The Venetian

by Mark Tricarico

  The key to being an effective spy, he thought, was to pepper the lies with truth. After all, one always told the truth convincingly, and when the two became intertwined, it all seemed perfectly plausible. Through small bits of truth, larger lies become more credible—they become clean. As it was in this case. When he had told the Jew that he had only just recently arrived in Candia, it was true. And about having spent time in Negroponte. Also true. Of course he declined to mention Modon and Coron, and his roaming all over the Peloponnese in search of Paolo, slinking in shadows, communicating in hushed whispers to the vast network of council spies. He knew the web was large, but had had no idea how enormous it truly was. From beggars to nobles to tradesmen to children, there was no corner of the empire that was not beholden to The Ten. The search had been exhausting, and he was beginning to despair. The idea of returning to the council empty-handed was not a pleasant one. Others, he knew, had scoured every crevice of the islands in the lagoon. It was easier to hire an unsuspecting skiff captain for the short trip across the lagoon than board a highly regulated merchant galley en route to the Stato da Mar, or beyond.

  And that had been the key. The lagoon first, the Stato da Mar next. If the search still proved fruitless at that point, they would have had to engage their spies in other countries, a far more imposing, and likely less successful task. Once the islands of the lagoon were eliminated, they knew that for Paolo to go further, whether to the colonies or another country, he would require outside assistance. Although the council did not necessarily enjoy its fearsome reputation, its members could not deny that it proved exceedingly useful. This was one such instance. Subtle inquiries were made among galley owners, captains, and crews, merchants, tavern owners, and dock workers. Manifests were inspected, passenger lists scoured—all pleasantly conducted, all terrifying in their implication.

  In the end it was but a simple thing really. A merchant’s agent, diligent, resourceful, and angry had been overheard by a ship’s rigger in a tavern, grumbling to a friend about being asked to quit his duties for a time in favor of another. They would not tell him why, but he was assured it was of the utmost importance “to preserve the honor of the Republic.” He had snorted at that, saying something to the effect of how it was not possible for a whore to have any honor. From there it had been a matter of following a very conspicuous trail to Candia. Amateurs. Giovinco, perdono, Baducci, found the traitor, and the Republic would pay him handsomely for it. As time consuming as it had been however, it had still been too easy. Avesari was obviously no match for a man such as Giovinco. Had he been smart enough to flee the empire, as powerful and far-reaching as the council was, he almost certainly would have eluded their grasp.

  ***

  SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT. Zambratta watched the spy leave the chamber. He seemed quite proud of himself, no doubt already counting out the ducats he would receive for his service. The other members of the council were chattering excitedly. And why not? They had found their man. But how? A man accused of the crimes Avesari had allegedly committed would not be so foolish as to stay in the Empire. True, he was not in Venice proper or even on one of the islands in the lagoon; that would’ve been suicide. But the Stato da Mar was still a part of the Republic. He must have known that he would be found. If his intent, as the council had declared, had been to sell secrets to a foreign power, why would he not flee to that very same nation when he had done the unthinkable and escape? They would have welcomed him with open arms.

  But he didn’t do what was logical. Instead he stayed in the Empire, disguising himself, poorly, as a merchant’s agent, a ruse which he couldn’t possibly have expected to remain undiscovered for long. Why? And what of the glassmakers’ guild? They continued to profess their innocence. It wouldn’t have been the first time, Zambrotta knew, that a glassmaker had been killed for trying to leave Venice with his secrets. So why deny something sanctioned, albeit quietly, by the State? True, the barbarity in which the elder brother had been killed was a stain on the guild, but it would be forgotten in time. Zambrotta shook his head, a symbolic clearing of the fog in his brain that accomplished no such thing. It made no sense, yet he knew he could not pursue it with the rest of the council, Capi or no. The blood was in the water and there would be no turning back.

  He had been dismayed by the direction The Ten had been taking these last few years. The council had been established in a time of crisis, and all too frequently throughout history such crises have been used as excuses to quash the rights of citizens by bodies holding unimpeachable power—for the ‘protection of the people.’ But The Ten had been different, had always been leery of the notion of total authority, of unchecked influence. Thus members of the council only served one-year terms and could not be elected for two successive terms. Nor could two members from the same family be elected simultaneously. From among the ten, the Capi served one-month terms, and during that month, they were confined to the Doge’s Palace to prevent corruption or bribery. All this to ensure that power and authority did not go unchecked, that the citizens of La Serenissima could live knowing that the scales of justice were equally weighted. This was Venice after all. There was no greater democratic institution than the free market.

  But the council had moved away from these principles, exerting more and more influence over other areas of the government. The Ten’s network of spies was unmatched in all of Europe, and what was originally meant to protect the Republic had, over time, begun to distort that original charge in subtle but dangerous ways. He did not believe the change to be malicious however, motivated by a lust for power, but rather the naïve notion that often afflicts men of hubris in positions of great authority—that they knew better than the people what was best for the people. And thus, why not exercise that judgment on behalf of those they served? There could be no higher calling. Or so the logic went.

  His election to the council had been the greatest honor, and responsibility, of his life—to protect the Republic from its enemies. It was an honor that weighed heavily today as here he sat, one of the Capi, impotent. Perhaps he could speak to the others, convince them that they should take more time with this matter. Of course there would be a trial, supposedly to ferret out the truth, but he knew better. The truth had already been decided.

  “So, Stefano,” said Lorenzo Barozzi, one of the other Capi, “what say you?”

  Zambrotta closed his eyes, seeing in his mind’s eye the tide against which he knew he stood no chance. He sighed and said a silent prayer for forgiveness. “Dispatch the Provveditori.”

  ***

  FINALLY! QILIJ THOUGHT this day would never come. He had resigned himself to a long wait and had been occupying his time by sharpening his mind. He had recast his isolation as something purifying, keeping the filthy Venetians at bay—reciting the tenets of Islam, “practicing” the intricate movements of waging war in his mind, whiling away the hours with eyes closed, muscles twitching. But Gabriele had come to him. The moment had arrived. Gabriele was not happy however. He was angry. He had been robbed of this moment of wondrous anticipation, when wheels were set in motion and one might watch events unfold as though enjoying an entertainment. The council had found the traitor first, and Qilij would not have the anonymity he needed. But things sometimes go awry, do they not? He would just have to make due. Qilij didn’t care about his anonymity however. He was all but invincible. That was Gabriele, wringing his hands. The rabbit scampered and he had finally been let out. Everything else would resolve itself.

  And he learned, with no small amount of satisfaction, that he would go to Crete. He was looking forward to that nearly as much as killing Avesari. He would finally be amongst people who hated the Venetians almost as much as he did.

  Twenty Seven

  “They have found him.” The gleam in Gabriele’s unblinking eyes was not one of warmth or humor, the dying light of day skipping from their surface as though off polished stones. “They have found him,” he repeated, “and in, of all places, Candia. Can you imagine? D
isguised as a merchant’s agent.” He chuckled, his tone quiet, serene. He was very still, only the mouth moving. His eyes, shining though they were, looked dead. Francesco would have preferred an angry rage. This…tranquility was terrifying.

  “Signore…”

  “Tell me Francesco,” said Gabriele pleasantly, cutting him off, “you are a merchant, yes?”

  “Yes…I am.”

  “Yes, you are. And a boastful one as I recall. And yet…”

  “Signore…”

  “And yet!” The words were like an explosion, reverberating off the stone floors of the dark house, a house new to Francesco, one they had never used before. The merchant recoiled, the chair scraping the rough stones. “And yet,” Gabriele continued, his voice calm once more, “you, the accomplished merchant, the jolly fat man who knows everyone. You were unaware.” Gabriele paused, training his eyes on Francesco. He tilted his head quizzically, trying to work out a conundrum. “How can that be?”

  Francesco’s lips parted silently. His mouth was arid, a desert.

  Gabriele held up a hand. “I do not wish to hear your excuses Francesco. They will only…unsettle me.” He sighed and looked about the room for the first time since Francesco had arrived. He tapped his feet absently like a child might, and the incongruity of the motion chilled Francesco to the bone. “They will send the Provveditori,” Gabriele said with resignation. “What am I to do now?” Francesco dared not answer.

  The Provveditori, Francesco knew, were state inquisitors dispatched to the Stato da Mar, usually in threes, to investigate the colonies for corruption and acts of treason. They had been quite busy over the years given the nature of the Republic’s relationship with the Greeks. The more rebellious the colonies had become, the more authority the Provveditori had been given. Now, they quite literally had nearly limitless powers in the colonies with unchecked freedom of movement. But despite such authority, in an ironically Venetian twist, they had to endeavor to limit their travel costs as much as possible. Francesco had made a great joke of that fact when he had first heard it, however could find little humor in it now. He knew what this meant. Gabriele wished Paolo to disappear without the nagging inconvenience of jurisprudence, and the Provveditori would make that very difficult.

  “Francesco,” Gabriele began, still the calm, considered voice of reason, “if I come to find that this failure on your part was due to something other than your gross incompetence,” a lazy finger mixed the air, “something intentional, such as perhaps any misplaced loyalty you may harbor for your former employee, I will hook…hang…and flay you like a fish. Do you understand? No, please, just nod if you do. I do not wish to hear your voice just now.”

  Twenty Eight

  How long had it been? Two, three months? Chaya sat at her desk in her small bedroom, wondering how Paolo was faring on Crete. No matter how frequently the name Candia was mentioned in the context of her father’s work—which was often considering all the business conducted there—Chaya refused to refer to the island using its Venetian name. It was Crete, had always been Crete, and no martial occupation on the part of an opportunistic state would change that.

  Even though she had not spent much time with him while he had been here, Paolo’s absence still left an empty space, a feeling as unexpected to her as it was pleasant. It was ironic, the feeling of missing someone, a pain that was cherished. They had received a single letter from him. It was brief and coded, as they had discussed, knowing it would be read, and laced with an undercurrent of frustration. She remembered the words because they had frustrated her as well: Met your cousin, was exactly as described, I seem to have a head for figures after all, please send word, it has been long, how does my family fare?

  Nothing about her, not even a bland pleasantry one bestowed for the sake of proper form. They had sent a reply, one he would not like, bereft of information as it was. Say hello to my cousin, glad to hear you are faring well, family is fine and sends their regards, will write again soon. As retribution, she was ashamed to note, she took a small amount of pleasure in knowing he would be disappointed by the message. Did he even remember her? True, he had other things on his mind, an understatement. But she wasn’t just another thing. Basta, enough. She was acting like a doe-eyed girl, silly. And she was not a silly woman.

  Her father entered the bedroom and noted the odd mixture of emotions on her face. “We have work to do,” was all he said.

  ***

  “IT MAKES NO sense.” Chaya and her father sat at the small kitchen table. It was early evening, the meal just finished, the plates cleaned and put away. They sat sipping spiced tea. Two fat candles on a sideboard cast shadows that scurried across the room. It looked like a meeting of conspirators.

  “What makes no sense?” she asked.

  “Everything. All of it.” Bercu sat back in his chair, frustrated, waving a hand at the room. “I have half a dozen men making inquiries and none of what I know, which is very little, adds up to anything. The glassblower’s guild is professing its innocence. Passionately.”

  “Of course they are. Have you ever come across a more monstrous crime than this? They wanted Ciro dead but do not wish to take the blame.”

  Bercu shook his head. “No, if they did not want anyone to know they were the perpetrators, they would not have killed Ciro in such an obvious fashion. The way he was murdered was meant to send a message, a message that would be impossible to mistake.”

  Chaya considered it. “Perhaps that is exactly the point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Chaya ran a hand through her thick hair; a habit her father knew meant she was working through a particularly thorny puzzle. “They killed Ciro in such a way that it would be impossible to consider anyone else the culprit. Then they profess their innocence with outrageous indignation. If they meant to kill him and not be found out, why, they ask, would they do it in such an obvious manner? Why would they not openly admit to the killing since they intentionally left the scene beyond interpretation?”

  Bercu nodded, following the logic. “They are being falsely accused. Someone is using them.” He smiled at his daughter, patting her arm. “Clever girl.”

  Chaya blushed as she always did when praised by her father—it meant everything to her. “Exactly,” she said, encouraged. “They kill Ciro in a way that implicates them completely, profess their innocence, and argue the complete lack of logic of the crime as their defense.” Chaya nodded to herself, still working through it. “It is merely only one possibility of course. What else have the men found out?”

  “A little more about the other deaths.”

  “The other deaths?”

  “Yes, something Paolo mentioned that I had the men look into.” Bercu raised his hand, resting his elbow on the table, and ticked off each point on his fingers as he spoke. “Ciro is murdered. A trader, Abramo Lanzi, travels to Alexandria to buy pepper. He never returns.”

  “Who is Abramo Lanzi?”

  “Listen my sweet. I am telling you.”

  Bercu continued. “Another trader is found dead in a canal. Cencio da Riva I believe is the name. Drowned. He was seen by at least a dozen people that same evening at a party, very obviously intoxicated.” He waited for Chaya to speak up again, but she remained silent, hanging on his words. “The host of that party was found some days later, strangled on the street.”

  “The one who implicated Paolo?”

  “The same.” Bercu smiled. “We come to find out that the missing trader in Alexandria was a friend of Ciro’s. In Ciro’s capacity as the contact between the glassworks and the merchants, he and Lanzi had become friendly. Next da Riva, we now know, was a close associate of our friend Signore Lanzi.” Bercu paused, held up a finger. “And, most interesting of all, our good friend Francesco. Apparently he gave Lanzi his start. He seems to derive some pleasure from helping those less fortunate in their time of need.”

  Chaya’s hand was buried in her hair again. “You’re thinking of the job he gave to Paolo.”r />
  Bercu nodded. “In light of this additional information, it seems rather suspicious, no?”

  “So, other than the fact that they are all dead, the one thing they have in common is Lanzi,” said Chaya.

  “Yes, aside from our strangled host, whose connection to Lanzi is tangential through the drowned trader. But his connection to Paolo is dreadfully clear.”

  “So we have one theory and one collection of loosely connected events about which we know too little to formulate a working theory. It is not very much to go on Father.”

  “As I said.”

  Twenty Nine

  He lived for this. The bitter winter was fading, it seemed, before his very eyes. The slate gray sky that had dominated the lagoon for so long was cracking, bits of blue peering out from underneath as though ascertaining whether it was safe to emerge. The wind struck Pietro Turri’s face like a hand and he could feel the coming spring in the blow. The other two Provveditori were below decks, no doubt clutching their small bunks and praying for a swift conclusion to their voyage. All the better. Turri preferred to be alone. He traversed the deck along the galley’s rail in long strides, his tall thin frame moving with assuredness despite the churn of the water. He found it difficult to remain still, such was his anticipation.