“Yes it is. I have used the same term to describe it myself,” Paolo said, remembering his conversation with his father. “And are you saying that my brother Ciro was among those who were dissatisfied?”
“That I cannot tell you. You must understand that this disgruntled faction did not emerge on its own. It was fomented, stoked like a flame, if you would forgive the analogy. I am no poet.”
“Stoked? By whom?”
“There was apparently a group of independent traders who, through their travels, came upon the realization that there was much money to be made by sharing the secrets of Venetian glass with the wider world.” Paolo again noticed the moneylender’s discomfort. “With that very same group acting as middlemen, of course.”
“Of course. A lesson learned at the knee of the mightiest middleman on earth.”
“None of this is substantiated you understand,” Bercu was quick to add. “It has been my experience that in such matters, perhaps one rumor in a hundred turns out to be true.”
“Yes,” said Paolo, “but all it takes is one.”
Thirteen
In the seven years that Paolo was estranged from his parents, he remained in occasional contact with his brother, the frequency of which, now to his great regret, dwindled as the years had passed. Ciro, Paolo remembered, had been very pleased when Tomaso had appointed him as the Fattori, the glassworks’ representative to the merchants. It had been an unusual thing, to have the Fattori be a glassblower. It placed the more social aspects of the business in his hands. While his father continued to be the face of Avesari e Figli, Ciro was given the responsibility of cultivating the relationships critical to the expansion of the business.
In the course of these responsibilities, Ciro had come to know and socially associate with many merchants, traders, and investors. Speaking with Paolo, he would never tire of recounting the perpetual whirlwind of commerce he witnessed—grain, wine, silk, spices, slaves, glass, metal, armor, wool—all swirling in and out of Venice from the four corners of the earth, the glorious Republic at its epicenter, the eye of the beautiful storm. While Ciro enjoyed working with the glass, he ravenously consumed the commercial circus into which he was thrust by way of his position as a noted glassmaker. The dealing, the fortunes made and lost, the intrigue—it captured his imagination. While he would never have the means, or the courage, of men to whom such vast amounts were but pieces on a game board, he could still be a part of that exciting world through the much safer conduit of tangential association.
Having found common ground, the brothers would talk long into the night, each regaling the other with stories of their oft overlapping passions, commerce and technology. Ciro tantalized Paolo with spice-scented tales of adventure while Paolo described in loving detail the technical miracles of the Arsenale. His visits with Ciro served as a kind of proxy for family gatherings he hoped would one day be possible. Paolo would never know whether it was pride or hope that kept him from finding out. Had he actually attempted to reunite again with his father and been unsuccessful, that hope could be lost forever. He knew how easily the two of them were able to find that most vulnerable of spots in the other and attack it. It seemed not even to be a matter of intent. So he continued to meet with Ciro, putting off his brother’s pleas for reconciliation, saying he wasn’t ready. But soon, very soon.
***
PROVING TO BE even more efficient in the accomplishment of the various tasks assigned him by Francesco than he let on, Paolo found himself with more and more time, and he had not the patience to sit and wait for the Council of Ten to bring the matter of his brother’s murder to a close. He didn’t trust the council, and he certainly didn’t trust the deputy. He shuddered at the memory of his meeting with that evil imp. Rather than spend the afternoon hours mired in the prison of his disconsolate thoughts, Paolo decided to see what he could ascertain of Ciro’s activities that could give him some indication as to why he was killed. At the very least it would be an effective guard against his growing despondency.
The stretched rectangle of the Campo San Bartolomeo was the place that Ciro most loved to be. A roiling stew of color, culture, and tribe, the piazza was the epicenter of Europe’s spice trade. Merchants just returned from Alexandria and London would exchange bales of pepper, nutmeg, and cardamom, and an equal bulk of gossip about backroom deals on cinnamon from Damascus or the surging price of ginger. It was here that he collected the bits and pieces he later stitched together to form the adventurous tapestries he so enjoyed relating to Paolo. What he couldn’t gather from gossip, he filled in with his own imagination, which of course never included the endless monotony of a sea voyage or the pestilential conditions of “exotic” locales.
Ciro never spoke of his love of the place to his father however, knowing Tomaso’s feelings on the spice trade. Instead, he played the long-suffering and devoted heir to the family business, doing what was necessary to extend his father’s legacy, but preferring always to be in the shop by Tomaso’s side, bathing in sweat at the crucible’s edge. In a life of unwavering obedience to his father, for Ciro, his secret admiration of the spice trade and the men who waged it was a gratifying, but safe, rebellion.
Paolo was unfamiliar with the square. He had been there before, once, but successfully navigating it under the circumstances was another matter entirely. Long and narrow, it felt more like a large courtyard than a square, hemmed in on all four sides. The square, named for the church of Saint Bartholomew, the chapel of the Germanic community of Venice and imperceptibly nestled among the other buildings, was the center of the most lucrative trade on earth. Traders and merchants stood about in small clusters talking in low tones. Paolo had seen the image before him clearly enough from conversations with Ciro, but he had never actually been in the square while business was being conducted. The scent of spice engulfed the place, mixed by a gentle breeze swirling through the square like a chef’s spoon. The sun, past its zenith, illuminated the upper floors of the building on the eastern side of the square, bathing it in a warm ochre light.
Paolo ambled through the space, feeling that same sense of suspicious eyes upon him that he had so keenly been aware of in the Jewish quarter. He needed information, yet realized he didn’t have a plan as to how to get it.
He overheard small scraps of conversation as he walked, murmurings of cardamom, saffron, cinnamon. A tight group stood at the far end of the square, out toward the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. Having been rebuilt only a few years ago after a devastating fire, the much newer warehouse sparkled like a shiny gem among dusty relics. Members of the group were casting furtive glances in Paolo’s direction so, having no other plan, he walked toward them. They were in obvious discomfort as he approached, and he took no small amount of pleasure in the fact. He walked up to the four men, bowed slightly, and endured a silence that stood one beat too long before speaking.
“Signori, I could not help but notice you looking in my direction, and thought I would oblige you by coming over.” He smiled graciously, silently thanking Francesco and his endless errands, if for nothing else, then forcing him to become more comfortable in awkward circumstances.
The men glanced at one another. They hadn’t expected him to walk over and speak to them so…directly. Finally the one nearest Paolo spoke. “Forgive us signore. We meant no disrespect. We knew your brother. Only slightly,” he quickly added. “We were very sorry to hear what became of him.” He lowered his eyes, whether to convey sorrow or hide an alternate truth, Paolo couldn’t tell.
“Thank you.” Once more Paolo felt at a disadvantage, encountering someone unknown to him yet aware of his business. Had they seen him and his brother together? “I am sorry, I do not know your…”
“Ah, I must ask your forgiveness once more,” the man responded, flustered. “I am Matteo de Mezzo. And may I present Alfonso Mare, Flavio Moro, and Piero Volpe.” Each man nodded in turn, bemused looks on their faces. They stood there, shuffling their feet, wondering where this would lead.
Paolo appraised the four men. They seemed unlikely friends, at least physically. As a child, he had noticed how those of similar physicality would congregate to one another, the strong to the strong, attractive to the attractive. It made sense of course. It was in man’s nature to be drawn to those who were similar, a means of identification and protection. But these four seemed to be chosen at random from a hat and thrust together. It was certainly their mutual business interests that had drawn them into one another’s company.
Volpe was short and stout, possessing a baby’s chubby face that seemed to be trying desperately to cultivate a goatee beard. Undoubtedly he sought the respect facial hair would give him in matters of business. Paolo thought the stray hairs seemingly placed at random upon his face only enhanced the problem.
Flavio Moro was tall with a wide chest, a thick mane of dark hair swept back across his head, one who may have, in a different set of circumstances, preyed upon the unfortunately put-together Volpe. His face was lined from exposure to the elements. He looked as though he would be more at home commanding one of the ships rather than investing in its cargo.
Alfonso Mare was as tall as Moro but possessed half his girth. Stooped at the shoulders, his gaunt frame resembled a question mark. His pinched face held a perpetual expression of distaste, his downturned mouth looking as though it would fall from its place should his crumpled features unexpectedly relax.
Only de Mezzo seemed the very image of a spice trader, or at least how Paolo had imagined a spice trader might look. He was of average height and weight, dressed well, and of an obvious well-to-do background. His auburn hair was on the longish side. He had long lashes and full lips and would have been considered pretty had his jaw been less square.
“So, you know my brother?” asked Paolo
“Knew…of him is probably more accurate,” de Mezzo said awkwardly. No one missed the fact that Paolo was still using the present tense.
Paolo shook his head ruefully. “Yes, of course. It is all still so fresh. Sometimes I forget.”
“We are very sorry signore. He seemed a good man.” The other three men still hadn’t spoken, and did not look particularly eager to do so.
“How did you come to know of him?” Before they could answer, Paolo realized that he had actually not been invited to join their gathering. “I am sorry. I have intruded upon your conversation,” he continued, somewhat embarrassed. He did not offer to leave however and waited for the invitation to proceed.
“Please, you must not apologize. You were invited by our careless glances.” He smiled apologetically. “Your brother was seen here often, usually in the company of one or two of our colleagues. We will often confer with members of various trades here in the city in attempts to expand the market for our wonderful Venetian goods. It may not seem so at times, but we do deal in commodities other than spice.” He smiled, sniffing the breeze as he said this to acknowledge the exotic scent in the air. “As a glassmaker from one of the most respected families of the trade, your brother was no stranger to those wishing to court him.”
Paolo nodded knowingly. He wondered if these men knew more about his family than they were letting on. “And with whom among your colleagues did he typically associate, if I may ask?”
“Well,” said de Mezzo, wrinkling his brow in concentration, “there was Valerio Zen. But only out of necessity I assure you. He is a most disagreeable man.” He looked to his cohorts for assistance as he ticked off the names on his fingers. “And then there was…Maurizio Gamba, and, yes, Abramo Lanzi. Mostly Lanzi though. I believe they spent time together outside of business as well.”
Paolo frowned. This man seemed to know much of his brother’s doings while only knowing ‘of him.’
Correctly interpreting Paolo’s expression, de Mezzo hastened to add, “We are a relatively small community signore. Everyone tends to know everyone’s business, which can sometimes make it difficult to turn a profit.” He laughed at his joke, the only one to do so.
Paolo smiled. He believed him. While the men were quite obviously uncomfortable, it was not due to some hidden treachery. They were speaking to the brother of a man who had been horribly murdered. If they had done so without discomfort, perhaps Paolo would have been more suspicious.
“Lanzi is an ambitious man signore.” Afraid of having come off as insincere, de Mezzo seemed eager to provide more information. “There is no end to his schemes, all honorable I am sure, but he is known as a risk taker. What is the saying? One whose reach exceeds his grasp, yes? He has chided his fellow merchants on more than one occasion for our timidity. The world is there for the taking, that sort of thing.”
Paolo seemed to consider this and bowed once more. “Thank you gentlemen for your time and candor. I do apologize for my intrusion. If you would be so kind however before I take my leave, could you tell me where I might find Signore Lanzi? I would very much like to meet an acquaintance of my brother for whom he had such high regard. You understand of course.”
“Yes, yes of course,” de Mezzo replied, again looking uncomfortable. What have I said now? They certainly are a skittish lot of hens thought Paolo.
“I am sorry signore. Signore Lanzi traveled to Alexandria on a pepper buying trip.”
“Ah.” Paolo was beginning to feel frustrated. “And when is he expected to return?”
“But that is just the thing signore. He never did return.”
Fourteen
The mile and a half stretch of ocean between the Molo of San Marco and Murano, the Venetian lagoon, seemed endless to Paolo. The flat-bottomed skiff, powered by two oarsmen with arms the size of poplar trunks, pushed its way through the water like a mule knee deep in snow. His mind was a jumble. What had Ciro been involved in? How well had he really known his brother? Not well certainly. Long conversations seemingly infused with meaning, however infrequent, had tricked Paolo into believing he had the measure of his brother. How presumptuous, to think that his bits of memory coupled with whatever Ciro chose to tell him could form a true picture of the man.
The Isola di San Michele loomed ahead. The island’s namesake, the San Michele in Isola church, glittered at the water’s edge. Rebuilt nearly 30 years earlier entirely of salt-white Istrian stone, the church seemed to absorb the sharp light of morning and glow with its own divinity. Saint Michael the Archangel, the slayer of Satan, for whom the church was dedicated, weighed the souls of man on Judgment Day. Paolo wondered if anyone involved in this gruesome enterprise would survive that trial.
The water was rougher this far out, the placid waters of the Grand Canal bearing little resemblance to the tiny white capped waves lapping at the skiff’s hull. The sun, weak but still warm on Paolo’s face, the fervent cry of the gulls, and the sound of the slapping water would have created an altogether agreeable mood at any other time. But Paolo was off to see Tomaso, wanting to discuss what he had learned at the Campo San Bartolomeo. It was not a discussion he was looking forward to. Something had broken in his father, and he feared the trip would be a wasted one at best, a disaster at worst. He did not know how to communicate with the man. When they had been at odds all those years ago, at least he had known what to expect. Now there was nothing in his life, his father included, that could be predicted with even a shred of certainty. He wondered what would become of them when this was all over.
As the skiff approached Murano’s own Grand Canal, Paolo’s apprehensiveness grew. How would they navigate this labyrinth, so like Venice itself? Who could they trust? No one it would seem. Paolo ran through the names in his mind of those who had, in one way or another, become connected to this awful business. They consisted of those he did not trust at all on the one hand, and those who were too dangerous to trust on the other. He was tempted to confide in the moneylender, but knew it was only due to the kindness he had shown Paolo, and that surely was not reason enough. Paolo was slowly coming to the realization that his faith in the nature of man could easily be rewarded with calamity. It was a lesson he was learning day by day. Ag
ain he was overwhelmed by his lack of control. As frustratingly confined as his world had been as a child, it had also been one of security. Day always followed night and his father’s temperament, while rigid, had at least been consistent. There was little he could count on now.
The skiff slowly drifted through the pass of San Nicolo. Imperceptibly it changed direction as the oarsmen shifted their oars in a concert of precise movements, equal parts chore and performance. The boat made its way through calmer water to the Rio dei Vetrai. Paolo climbed up onto the wharf and paid the men, thanking them for the smooth crossing. Walking across the Ponte San Pietro to the other side of the narrow canal, Paolo stopped to gaze upon the waterway as it twisted off to his right and the Fondamenta dei Vetrai that followed it, the blue-green water like a curving sheet of glass.
He sighed. How many times had he and Ciro scampered across this small bridge as boys? He had never expected to return to this place. The buildings looked small and cramped, barely able to stand, as though they were drunkards holding each other up—if one toppled so would they all. Around the curve of the canal, just out of sight was the glassworks and his father’s home, his own home once, and Paolo felt his feet rooted to the bridge. Why must he be here? Why had this happened? The images of Ciro, conjured by Tomaso’s words, flashed before him. Paolo winced, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, knowing that shutting them would do no good.
He crossed the bridge and followed the canal toward his father’s house. Every doorway and window, every lantern post along the way seemed to have a memory to share, and Paolo silently cursed Ciro for bringing him back here. Before long he reached his father’s shop. The massive wooden doors, unlike everything else along the canal, actually seemed larger to Paolo now than when he was a child. So like the doors to a fortress they were, and the endless games of battle he and Ciro had played flashed in his mind. What better place for them after all than an impregnable fortress with its very own moat! And there was never a shortage of barbarians to vanquish. The canal/moat was full of them, and those “mindless hordes” who knew his father (which was just about everyone) played their parts with aplomb, in rare instances even falling dead into the canal after being pierced by imaginary arrows.
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