The Floating City

by Craig Cormick

  “How does it look today?” the Shadow Master asked.

  “It looks at repose,” he said. “Like a beautiful maiden at rest, waiting for the night to come and perhaps a suitor to visit her.”

  “Yes. Not too shabby, is it?” said the Shadow Master.

  “I’m not sure what that means,” said Vincenzo, “but I probably agree with your sentiment.”

  “It means I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.”

  Vincenzo nodded.

  “But looks are deceiving and danger lies ahead for your reposing lady, and we are here to prevent it. So enough wistful sightseeing and time for work,” said the Shadow Master. “First I want you to observe that rather grand white building by the water’s edge.” He pointed to a white flat-roofed building with battlements running across it. “Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” said Vincenzo. “That is the palazzo of the widow Isabella Bassanio, who goes by her maiden name Montecchi after her husband died. She is one of the three daughters of Signor Montecchi, whose history you seem so keen that I continue writing.”

  “Good man,” said the Shadow Master. Then he turned to the east and pointed out another building. A much older one, showing its age. This one had a red-tiled roof and thin windows. “And who lives there?” he asked him.

  “That is the house of the Moor who is the new general of our army, and now protector of the Floating City. And of course his wife Disdemona, the second of Signor Montecchi’s daughters.”

  “Full points,” said the Shadow Master. “And do you know what I’m going to ask you next?”

  “I believe you would ask me to identify the Montecchi residence, where the youngest daughter, Giulietta abides,” he said.

  “You are as sharp as a cut-throat’s blade,” said the Shadow Master. “It’s a privilege to be working with someone of your intellect.”

  Vincenzo suspected the Shadow Master was mocking him, but could not be certain. “Why is it important that you point dwellings out to me that I already know?” he asked.

  “This is just to remind you that there is a big picture involved and not to get too lost in the small detail of things. Do you notice anything about their locations?” Vincenzo turned from one building to the other.

  “Nothing,” he said. “They are not even close to each other.”

  “But what do you notice about their distance from each other?”

  Vincenzo looked at them again and considered. “They seem to be equally far apart from each other.”

  “Exactly,” said the Shadow Master. “On a map you might even notice a pattern to them. But they are the three main corners of the story you are going to write. Three different stories with all the other stories contained between them.”

  “Won’t that be too complex to try and tell?” Vincenzo asked.

  “Perhaps,” said the Shadow Master. “But if you remember that the larger story is bound by those three stories it might make it more manageable.”

  Vincenzo didn’t look convinced. Then the Shadow Master said, “Now, can you point out to me where the palazzo of the Seers was, before it sank into the waters.”

  Vincenzo turned to the west and pointed at a spot on the water’s edge where the palazzo had previously been. He felt an awkward discomfort inside, to look at that empty water where once such a great palace had stood, like one gets when observing a dead animal.

  “What else do you see there?” the Shadow Master asked him.

  Vincenzo stared at the spot for a long time and then said, “Nothing.”

  “Drop your head down to the level of the brickwork of the tower here and then look at it anew,” he said.

  Vincenzo did as he was bid and lowered his head and looked across the city to see it framed by the straight line of the brickwork. He blinked and looked again. “It cannot be,” he said.

  “To see or not to see,” said the Shadow Master, “That is the question.”

  “I see the palazzo of the nobleman Signor Flavius and those around it, on the island closest to where the Seers’ palazzo was. They do not sit straight like the buildings on the nearby islands. They seem to be sinking into the water.”

  “Very observant,” said the Shadow Master. “Now, here before you we have your scene, your characters and your plot problem. All that is left to do is to observe and work out how to write what you see.”

  “I should write that they are not sinking and repair this problem?” asked Vincenzo.

  “Stay your quill hand for the moment,” said the Shadow Master. “First we observe and try and understand what is happening.”

  “And what is happening?” asked Vincenzo. “You seem to possess knowledge that you have not yet shared with me.”

  “Indeed,” said the Shadow Master. “This is a city of masks. Consider the buildings as just masks hiding what lies behind those walls. Look deep enough and you see it all.”

  “You talk in too many riddles,” protested Vincenzo. “Your puzzles would befuddle a philosopher. But I am only a humble scribe.”

  “Only a scribe!” laughed the hooded stranger and clapped his hands. “Yes, and I am only a humble Shadow Master!”

  XVI

  THE STORY OF ISABELLA

  The Othmen envoy had arrived early, panting like a too-eager puppy, Isabella thought. She had to fight off a temptation to throw a bone into the corner and tell him to fetch it. Again he had brought gifts with him. Othmen silks and also Venetian jewels that could have once belonged to any of her family and friends. She smiled and took them from him graciously, admiring the softness of the cloth and the quality of workmanship in the jewels.

  The Othmen envoy puffed up like a peacock strutting up and down a garden path, as if he had created them with his own hands. Indeed he was dressed something like a peacock and appeared to have spent the entire day preening himself, having his hair and nails groomed and scents applied to his body. She pitied the poor servants who had the task of washing him and dressing him so that he almost looked handsome. But they could do nothing about the lust in his eyes that made her skin tingle like she had swallowed something bitter.

  “Come and sit beside me,” she said, indicating some cushions on the floor. They were going to sit Othmen style, he could see and he frowned before lowering himself most ungraciously to the ground. Clearly he had never mastered this, despite having to adopt it in the presence of his masters.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked. “I have some sweet wine.”

  “Just a little,” he said, never taking his eyes off the curve of her body, in particular her fulsome bosom, which she had chosen to leave a little exposed to divert his attention. He licked his lips repeatedly, staring at it, like it was a sweet dessert on offer for him.

  “Certainly,” she said and called on one of her maids to pour them both a cup of wine. As she had been instructed she poured quite a large cup each. Isabella took the smallest sip from hers and then placed it beside her. “I trust you have the vessel of riches ready below?” she asked.

  “And I trust you have your vessel of riches ready for me?” he replied.

  He was really most distasteful, she thought as she forced a weak smile to her lips. “I would like to examine her if I may,” she said and stood to her feet, rising slowly and exaggerating her hips just a bit as she walked to the window. Down below, tied up to the small dock outside her house, was a truly magnificent ship. It was Graecian, she could see, with two rows of oars for slaves to propel her along. The sail was tied up closely and she could see several boxes of cargo on the deck.

  “The greatest treasures always lie deep within,” he said.

  She made as if to not understand the allusion and asked him what cargo he had placed on board her.

  “There are crates of gold and silver plates and cups. There is fine furnishing. Rugs and paintings. And books. Many books. In Italian of course.”

  She smiled. It sounded like they were all goods stolen from the ships of the Floating City that he was bargain
ing with.

  “And may I be allowed to examine your vessel in turn?” he asked.

  She suppressed a shudder and said, “All in good time.”

  He opened his hands as if to demonstrate that he was a patient man, despite no other part of his body indicating it. Indeed he was no longer making any attempt to hide his excitement.

  “First we dine together,” she said, coming back and sitting on the cushions next to him. “If I am going to wed, I want to make sure my husband has a healthy appetite.”

  “I have a healthy appetite in all things,” he said with a leer.

  “I am pleased to see it,” she said and asked her maid to bring in some food. They supped on cold meats and small birds and other treats and he ate with his hands and sucked at his fingers noisily, never taking his eyes off her.

  She in turn smiled and tried to make small talk with him.

  “Enough,” he said, finally. “I am sated.”

  “Won’t you have some sweets?” she asked him, but he shook his head and waved the maid away.

  “Perhaps later,” he said. “When I have worked up some more appetite.”

  She reached out and laid a hand gently on his lap. “Let me explain how this will work then,” she said. “You will retire to my bedchamber and disrobe and wait for me. I will go into the small chamber beside the bedroom and prepare myself. Then I will come into the room and disrobe too. You will need to be patient with me of course. You cannot rush a woman in such a situation as this.”

  He nodded eagerly.

  “And then, as per our agreement, if you have managed to enjoy me before the morning comes, I will agree to be your wife. And if not, then I will take possession of the fine ship you have brought with you.”

  She saw a faint warning bell seemed to be sounding in the back of his mind, just loud enough for him to ask, “I will not find you – uh – unassailable, will I?”

  She put on a look of puzzlement. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “With such a device as husbands sometimes have their wives wear when they are away to ensure they cannot be enjoyed by other men.”

  “Oh,” she said and gave a little laugh. “What a preposterous idea. I assure you that when I come to bed I shall be entirely without clothing and will remain that way the entire night.” She could see the thought of that drowning out the peal of any warning bells, and his nostrils flared widely and his eyes almost rolled back in his head. “If I am unassailable, as you put it, it will be through no fault of mine,” she assured him.

  Then, before he could ask any more questions, she clapped her hands. “Well then. There’s no time like the present. My handmaiden Nerissa will lead you to the bedroom,” she said. “And I will join you presently.”

  He struggled to his feet and Isabella said, “Shall we have one more toast to the evening ahead?” She lifted her cup and raised it to her lips. He took the cup off the tray being offered to him by the maid and drank it greedily, wiping the remains on his sleeve, staining the fine fabric.

  “I will see you momentarily,” she said.

  “Oh yes. I will most certainly see you,” he said hoarsely, licking his lips rapidly. She smiled and watched him leave the room.

  XVII

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  The Council of Ten – now nine – sat a little further forward in their ornate seats as the Head Councillor, the Duca, said to Otello the Moor, “We have all read the reports, but tell us of the fall of Cyprus. We would hear it in your own words what the Othmen are like when they attack a city.”

  The Moor looked about the room and knew he had not just every man’s attention, but also their respect. He, a Moor, a heathen to these men, had become their greatest general. And he loved their city for it, even if he did not love the nine old men around him. They had not sailed to the east to face the Othmen threat. They had not spilled any blood to keep their trade routes and empire safe. They had not seen the horrors of the fall of Cyprus.

  “As you well know, my lords,” he said. “The fortified city of Famagusta was our last stand on the island and we had been besieged by the Othmen and their mighty cannons for a year, forever looking to the western horizon for relief.”

  The Council of Nine did not respond to the baiting. Monumental efforts had been enacted to raise a rescue fleet, but it proved too slow for the defenders.

  “We held out for a year, but we were without food and ammunition and eventually we knew our only hope was with a dignified surrender, and so we sued for peace.”

  The Duca, an old man with a pointed white beard who wore his chain of office like it was a very heavy weight around his fur-lined neck, waved a hand at Otello to continue. They knew all this. General Bragadin had led the peace delegation into the tents of the Othmen generals and faced the Pasha himself, who had promised to allow all citizens of the Floating City to leave unmolested and had even put his ships at their disposal. “Tell us about their betrayal,” he said.

  Otello looked around the room slowly. That was the point of so much conjecture and debate. Particularly from those who had not been there in attendance. But in truth, he was the only man of rank to walk away from that alive – perhaps because of his dark skin, the Othmen decided he was not an officer but a slave of the Venetians, so whatever version of events he told would be uncontested.

  “And?” asked the Duca.

  Otello shrugged. “The Pasha demanded that we leave some noblemen behind as ransom for the safety of his ships. General Bragadin said he could not order any freeman to stay behind as it was not the way of the Floating City to command free men to do anything.”

  The council nodded. They too would have made such a statement as a preliminary point of bargaining. That was the trick with the Othmen, they had been told. Everything had to be a matter of bargaining.

  “And the Pasha flew into a rage,” said Otello. “He had guards bind all those who had come to surrender. He had those assembled outside as part of the retinue cut down where they stood and he sent his army into the city. They revelled in death and destruction for three days. Men were beheaded where they stood begging for mercy. Children were put into the chains of slavery and women were raped in their homes. Even holy women were raped on their sacred altars.”

  Several of the members of the council looked down at their feet, or wrung their hands as if noticing sudden stains on them. Perhaps the stains of the blood of their people who had waited for the relief ships that had been so slow in organizing, Otello thought.

  “But the general stood defiant of the Pasha and refused to beg for mercy,” he continued. “So the Pasha, rather than killing him there and then, cut off his ears and nose.” He stared around the circle of nine, but none would now meet his eyes. “And then, after having much sport with him, they finally tied him to a pole in the city square and slowly flayed his skin from his body. They had drawn it all the way down to his stomach before he finally cried out in agony, and then soon after died.”

  He waited a few moments before adding, “They stuffed his skin with straw and made an effigy of the man and hung it from the city gates.”

  Finally, after a long silence, the Duca looked up at him and said, “You alone escaped to bring us this news. You alone were spared.”

  Was that an accusation? Otello thought, and glared at him. “Several dozen escaped,” he said.

  “And we are grateful for it,” the Duca said, and he smiled. A kindly smile, Otello thought, as if the old man could see what he was feeling. “And we are grateful that you were one of them, and grateful that you now lead our city’s defences.” Otello relaxed a little. “For you have seen the enemy and know his strengths, but also know his weaknesses,” the Duca said.

  Otello nodded. “The Othmen are but men and can be slain like any other man.”

  “No,” said one of the councillors. “No man could engage in such savagery. He is a beast disguised as a man.”

  “And he has control of beasts through his enchantment,” said another
.

  “He is a serpent gliding into our homes, seeking out our children,” said another.

  “He is beyond description,” said a third.

  “He is all of those things,” said the Duca, reining in the growing hysteria. “But he is our enemy and he has his eyes on our city and we charge you, General Otello, with its protection from our foe. What we want to know of you is, are you equal to the task?”

  And Otello now smiled broadly, showing his large white teeth. He held up his strong hands and said, “I have slain Othmen soldiers too many to count with these hands and I will likewise slay their spies in the city, their necromancers and any beasts they may conjure. For anyone who threatens this city also threatens the woman that I have wed, and I have vowed to defend my love with my life.”

  XVIII

  THE STORY OF GIULIETTA

  Romeo had no eyes for the danger he was in. As he had no eyes for the high-arched ceiling above him with its painted images of cherubs and knights. He had no eyes for the fine tapestries hanging from the white marble walls, nor the intricately laid tiles that most guests coming to the palazzo of the Montecchi family for the first time stopped to admire. He only had eyes for the Lady Rosaline.

  Romeo wore the feathered mask of a hawk and he stalked her around the ball room as his prey. It had taken him but a moment to recognize her amongst all the fine ladies of the Floating City. No one was as tall and graceful as her. And no one had the exact same curling red hair that she had. No one had a body shaped like hers.