by Dave Duncan
“Tell me.” I nibbled her ear.
“That you aren’t jealous. That you never judge. That you never nag me to reform.”
Reform and marry me, a pauper? Live by selling off her wardrobe over the next ten years? I loved her because she did not try to buy me, as she so easily could. If she insisted I become her pimp, I would have to obey. If she thought I was not jealous, she was crazy. She was crazy, but I learned long ago not to yearn after things I cannot have.
“I would probably die if you did reform,” I said. “And while you sin, I want to sin with you. You can have all of me, my darling, every bit. I will settle for as much of you as you can spare.”
6
A man can have few experiences more pleasant than being wakened by a kiss from a beautiful girl when he is lying naked in her bed. Before I could get my hopes up, though, I realized that the woman bending over me was wearing the habit of a nun of the Carmelite Order. Some houses dress less strictly than others, and in this case my initial mistake was understandable, for her veil hid nothing and her bodice not much. I screamed and grabbed for the covers.
“Whatever is wrong?” Deviltry danced in Helen’s dark eyes. “I have never known you to be shy before.”
“I thought I was about to be raped. What time is it?”
“Time for you to meet an important witness. After you collapsed and left me to amuse myself, I recalled that Alessa used to know an Orseolo. So I went and asked her, and he belonged to the correct branch-Enrico, Bertucci’s son.”
I slid off the bed and began to collect my clothes. Alessa is a former courtesan who retired from the profession when she turned thirty or so, and is now one of the co-owners of Number 96. She runs the on-site business, a stable of a dozen or more girls.
“How much did you tell her?” I asked nervously. If my interest became widely known, whispers would start that the Maestro was worried by the whispers, and that would do his reputation no good.
“Just that you were upset by the rumors and wondered if there was anyone who might have wanted to kill the old man. Alessa is clever, though. She guessed right away that you were moved by more than idle gossip.”
“I know and love madonna Alessa, and have great respect for her sagacity and discretion.” I dragged Violetta’s hairbrush twice over my tangled mop, gave up, and stuffed it all inside my bonnet. “Lead the way, Sister Chastity.”
We went along the corridor to Alessa’s corner of the house, where we found an Ursuline abbess laying out sweetmeats and glasses. Alessa is still on the bouncy side of forty and a very appealing woman, somewhere between buxom and statuesque, well worth a cuddle. The cut of her habit was no more discreet than Violetta’s.
“What has caused this shocking outbreak of piety?” I demanded, and gave her an endearing kiss. My enthusiasm must have been convincing, because she cooperated until Medea began making menacing throat-clearing noises.
Mother Alessa recovered her breath and said, “Our new Carnival costumes were delivered and we decided to try them on. How do we look?”
“Inestimably pure and holy. You will drag saints down off the steps of the Throne of God.”
“Vi, we should set him up as a friar. We could tonsure him!”
“Or a Turk?” Violetta suggested. “We could get a rabbi from the Ghetto Nuovo to-”
“No you couldn’t!” I said firmly, sitting down and accepting a glass of Alessa’s excellent marsala. “I like me just the way I am. I have to get back to work. Reverend Mother, please keep this a secret, but the Maestro believes that the procurator was indeed poisoned, as the gossip says, although definitely not by him. What can you tell me about him?”
Alessa is another lost actress. She raised her gaze to Heaven, clasped her plump, soft hands, and began to speak with a sonority worthy of Holy Writ. “Bertucci was a very upright man, honest and devout, a generous benefactor to the Church and the city. A good man! He won great distinction in the Cypriot war. He was widowed years ago. He is survived by his son, Enrico, and two grandchildren. I have been trying to think of anyone who might hate him enough to murder him and honestly cannot.”
“You were close to Enrico?”
“He kept me generously for several years, until his father heard about our nest. He disapproved and insisted I leave. Then he arranged for Enrico to be elected rector of Verona and shipped him off to the mainland.” Alessa sighed for wasted opportunities.
Verona is a tribute city of Venice, of course.
“When was that?”
“About four years ago. Bertucci did not have me thrown out in the canal; he allowed me a month to make other arrangements. He was stern, but never vicious. Enrico told me more than once how the old man’s war wounds caused him great pain, yet he never complained. And you tell me somebody murdered him? This is a terrible thing.”
The Church would call Alessa a fallen woman, and yet I believed that she was sincere. The crusty old trooper came alive for me in her words.
“And children?”
“Very tragic. His oldest son died at sea. Another was killed by janissaries in some stupid brawl in Constantinople. Both his daughters died when the Convent of San Secondo burned. Enrico was the only one left to him.”
“So tell me about Enrico,” I said. The heir to the Orseolo fortune must be an obvious suspect, even if he had not been present at the supper party. “Does he engage in politics or just run the business?”
“Both. He’s been very successful in politics. His father was a fighter, but he is a conciliator. The Great Council approves of men who build bridges instead of burning them, and Enrico could walk across the lagoon without rippling the water. He served a term as a lord of the night watch in his twenties, four or five terms as a minister of marine, and twice as rector of Verona. Now he is one of the great ministers.”
I had not found Enrico Orseolo conciliatory in my few encounters with him. His father had commissioned a horoscope from Maestro Nostradamus. After I had delivered it and asked for payment, the old man had told me to collect from Enrico. Enrico had refused to pay and threatened to have me thrown in the nearest canal.
“I’ve heard him touted as a likely member of the Council of Ten,” Aspasia said. “In twenty years or so he’ll be elected procurator to succeed his father.”
“Did he and his father get along?”
Alessa shrugged. “Fairly well, considering how different they were. He could never replace his martyred brothers, of course. And the age gap was so great. Enrico is…” She mused. “Enrico is hard to describe. He shows the world a cold outside, like crystal plate mail. Yet he is passionate. I assure you, he is passionate! I have known him to weep with happiness after making love, spilling tears on my breasts. He wanted to defy his father over me, and I had to persuade him that his career was more important than a mere concubine. And business is hard now…”
Neither Violetta nor I said a word. Alessa perforce continued.
“Not just the House of Orseolo. A hundred years ago the Republic was great, and the Orseolos were great, but then the accursed Portugese found a way around Africa and now the Dutch heretics are stealing our spice trade. Every mercantile house has been declining. The last twenty years have been especially hard for some, but the old man perhaps did not see this as well as he should. He may have blamed Enrico unfairly.”
“Enrico was not there that night, so far as I know,” I said. “Vi?” She had thought of something. I recognized the glow of Minerva’s eyes.
“Who was the girl with the old man on Valentine’s Eve?”
Alessa frowned. “How should I know? Young?”
“Yes, but old enough to turn a man’s wits. Not a courtesan.”
“Ha! I doubt most greatly that old Bertucci ever glanced at a courtesan in his life. He disapproved of lechery. Most likely you saw his granddaughter, Bianca. Enrico has two children, Benedetto and Bianca. Benedetto is studying law in Padua, I believe.”
“And their mother?” Violetta asked.
Alessa s
ighed. “I never met her. Her family had money, whereas Ca’ Orseolo was one of the oldest houses in the Republic, fallen on rather hard times. She brought him a legendary dowry, but she never even tried to make their marriage work. So he told me.” The courtesan smiled. “Believe as much of that as you want. She died about a year ago.”
Even if she hadn’t, an unhappy wife is more likely to find consolation with a cavaliere servente than poison her father-in-law. I was no nearer to finding a motive for the old man’s murder.
I rose. “I must go, Reverend Mother. I have an appointment with the cardinal-patriarch, who is looking forward to hearing my confession. I am very grateful for your help. It definitely merits another kiss.” I demonstrated.
“Gratitude can be overdone!” Medea dug claws into my arm. “You mustn’t take up too much of the cardinal-patriarch’s time. Come along.”
As usual, she tried to persuade me to take the orthodox road home, because my route is even trickier in that direction, requiring a run down the tiles to gain speed for an upward leap. As usual, I pointed out that I would give away the secret if I was often seen going from 96 to the Ca’ Barbolano and never in the opposite direction.
I did reach the ledge and did catch hold of the bars before I ricocheted off. Had I not, I should not be telling you this. I changed and hastened to the atelier. The Maestro had been busy, for his side of the desk was littered with books and several pages of scribbles left on my side were recognizably draft pages for next year’s almanac, waiting for me to find a few hours to transcribe their snail tracks into legibility. There was also a scrawled note about Isaia Modestus, the second-best physician in the Republic, which I deciphered.
“You want me to transcribe this into a letter?”
The Maestro looked up vaguely. “What? Oh, no. Just go and ask him those questions. And hurry. I have more important things for you to do than waste time on murders.”
I said, “Yes, master,” very sweetly, and headed over to his precious book shelves.
He watched angrily as I recovered the Apologeticus Archeteles from its hiding place.
“Where do you think you are you going with that?”
“ Nasone wants it back. He also wants some of the balm of Gilead and mustard seed ointment. This should be a good time to catch him, because the senate will adjourn after the tributes to Orseolo. He was a witness, so he may have seen something suspicious. Will it be all right if I take him the batch I prepared for madonna Polo and mix more for her this evening?”
The Maestro growled approval. “What did you learn from your friend?”
“Not much.” I had not told him where I was going, but it does not take a great sage long to guess how a young man will react when given an excuse to call on his lover. I went to the alchemical bench, noticing that the jar of digitalis leaves was missing and the other jars had been spread out to hide the space. I made a mental note to dust all the shelves that evening. While spooning the unguent into a fresh container with a spatula, I narrated the little I had learned at Number 96.
“Of course the woman, or girl, was his granddaughter,” the Maestro conceded angrily. “When he took ill, she got to him even before I did, and she did address him as ‘Grandsire.’ I barely noticed her in the book room. I had to keep answering questions.”
“Even so, it isn’t like you to miss a pretty girl.” I got no reply. Maestro Nostradamus has no interest in pretty girls. Or pretty boys. Books, now, or a shapely alembic…
Back at the desk, I wrote out a label for the ointment. I also made a note in the book catalogue that the Zwingli volume had been returned to its owner, and corrected the original entry. Having replaced the catalogue in its hidden compartment, I wrapped the book carefully and tucked it in my satchel with the jar.
By the time I had done all that, the Maestro was again engrossed in his papers, quill flying, ink spraying. I left quietly, locking the door so he would not be disturbed. Giorgio and his slave gang were still at work in the salone -as a matter of honor the twins would have done as little as they dared while their father was away that morning. When he saw my satchel, he began to lecture them on the terrible things that would happen if they slacked off again. I saved their day for them.
“I’d like some help, too,” I said. “Unless you’d rather wash floors?”
“We’d rather be burned at the stake,” Corrado suggested. He is the leader. Christoforo is larger and stronger but does what his brother tells him, never learning who gets punished for it.
“Or row a galley,” Christoforo added, “single-handed.”
“No. I need you to find Doctor Isaia Modestus for me. You know him?”
They both insisted that they did. They were not as certain as they pretended, but everyone in the Ghetto knows Isaia.
“He may be anywhere in the city,” I explained as the four of us trooped downstairs. “Start at his house; they’ll give you an idea where to try next. If you can find him, then I want one of you to stay with him, but keep the other one informed where he is, understand? And that one is to be at the gate of the Ghetto Nuovo when I get there, ready to lead me to the good doctor. Your father will probably have to wait for me at the Molo for some time, so you can report to him there if your quest takes you to that end of the city. Yes,” I added before they incurred Giorgio’s wrath by asking, “you will be richly rewarded.”
“How much?” Corrado demanded eagerly, and this time failed to move his ear faster than the back of his father’s hand.
7
I n no other state in Christendom could I have walked into the ruler’s palace without having a pike or something worse thrust in my face, but no one challenged me as I mounted the steps of the watergate and strolled along the passage into the great courtyard. It was bustling, of course. There are always people going about the Republic’s business there, and I remained invisible among them. I climbed the censors’ staircase to the second story, walked along the loggia to the incredible golden staircase, and climbed the first flight of that. But that brought me to the door of the equerries’ hall, and there I did have to stop and explain myself.
Six old men were waiting ahead of me, all white-bearded, black-gowned messere, no doubt intent on paying their personal respects to His Serenity on the death of his friend. Three equerries were keeping watch on them from a polite distance, but my luck was holding, because one of them was my friend Fulgentio Trau. There was no sign of my jailer from the morning, old sier Aldo Somebody.
Fulgentio wandered over to meet me with a quizzical look in his eye. We live in the same parish, are the same age, and share the same fencing tutor. He has even been known to beat me with the rapier or epee. To be honest, he lucks out quite often, but not always. The main difference between us is not that I am a noble and he a commoner, but that I am church-mouse poor while his family has more money than the Pope. I cannot understand why he should want to be virtually a servant, but he insists it is more interesting than banking.
“I heard you spent the night here,” he murmured.
“Some of it. Nothing serious.”
“Nasty rumors going around about your master.”
“Nasty and unfounded.”
He nodded with a glance at my satchel. “I’ll try and get you in sometime before Judgement Day. Meanwhile you’ll have to sit here and not fidget.”
“They’ve changed the pictures. May I look?”
He brightened. “By all means. Come and tell me if you think this John the Baptist is really by Carpaccio.” A love of great art is something else we have in common.
Halfway around our circuit of the walls, he presented me to the equerry in charge-who looked all of eighteen-and explained that the doge’s doctor required me to deliver all medications directly to the patient but I wouldn’t need more than a minute. It does help to have influential friends. Three more black robes tottered in and were seated with the rest. Then another equerry entered by the inner door.
“That means he’s on his way.” Fulgentio led m
e in that direction. “He has his own staircase down from the Senate.”
“I do appreciate this,” I said. “I’d have been there for hours. I hope those nine ancient worthies don’t make trouble for you.”
“They can’t. He has to change his clothes before he sees anyone. You’re not anyone.” His grin held no malice.
“Thanks.” In fact, as the doge’s sometime masseur, I had seen him with no clothes on at all. He changes them several times a day and his choice of garb is always carefully noted. He can insult a nation by wearing the wrong socks when meeting with an ambassador. Fulgentio escorted me to the room I had visited that morning and departed with: “Jacopo will take care of you.”
Jacopo regarded me with distaste, knowing that I was not good for a tip. “His Serenity may be some time. How can I help you?”
“You can bring me supper later. Luckily I brought a book to read.”
Knowing which book that would be, he grimaced. I left it in my satchel and resisted the temptation to try one of the doge’s silk-covered chairs. The paintings on the walls were interesting compositions by artists I did not know. I was just edging my way to the nearest one when the doge marched in, monumental in gold state robes and corno.
He said, “Alfeo?” in surprise and turned his back on my bow. “You came to say goodbye?” He began rearranging his draperies. Jacopo waited, holding the ducal chamber pot at the ready.
“No, Your Serenity. But I brought the unguent you requested, and the book.”
“Leave them over there. Your master thinks he can defend himself against a charge of poisoning?”
“Yes, sire.”
I heard a familiar sound. His Serenity sighed happily. “How? The man had a stroke, that’s all. How can you prove a negative?”
“By proving a contrary positive. May I ask Your Serenity a couple of questions that may be vital to the security of the Republic?”
“And more likely are not. Ask.”
“You have met the attorney Ottone Imer?”
