by Dave Duncan
We did not have to answer the summons. We could flee into exile.
“If Sanudo has let slip the fee you charged him,” I said, “you will surely find yourself jailed for extortion.”
The Maestro actually laughed…well, chortled. For the moment his ill humor was forgotten. “Rubbish! It was his wife who offered it. They would have sent Missier Grande and a squad of sbirri if they wanted me arrested. They probably seek my advice on the doge’s health. I have warned him he is overdoing it.”
I was less optimistic. As I told you, the Republic is ruled by a pyramid of interlocking committees, so that every man has another man looking over his shoulder. The system is deliberately inefficient, but that inefficiency has let the Republic retain its freedom for nine hundred years. Nevertheless, some matters must be handled swiftly and in secret, and this is where the Council of Ten comes in. It cuts all the knots. If dawn reveals conspirators dangling from gibbets in the Piazza or floating facedown in the Orfano Canal, then that is the Ten’s doing. Men drop dead in distant lands by the hand of the Ten. It runs the finest intelligence service in Europe, both inside the Republic and out, interprets its duties as widely as it pleases, and answers to no one. It handles all major crimes, such as rape, murder, and blasphemy, and there is no appeal against its decisions.
Nevertheless, I would assume I was included in the invitation until a door slammed in my face. “Do I have time to change?”
The Maestro was already wearing his physician’s black hat and gown and therefore had no such need. “Certainly. They will keep us waiting for hours.”
Giorgio, having seen our visitor out, reappeared in the doorway.
“Bruno?” I said. “And a twin?”
I hastened to my room. Christoforo and Corrado, the dreaded Angeli twins, arrived there before I did and tried to wrestle each other out of the way. Chris won, being the larger, and I stepped between them before Corrado could charge back in and turn shove into mayhem. I flipped a soldo and told Chris to call it. He guessed “Doge!” which was wrong. I gave it to his brother and sent him to tell Fulgentio I had to break my date, forbidding him to say why. Chris went with him to make sure he did it right and in the hope of sharing in the reward Fulgentio would certainly supply. Arguing furiously, they disappeared down the stairs.
Armed or unarmed? I should not be allowed to wear a sword in the palace and we should be traveling by gondola all the way, so I decided to go unarmed.
Bruno always becomes excited when told that the Maestro needs him, and rushes away to find the carrying chair. By the time I had donned the better of my two cloaks, he was striding around with the chair on his back. Giorgio had appeared in his best gondolier’s garb of baggy trousers, short belted tunic, and feathered bonnet, and was giving Mama strict orders to admit nobody, other than the twins when they returned. Did that apply to sier Danese? Regretfully I decided that Danese would have to be let in, lest he complain to sier Alvise. Soon we set off down the great staircase, the Maestro riding high and smirking childishly, me at the rear carrying his long staff.
It was another hot night, with a full moon peering through the chimneypot forest to daub silver on the canals. There was singing in the distance, as there always is, and the warbles of gondoliers as they warn which side they intend to pass. And cat fights. I was not happy. Nothing frightens me more than the Council of Ten-except the Council of Three, of course.
Foreigners are always amazed at how easily anyone may enter the Doges’ Palace by day, but at night even Venice posts armed guards on the doors. We disembarked at the watergate on the Rio di Palazzo, where Martini was waiting for us among pikes, muskets, helmets, and pages holding lanterns. The door to the Wells, the worst of the dungeons, is right there, but no one rattled any keys at us. Giorgio rowed away to wait at the Molo; Bruno and I followed our guide along the passage to the central courtyard, and then up the great Censors’ staircase, with gold and tinctures flashing overhead in the lights borne by our link boys. It is spectacular in daylight, overwhelming by night.
The Doges’ Palace is where the reigning doge lives, where the criminal courts, Great Council, and all other councils meet, where records are kept, laws enforced, criminals imprisoned, tortured, and sometimes executed. It is the greatest treasure house of art in the Republic. Parts of it are centuries old. We came at last to the top floor and through into the magnificent Salle della Bussola with its Sansovino fireplace and stunning Veronese ceiling.
There it seemed that the Maestro’s prediction of having to wait for hours would be fulfilled. About two dozen men were standing around in small groups, most in the black robes of the nobility, several looking seriously worried. I saw no women, of course. The few benches in sight being occupied, the Maestro remained in his chair on Bruno’s back. The weight did not bother Bruno in the slightest; he was happy to be of use. He liked to visit the palace and look at the pictures. I usually like to look at the pictures, too, but didn’t just then.
Our fante went to report to another guarding the door to the Ten’s chamber. Near them stood two men I knew well. Gasparo Quazza, Missier Grande, has the impassive solidity of a Sansovino statue. He did not acknowledge me when we made eye contact, but that is just his way. Although I do not like him, I respect his honesty-he would arrest his own mother if the Ten ordered him to. A glimpse of his red and blue robe would strike terror into the hearts of the toughest gang of bravos.
Beside him was his assistant, Vizio Filiberto Vasco. Vasco and I have three things in common: we are about the same age, we both attend Captain Colleoni’s Monday fencing class, and we detest each other. I am a better swordsman than he is, but that is the only good thing I can tell you about him. He is too immature for his job, liking to pester women and bully men. He scowled in my direction. I licked my lips, although a careful observer might have thought I had stuck my tongue out at someone.
The Ten’s door opened and words were passed to and fro. Martini disengaged and strode through the crowd, every eye on him, coming straight to the Maestro.
“Their Excellencies summon you, lustrissimo.” The rest of the room rustled with outrage. Nobles do not willingly yield precedence to physicians or nostrum-peddling charlatans.
I took Bruno’s arm and we marched over to the door together. The giant knelt. I helped the Maestro dismount and gave him back his staff. His lameness varies depending on circumstances, usually being much worse in public. Wanting me with him, he leaned a hand on my shoulder.
“Is Zeno allowed in?” the vizio asked disbelievingly. His displeasure was encouraging, for if I were on my way to the galleys, he would be wearing a sneer wider than the Grand Canal.
Missier Grande shrugged. “For now.”
I said, “Of course,” and almost succeeded in treading on Vasco’s toe as I went by.
The chamber of the Council of Ten is large and very impressive, with paintings by Veronese and Zelloti adorning its walls and ceiling. A dais at one end bears a long bench curving across the full width of the hall, with the doge’s throne in the center. Despite its name, the Council comprises seventeen men, and when we entered they were quietly chatting among themselves, discussing their last item of business or the next, ignoring us.
The doge, Pietro Moro, wears robes of cloth-of-gold and white ermine, although that night the room still held the heat of the day and the many lamps did not help. His hat, of course, was the golden ducal corno with its distinctive peak at the back. It is a cause for ribaldry that the bulge bears no small resemblance to His Serenity’s most distinctive feature, because all his life he has been known as Nasone, “Big Nose.” Moro is a good man. He tips me generously whenever I deliver his medications, but I would approve of him even without that.
He was flanked by his six ducal counselors in scarlet, three on either side. I was impressed to see that the patriarchal Sanudo beard was borne by the man at the doge’s right hand, the place of honor. Flanking the counselors, in turn, sat the ten elected members in their black robes, seven to the le
ft and three to the right. Of the seventeen, three were patients of the Maestro, and I counted five others who had consulted him on occult matters. Secretaries and clerks were clustered at desks at either side of the hall.
As we approached this sinister tribunal, a minion brought forward a chair and placed it alongside the lectern that stands before the doge’s throne. This was a remarkable tribute to Nostradamus, for Venice rarely makes concessions to age. Moro himself is in his late seventies and many men there were older.
I helped the Maestro to the chair, saw him settled, and then stepped behind it and waited to be ordered out. A secretary brought forward a jeweled crystal reliquary and guided the Maestro through an oath that he would speak the truth and not discuss the questions, his answers, or just about anything. Having done that, the flunky looked uncertainly at me. Before he could appeal for instructions, I laid my hand on the sacred vessel and rattled off the same oath, word for word, inserting for my own name and station. Much to my astonishment and his, no one objected.
The doge looked tired and displeased. This was probably his third or fourth meeting of the day, and all those other men still waited outside. He nodded to the Maestro-and even to me, which was a signal honor-and then glanced to his right and said, “Chiefs?”
That one word brought the meeting to order.
The doge serves for life, although most doges are very old men when they are elected. The Ten’s four secretaries are of the citizen-by-birth class and appointed for life. Everyone else is temporary. Members serve for one year, counselors for eight months, and neither can be re-elected to the same position until they have sat out at least one term. There is nothing to prevent them from being elected to the other position, though, and many of the nobles on the dais would have served as both in the past. The three black robes to the doge’s right wore red tippets and were therefore the three “chiefs of the Ten,” that month’s steering committee. It would be they who had decided to summon the Maestro.
“Doctor Nostradamus,” said the middle chief. He was a gaunt, silvery man of considerable age, sier Tegaliano Trevisan, and the Maestro had cast his horoscope a few years earlier. Offhand I did not recall its predictions, although I knew I could if I had to. His elongated face reminded me of driftwood, eroded and bleached by long turmoil in the breakers. “The Council understands that you have many times displayed great skill at finding missing persons.”
I wished that I had left while I had the chance and kept on running. Trevisan might mean that the Council was seeking advice from the greatest clairvoyant in Europe, but he might equally mean that the Maestro had been accused of black magic. I would be interrogated as a witness, very likely tortured, and probably burned at the same stake. I glanced at Zuanbattista Sanudo in his huge black cloud of beard and wondered why he had reported the story, for it made him seem a fool who could not even control his own daughter. So far he had paid about a third of his fee. A heap of cinders cannot sue to collect a debt.
The doge pulled a face. His Serenity is a total skeptic where the supernatural is concerned. He is not alone in that folly, but most of those present probably knew better.
“I have,” the Maestro said calmly. “How may I assist Their Excellencies?”
“Could you locate a spy?”
The other sixteen had all known what was to be asked, and showed no surprise.
“I assume that Your Excellency refers to a specific spy?”
Every state in Europe employs spies. If you include the Ten’s own army of informers, you could fire a musket across the Piazza and pick up one or two any day.
“A specific spy,” the chief agreed in his dusty, wormwood voice. “We have good reason to believe that a particular spy is doing great damage to the Republic and we are anxious to identify him.”
The Maestro waited, but when nothing more was said, he cleared his throat. “Your Serenity, Your Excellencies…This noble Council is renowned and envied everywhere for its expertise and resources. If your normal methods have failed, you are obviously asking whether I can employ spiritual methods? If I speculate on this, it will be understood that I speak of what I have read in my studies and not from first-hand experimentation?”
“You are not on trial, Doctor,” Trevisan said. “Your testimony is privileged and will not be held against you.”
I started breathing again.
“My almanac for this year,” the Maestro said, “showed no great calamities in store for La Serenissima, so I am optimistic that someone will catch your scoundrel soon. Indeed, the imminent conjunction of Venus and Mercury provides strong support for that surmise.”
I knew that he was merely letting his mouth run while he rummaged through his brain, but Moro was scowling ferociously along at the three chiefs. Even with only one vote among the seventeen, the doge has enormous power to bear grudges and reward friends. None of the three chiefs looked at him, but they all began to fidget.
“I will certainly provide whatever assistance I can,” the Maestro said. “But I can do nothing without more information about the person I am to locate. Normally I have at least a name to go on. Can you give me a sample of handwriting? A description? Even the nation or cause he serves?”
Trevisan nodded. “We anticipated such a request. If you present yourself tomorrow morning at the Chancellor’s office, the learned Secretary Sciara will show you what we have. We can provide a desk…”
The Maestro was shaking his head and I knew what was coming. Very few people defy the Council of Ten, but he was not going to come trotting to the palace every day like some whistled dog. “No,” he said. He was adamant. He would work at home with his library, or he could do nothing.
“Oh, saints preserve us!” the doge shouted. “I told you he would say that. Give him what we agreed.”
Trevisan nodded nervously. “We can provide you with the little information we have, but we shall set restrictions on its use and send a guard to watch over it. May Heaven bless your work.”
That was that, we had been dismissed.
8
T he man who rose from the secretaries’ table to lead us out was the chief secretary himself, Raffaino Sciara, widely known as Circospetto. Noble politicians come and go; like the doge, citizen Sciara goes on forever and he hoards more secrets than the Vatican. He and I have tangled in the past. He has a face like a skull and a sense of humor to match, but that evening I looked forward to fireworks, for the Maestro dislikes him even more than I do.
Out in the anteroom, Bruno had been standing within a wide clearing, glowering ferociously at the door. Seeing us safe, he spread an enormous grin and swept forward like a galleon, nobility hastily clearing a path. He was not needed yet, though, because Sciara led us across to the corner screen, which conceals two doors, one leading to the jails and torture chamber, and the other to the room of the chiefs of the Ten. That was our destination and I beckoned for Bruno to follow us through.
It is a rich room, although small, but that evening it was dim and haunted by shadows, lit by only two small lamps on the grand table behind which the three chiefs sit while interrogating witnesses, and two more on the recording secretaries’ desk at the side. Beside that stood Vizio Filiberto Vasco in his red cloak, looking as if he had just been sentenced to twenty years in the galleys. For once his distress did not make me happy, because I could guess what was going to happen. He appeared to be guarding a leather satchel, and it was to the secretarial desk that Sciara went.
I helped the Maestro to a chair, Sciara took another, and I plonked myself down on the third. Vasco just stood, scowl firmly in place, arms folded. Very few chairs fit Bruno and he knelt to grin at the tiled floor, whose pattern of black and white reverses perspective while you look at it. Sciara proceeded to open the satchel.
“We refer to the unknown as Algol,” he said. “We know of his existence from reports by our own intelligence.”
“Venice’s spies in the Porte,” the Maestro said.
The Sublime Porte is the Turkish go
vernment. Algol is the name of a star, but it means The Ghoul.
“Possibly.” Sciara extracted a sheaf of papers. “These are copies-”
“I need originals,” the Maestro said.
“You can’t have them. Our agent risked his life to supply even this much.”
I saw at a glance that the text was enciphered, the letters grouped in fives.
The Maestro looked disgusted. “You expect me to decipher this for you?”
The worst thing about Circospetto is his smile. I always expect maggots to fall out of it. “When you do you may instruct us.”
The Maestro is a genius in steganography, or hidden writing, as he is in just about everything, but the Council of Ten has been renowned throughout Europe for its expertise with codes and ciphers ever since it employed the great Giovanni Soro. The Vatican itself would send Soro intercepted dispatches to be deciphered and he would send them back in plaintext-keeping a copy, of course. They say that the only time he was stumped was when Rome sent him a message in its own cipher and asked if he could read it; he sent it back, saying that he could not. It must be a terrible sin to lie to the Pope.
The Ten are reputed to keep three cryptographers toiling away somewhere in the palace behind locked doors. If they could not break Algol’s cipher, no one in Europe could.
“What language?” the Maestro demanded.
“We don’t know.”
I lost interest at that point, knowing of no way to decipher an unknown language. The Maestro did not seem deterred, though. He held a sheet closer to the lamp.
“Roman alphabet. How many letters?”
“Twenty-three.”
In Venice we mostly use the old twenty-three-letter Roman alphabet, dropping K and Y and adding V and J. Tuscan spurns J and H , but a cryptographer may double up rarely used letters or add some, at his whim.
“Not a nomenclator, then,” Nostradamus said, “unless the characters are represented by letter pairs. Have you checked couplet frequency?”
