water. If I lost the book, I would be unable to send or receive coded messages from the others, and someone’s life might be put in danger.

  The driver of my cart, seeing the developing problem, veered left and kept going, and I ran forward, slipping and slithering, to save my precious code-book. The cart continued to roll over, and as I reached him the earl fell headlong into the icy water. Instinctively, I grabbed his shoulder and was dragged into the water with him. I looked up, willing the cart not to roll on top of us. It didn’t, but came to a stop at a crazy angle. No sooner had I drawn my feet beneath me than they hit the bottom and I found myself standing waist-deep in icy water, pulling the earl to his feet beside me. We were able to step on the spokes of the cartwheel and climb back on to the ice.

  The passing driver was helpful, and slewed his empty cart round to a stop beside us. Carefully we offloaded most of the goods from the sunken cart to the empty one, and using spare skids were able to drag the cart back on to the ice and clear of the large hole, which was already beginning to ice over again.

  The cold gave us a special sense of urgency and the others made for the shore as I gathered up my string of horses, which were terrified. By the time I caught up with the rest of the party, the carts had been driven up the slipway to the embankment above the canal, and the earl was searching for dry clothes. Although he was cold, he greeted me warmly.

  ‘Richard. That was brave of you. We could both have drowned or been crushed beneath the cart. I shall not forget it.’

  I smiled my thanks and began looking for my own dry clothing. I hadn’t the heart to tell him I had been trying to save my books as I rushed forward, and not him. Still, if he was grateful, that was all right by me.

  Once again I found myself dressing in the open air, shamelessly ignoring the passers-by who observed us with undisguised amusement. I did not share their amusement.

  By the time we had gathered our senses the oxen had been unhitched and were being led across to other carts for the return journey. The younger boy had crossed behind us and was collecting the chopines (I never did find out their real name) and stuffing them into a sack. ‘Hey!’ I called out. ‘Where’s our deposit?’

  The boy grinned and shrugged his shoulders as if there was nothing he could do. ‘You lost it. All that damage. It will cost a fortune to put it right. You broke our skids, and you lost five of the chopines. Your deposit is forfeit.’

  I glared at him. ‘It was your fool driver that caused the accident. Ask him for the money. I want my one ducat deposit back or I shall report you to the magistrates.’

  The boy’s grin disappeared but he remained defiant. ‘The Provveditori don’t scare me. Besides, we are starving; we need every piccolo we can get. Tell you what, I’ll give you half – twelve grossi – and that’s my limit.’

  I glared at him but in truth I didn’t have the energy to continue. I was still damp and very cold and we had yet to find somewhere to stay in this strange city. ‘Done.’ I shook his hand and he tipped twelve already-warm coins into my hand. He had been preparing for that all along.

  It was hard now to remember just what expectation had been in our minds when, two and a half months ago, Thomas and I had left Lyme Regis on the start of this journey, but I don’t think any of us had expected our eventual arrival in Venice to be quite such a forlorn affair.

  We had been tipped on to the shore near the Fondamenta di Cannaregio and had little idea where we were, where to go or where to stay that night.

  Unusually, and against all my expectations and prejudices, His Grace came to our rescue, by stopping the first well-dressed merchant we saw and asking him where the best hotel in the city was to be found. We were directed to the Albergo Leon Bianco, the White Lion Inn, and found it to be of the first order.

  Bringing our possessions with us was, however, much more difficult, for the city was designed to be accessed by boat and although we could walk along the Fondamenta di Cannaregio, and indeed lead our horses along it, the many small bridges that linked the roadways over the canals were unsuited to carts. In the end we had to resort to leaving our carts. and most of our horses at a stable, and bringing our possessions forward by mule.

  If we were inconvenienced, the local inhabitants were downright unhappy. It was as if the life of the city had been frozen. Everyone was bemoaning the problem of the ice and hoping it would soon thaw. But for us, arrival was a satisfaction in itself, and we were happy, for a day or two at least, to bask in the fact of just being here.

  We had arrived safely. God be praised for that.

  CHAPTER 15

  Morning, February the 4th 1556 – Albergo Leon Bianco, Cannaregio

  ‘Is he still sulking?’ I stood on the jetty beside the hotel and waited as Thomas finally confirmed that Courtenay was not going to join us in the gondola.

  Every day since our arrival in Venice, the earl had expected to be formally welcomed by the Doge, and every day that passed without an invitation upset him more. He had been in a deep sulk now for about four days and Thomas and I had decided that the best way to handle the situation was to leave him to it and to explore the city without him. But finally, the previous evening, the invitation had come and everything had changed; we were invited to join the earl at his presentation at three o’clock this afternoon.

  ‘He says we should go on without him. No, he isn’t sulking any more but feels he has to make preparations for his presentation this afternoon. I said we would be back in time but he wanted to make sure his clothes were brushed and to make some notes on what he wanted to say. In the end, I said we would meet him there – at the door to the Doge’s Palace shortly before the hour.’

  Thomas joined me on the jetty and we climbed gingerly into the gondola. What a transformation from our arrival. Over the last week the weather had steadily changed and it had rained heavily all day and all night, the crisp, cold air replaced by heavy clinging warmth. The ice, which had bound everything tightly together on our arrival, had virtually disappeared, and by early morning, when we had risen, a warm sun had come out and was now completing the thawing process.

  With the change in the weather, Ven
ice had woken up, shaken off its icy shackles and returned to normal. Now we were able to explore the city as it should be explored – at our leisure and by boat.

  ‘Where to first?’ The gondolier leaned on his long oar and awaited our instructions.

  ‘To the eastern end of the Grand Canal, near San Geremia, then we will return and continue to the sea in the Bacino di San Marco, where they hold the great sea-borne pageants.’ Thomas was enjoying his return to the city, which he had visited many times during his studentship in Padua. I could see already the pleasure it gave him to introduce me to ‘his’ city and, for my part, it was wonderfully restful to sit back and have everything brought to me. The gondola pushed out across the Grand Canal, leaving the Ca’ da Mosto behind us, and turned right in front of a huge new building to which workmen were still putting the final touches.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Thomas tipped his head back and shielded his eyes from the morning sun as we looked at the latest addition to the architecture of Venice, which jutted out imposingly into the bend of the canal. ‘It’s the new marketplace – built by Sansovino. It’s just been opened. It wasn’t here in my day. I like it.’

  The building, like so much around us, was indeed wonderful. I looked to right and left. Everywhere were palazzi, their façades telling the world of the wealth they represented and collectively forming an eternal reminder of the power and commercial success of the city. It was, quite simply, breathtaking and beyond my wildest dreams.

  ‘Thomas! This place is simply amazing. What a wonderful city.’

  The gondolier leaned expertly on his oar and we swept upstream, passing the fish market on our left and then what was clearly the Ca’ d’Oro to our right. It was another remarkable building, the delicate white marble-framed windows like lace-work between the gold-faced walls. The effect was like a butterfly’s wing, but a butterfly already at the end of a hot summer.

  Thomas patted me on the shoulder, pointing. ‘I would not wish to dampen your enthusiasm for this great city in any respect Richard, but I would counsel a degree of restraint in your judgement . . .’

  I looked at him, surprised, and he pointed again, at the building we were just passing. ‘That, Richard, tells you a great deal about the city we are now in.’ Thomas, like me, was looking at the golden façade. ‘When it was built, that building was faced in gold leaf. Yes, real gold; it was not painted. But already you can see how it is coming away in places, especially, you may notice, lower down, where the unscrupulous can reach up and scrape the gold leaf away as they drift their boat past quietly at night.

  ‘It represents the reality of this city and the empire upon which it rests. Venice may last for centuries but, ever so slowly, it will decline.’

  Thomas’s words surprised me, for before us was a city like no other I had ever seen, with buildings that matched and surpassed the best that the palaces of Nonsuch, Whitehall or Hampton Court could offer. ‘Why do you speak of all this in such a pessimistic fashion?’ His words did not ring true with everything I could see around me. The bustle of trade and business, the fishing boats unloading at the fish market, the well-dressed people walking along the fondamente – all this spoke to me of continuing success.

  Thomas opened his hands to the sky. ‘The city will never die; it will, I am sure, remain prosperous, but only as other cities are prosperous. It is the present extravagant wealth and opulence which will eventually diminish, and with it the great road we have trodden between here and Augsburg. The reason is that all of this wealth is generated by controlling the only route the traffic can take, and thereby having a stranglehold over others. But as soon as an alternative route is found, and that stranglehold is loosened, the tide of resentment will be obvious and much of the trade will escape as quickly as possible. You mark my words.’

  I was surprised; both by what he said and that he should be party to such powerful information. ‘How do you know all this, Thomas?’

  ‘I spoke to my learned friends while we were in Padua, and they explained it to me. The world is changing fast: the Fugger money is moving out, and being invested in new trade routes – across the Atlantic Ocean to new countries, and around the southern coast of Africa to the Indies, Cathay and Chipango. Of course, some argue that these new routes are exactly what Venice needs to offset the threat from the Turks. Ever since they recaptured Constantinople a hundred years ago, they have threatened the overland trade routes, the Venetian Empire and even Western Europe. Don’t forget it’s only twenty years since Barbarossa sacked Marseilles and no more than a dozen years since he attacked parts of the Italian coast, so the threat continues. Yes, it is real enough. But my friends in Padua believe that, in the final analysis, position is the key to the domination of sea routes, and that Cadiz, Lisbon and even English ports will eventually gain the advantage. It won’t be today, or tomorrow, but slowly, there will be changes.’

  He looked back up at the passing palaces, and shook his head as if all was lost. It was too much for me: ‘In the meantime, we are here in this thriving city and I, for one, intend to enjoy it.’ Thomas’s gloomy predictions were in danger of spoiling this beautiful day. He looked at me, grinned and nodded, then sat back on the soft cushions and took in the view, but I could still sense a melancholy in his expression, as if he was remembering a long-lost but still sorely missed relative.

  We swept onward, with the gondolier flicking his oar expertly and propelling the boat forward as if without effort, at the same time pointing to the palaces and reeling off the names of the great families who had built them: Morosini, Rezzonico, Foscarini and, further along, the palace of the Este family, Dukes of Ferrara. Could all this really be on the verge of decline? It seemed so unlikely.

  ‘Have you worked it out yet?’ Thomas seemed to be making an effort to shake off his gloom.

  ‘Worked what out?’

  ‘How the gondolier seems to be able to skim us along in a comfortable straight line when he has only one oar.’ Thomas could not wait for me to get there alone and started to tell me the answer. ‘It’s not symmetrical, the gondola – the sides are different shapes, and it runs on one side, which offsets the displacement of the oar.’

  I watched the gondolier and quickly realized what he meant. It was very clever. Who, I wondered, had originally had that idea? Everyone knows that when you make a boat, you lay down a straight keel and then start making the body shape equally on either side. It was the sort of puzzle that gave me a strange satisfaction, and I watched, fascinated, as the evidence of its effectiveness was demonstrated by the gondolier, who, realizing that he was the subject of our conversation, was beginning to show off his skills.

  ‘Like everything else in Venice, it is more subtle and more complex than it appears at first. That is part of the charm of the place, Richard. Look at the palaces – see how they vary in their design, with Arabic architecture, Jewish features, Byzantine façades, and Gothic windows, and now the “new Renaissance look”, as they are calling it. The best from everywhere, begged, borrowed or stolen. There is an energy here that lifts you. It’s the same with the people. You will meet everyone here: Chinese traders, Mongolian silk merchants, German shoemakers, Moorish spicesellers, Italian painters, skilled glassmakers from Murano, and lacemakers from Burano who can almost match Honiton for the quality of their work. And with all that variety, you will also experience the textures, colours, smells and sounds of the whole world. You will love this city, Richard. Enjoy it; you may be seeing it at its peak.’

  I was pleased. Thomas rarely lost his enthusiasm and this sunny spring morning was not the right time to do so, I thought. We continued, past the Palazzo Gritti, until we were near to where we had originally entered the city just a week ago. With only muddy fields ahead, we finally turned in front of what we were told was the Palazzo Foscarini-Contarini, home of a famous doge in the previous century.

  Returning the way we had come, we swept onward, the sun in our eyes now, curving down past our starting point and on to the Rialto.
Here, the broken bridge hung precariously above us, the whole ramp at one end having fallen into the water. Thomas said there was talk of a competition to design a new bridge in stone, but while the arguing was going on, men were still balancing up there, hammering planks into position, to provide what looked like a rather temporary and very precarious repair to the old wooden one.

  The Grand Canal now ran south-west, one palazzo following another, as if to refute Thomas’s predictions of decline. As the succession continued, it became more difficult to appreciate the magnificence of each, and I felt myself becoming selective, looking forward to the best, and concentrating on that until we had passed it. The Ca’ Foscari held my attention as we turned again, this time to the south, the sun streaming right into our unaccustomed winter-weary eyes.

  It was so good after our many weeks of exertion to lie back and hear the water gently lapping against the thin sides of the gondola. After what had seemed like the longest winter I had experienced, the warmth of the sun soaking into my chest convinced me that spring was just around the corner. Many times during our journey, when cold and wet seemed to follow each other with relentless persistence, I had dreamed of Venice, and in every one of those dreams there had been warm sun and a gentle breeze, accompanied by the lapping of water.

  What I had not been prepared for was the stink. I found myself wondering how the waste from all of these people was removed. Slowly the thought grew that the canals themselves were the drainage system and that, at this moment, we were being transported through the largest sewer of all. Instinctively, I pulled my hand from the water where it had been trailing and sniffed at my fingers. ‘Thomas? How do the people here get their clean water? I cannot believe anyone drinks from or even washes with the water from the canals.’