by Dave Duncan
“No one sent me,” the friar said grimly. “I came in charity to warn you. I admit that our mother has never accepted Zorzi’s guilt. She always took his side and defended his sinful ways. But the Council of Ten judged him guilty and my brothers have suffered enough for his fearful crime. They are noblemen of Venice. If you attempt to embezzle money from her by preying on her delusions, then they will complain to the Council of Ten, which will run you out of town at the very least.”
“Alfeo, how far along are you with that draft?”
“As far as, ‘. . . permitted under the laws of Venice,’ master.”
“Let the good brother read it.”
I took the paper over to our visitor. He did not comment on my penmanship, but merely read it slowly and carefully, like a lawyer. When he lowered it, he was frowning. I carried it back to my desk.
“No money in advance,” the Maestro said. “No money at all unless I produce evidence acceptable in a court of law. Those are always my terms, Brother.”
He did not explain that he was less concerned with the guilt or innocence of Zorzi Michiel than he was with finding the killer of the courtesans. To suggest that a noble family might be involved in that sordid affair would terminate the discussion instantly. We would be in jail before sunset.
Fedele shook his head sadly. “Filippo, Filippo! You are accusing the Council of Ten of convicting an innocent man. I urge you for your own safety not to let your words get back to them. Perhaps you should discuss the sin of pride with your confessor?”
“Perhaps.” Nostradamus did not sound convinced. “I have two more questions, if I may beg your patience, Brother. Suppose for a moment that Zorzi, your brother, did not commit that terrible crime. And yet also suppose that, despite his innocence, before fleeing into exile he wrote out a confession and slipped it into one of the ‘Lion’s Mouth’ drop boxes for the Council of Ten to read.”
“Absurd. Suppose the lagoon turns to wine.”
“But my question is, who—in your family, in the city, in the whole world—might Zorzi have loved enough to shield in this way?”
The priest studied him for a moment with the basilisk stare of an icon. “My brother was about as far from a saint as it is possible to be, Filippo. He lived for lechery and debauch. He loved only his own carnal pleasure.”
Nostradamus sighed. “Then my last question. Why did Giovanni Gradenigo ask for me when he was dying?”
The friar glanced momentarily across at his sister, then back at the Maestro. “I cannot tell you. I can assure you that he was very confused near the end.”
“But when you wrote, you addressed the message to Alfeo, not to me. How did you know to do that?”
Fedele smiled thinly. “Priests learn many strange things in the course of performing the Lord’s work, Filippo. Do you remember Pietro Vercia?”
The Maestro nodded. “The forger?”
“A forger you exposed. The night before his execution, I heard his confession, but then I spent the rest of the night just listening to him talk. Condemned men tend to talk a lot as the noose approaches. He told me how you had never left your house, but you had sent your apprentice around asking questions, gathering the information you needed for your spells. So I knew you would send Zeno in your stead and I saved time by summoning him directly.”
“Spells? That was why you delayed sending for me until it was too late?”
Fedele rose, tall and stark. “That was why. Giovanni had made his last confession and I could not allow him to taint his soul by contact with black magic. I do urge you to repent your ways, Filippo. Eternity is a long time to burn.” He raised his hand to bless.
“Have you heard about Marina Bortholuzzi?” Nostradamus asked brightly.
“Who? No.” The hand dropped.
“Another courtesan murdered. Last night in the Campo San Zanipolo.”
“I shall pray for her,” the friar said, and muttered a quick blessing.
He headed for the door. The nun rose. I rose. But then Fedele wheeled around as if he had reached a decision. His voice seemed to resonate with the baleful reproach of fearsome Old Testament prophets. “Murderers usually have some reason for killing their victims, Filippo, even if it is only to lift their purses. Have you discovered yet why our father was stabbed to death?”
“Not yet, Brother,” the Maestro replied.
“Then I shall tell you before you make even more of a fool of yourself. This is not exactly a secret, just something unknown to the general public. Everyone in his family knew, and I know that the Council of Ten did. Two days before our father died, he announced that he was so disgusted by his youngest son’s debauchery that he was going to disown and disinherit him. He would cut him out of his will and ask the Great Council to strike his name from the Golden Book for conduct unbecoming a nobleman. Now you know the motive for that terrible crime.”
Without another word, the priest spun around and stalked out of the atelier. His sister followed. He unlocked the outer door for himself and departed. I bowed the nun out. She paused long enough to bob me a curtsey, and then floated away like a black ghost. I locked up behind her.
“Very interesting,” the Maestro murmured as I returned. “So Zorzi had a motive and access to the weapon. Are you convinced now of his guilt?”
“No, master.” Could any man learned in the classics have been so stupid as to kill his father only two days after that dramatic denunciation and with an identifiable weapon? Someone who wanted both Gentile and Zorzi removed could have done so, two birds with one stone. I could imagine the pious brother disapproving of the lecherous brother’s lifestyle, but San Francesco would not approve of double homicide as a way of registering protest. Cui bono? as the lawyers say—“Who gains?” Well, the two older brothers had split the family fortune between them, hadn’t they?
“As for motive,” I said, “I told you what Celsi said: ‘He and his father fought like cat and dog all the time, with the old man always threatening to disinherit him if he didn’t reform his ways.’ So what was special about the last time?”
“Why did you offer the paper to the friar with your left hand, apprentice?”
The sly old devil had noticed!
“So that it was directly in front of him, master. He took it with his right hand.”
“And why did you want to know whether he was left- or right-handed?”
“Because the blade penetrated Gentile Michiel’s tippet, which hangs over the left shoulder. That is why you think Zorzi did not kill him.”
Nostradamus leered at me. “No bad at all! You are learning.”
“Thank you, master.”
Gentile had been stabbed in the back on his left side, possibly a misdirected attempt to find his heart in near darkness. An assassin in a crowd will try to position his own body to shield his actions from other people, which in this case suggested a left-handed killer getting directly behind his victim. Zorzi was left-handed, and that might well have been another factor that influenced the Ten in reaching their verdict. But Gentile had been reunited with his wife. He would not have been wearing a sword in church, but a man normally offers his left arm to his lady, the origin of that custom being to leave his sword arm free. Donna Alina had said she was pushed aside by a tall man, and even if she had dropped back a little as her husband forced their way through the crowd, the killer would not have pushed her with the hand that held his knife. More likely the killer had held the dagger in his right hand.
“It isn’t proof, you understand!” Nostradamus said. “The Basilica was packed with people, so determining exactly where everyone was would have been impossible even then, let alone eight years later. But it is suggestive of a right-handed killer.”
“Yes, master.”
“Which hand did the fake friar use to slash you last night?”
“His right, master.”
18
An hour or so later the knocker summoned me again, and this time it was Violetta, radiant as the sun clearing away fog
. We shared a brief kiss while I was closing the outer door, and another as I ushered her across to the atelier. Nostradamus almost seemed pleased to see her. He did not rise, but he did apologize for not doing so, and he did invite her to sit in one of the green chairs. I, of course, went to the chair on my side of the desk.
“Alfeo,” he said. “A report for my client, if you please.” Polite preliminary chitchat is not one of his skills.
I said, “Yes, master,” and reported, starting with the Maestro’s foreseeing, my attempt with Fulgentio to block the killing, and our failure to do so. Violetta was in her Minerva persona, the brilliant one, and her gray eyes hung on every word I spoke, analyzing, remembering.
When I mentioned that I had called on Alessa and she had revealed the true name of Honeycat, she merely nodded, as if that were not news to her.
“You knew Zorzi Michiel, madonna?” the Maestro inquired softly.
She nodded again. “We met socially and then he invited me to a spend a few days on the mainland. He was to come for me on the very day he fled from the city. Lucia vouched for Zorzi as very generous and excellent company, cultured and witty. I did not recognize the name earlier because nobody had told me he was the celebrated Honeycat.”
“A birthmark,” I said. “Only very close friends were in on the joke.”
“Am I on his list now?” she asked. She was still under the shadow of the tarot’s Death reversed.
“Who knows?” Nostradamus said. “We do not know the killer’s motive for so many killings. You must be careful and Alessa even more so. Did Zorzi wear a beard?”
“No. Why?”
“Tell her why, Alfeo.”
We had not discussed this, of course, but I knew the answer.
“Because the Basilica is the doge’s private chapel and the Christmas service would be by invitation only. A nobleman in borrowed black robes might have bluffed his way in, but nobles are required to wear beards.”
“It was dark,” she said. “Beards are fairly easy to fake.”
“True,” the Maestro said, “and it may be that a fake beard turned up among his possessions. We absolutely must find out what evidence led the Ten to find him guilty. Go on, Alfeo.”
So I described my visit to Palazzo Michiel and the death on Campo San Zanipolo that I failed to prevent. I finished with the warning from Friar Fedele and then waited to see what Minerva made of it all. So, significantly, did Nostradamus. She sat and frowned for a long minute.
“The lack of alibi makes no sense at all,” she declared. “Zorzi was not the sort of boy to sit at home alone reading Dante. Surely someone could have testified that he had been elsewhere that night? Surely he was not stupid enough to use a dagger that could be traced back to him? Would the Ten convict him on that alone? Who tipped him off that the Ten were going to arrest him? If he didn’t kill his father, who did? And whether he committed patricide or not, who is going around killing courtesans now, eight years later? And why?”
“I regret,” the Maestro said testily, “that as yet I can offer answers to none of those questions, madonna. But I am trained in the metaphysical, and so is Alfeo, although still to a limited extent. We are both convinced that the recent murders are connected to the death of Gentile Michiel, but we can produce no evidence except our intuition, which would not be accepted by a court.”
Violetta smiled. “I have no legal training, but I may be able to offer a little assistance.” Her eyes were bluer, her voice drier, and I recognized the political Aspasia. “I have been making inquiries among some of my fellow workers, both at the wedding yesterday and here in Venice. We compiled a list of those who belonged to what we called the Honeycat club, those in on the joke, as Alfeo puts it. As well as Alessa herself, my informants agreed that they included Lucia da Bergamo, Caterina Lotto, Marina Bortholuzzi, and probably Ruosa da Corone. We know of another six so far, although there must be many more. Our inquiries shall continue.”
The Maestro sighed. “He was a busy lad.”
“There are ten thousand prostitutes in Venice,” Aspasia said. “But Honeycat could afford the cream, the cortigiane oneste. He was a skilled musician himself and wrote promising poetry. He demanded sex, certainly, and a lot of sex, but he expected much more. As Alessa puts it, nobody slept with Honeycat.”
“How many hundred in total?”
“Several dozens,” Aspasia said coldly. “But he did have favorites. We are spreading the word, and for the warning we have to thank you and Alfeo.”
“I hope we can provide more than just that,” the Maestro said, now sounding quite snappish. He would naturally feel upstaged by a client who started her own investigation. “Yours is an excellent idea, madonna, but you did not go far enough. We need to know how messer Honeycat, if he has returned to the city after eight years, is finding his victims so easily. We know that Caterina Lotto had changed her place of residence at least once, but how many of the others had?”
He may have meant the question rhetorically, but Violetta answered. “Two. Lucia was still living in the same house as she had in his day. And Alessa is. We are also warning against any man who asks questions about specific courtesans and where they live now. Alessa or I will be notified right away.”
Nostradamus grunted. “Alfeo?”
“Master?”
“Does the tax office in the palace keep a register of courtesans?”
“I expect so, master. It keeps records of everything else.”
“Doctor,” Violetta said, “you are taking a risk by even investigating this, are you not? The Ten have forbidden you to meddle.”
He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “The Republic reserves the right to investigate crime, but it is every citizen’s duty to prevent one, which is what I am seeking to do. I have not taken much risk so far, but I am afraid that the next step may be dangerous. And it could be much more costly than my normal investigations.”
Violetta’s eyes glinted gold. “You want another expense advance? How much?”
“I am not sure. Alfeo will try to learn that tonight.”
“And what for?”
The Maestro chuckled. “To elect a doge. Alfeo told us how to do that at dinner on Friday, remember?”
“I fail to see the relevance,” she said coldly.
So did I.
“You are happier that way, madonna,” he said smugly. “And now if you will excuse us, my apprentice and I have work to do. I know this is the Lord’s day, but even my learned friend Isaia Modestus will break his Sabbath to save a life, and that is what we are attempting to do.”
Toward sunset I set Archangelo Angeli on the balcony to watch the Rio San Remo, then went and gobbled an early supper in the kitchen. Giorgio was there, doing the same, having been warned that I would need him. Mama Angeli, who can smell trouble like a tigress scenting meat, knew right away that I was unhappy about what I was about to do that evening. She started asking questions that I would not have answered even if we were alone. As it was, her children were wandering in and out all the time. I told her that the Maestro was sending me to elect a doge. The youngsters laughed, but she was not amused. I was saved from her interrogation when Archangelo rushed in to say that he had seen two nobles going past in a gondola and a senator walking along the fondamenta on the far side. So the Great Council had adjourned. I nodded to Giorgio and we both rose.
We went downstairs, carrying his oar and the gondola cushions, and only when he pushed off from the loggia did I tell him I wanted to call on Carlo Celsi. He looked relieved, for there was nothing subversive about visiting a senior and respected patrician. It was the subject of our discussion that would be dangerous for me. By then the Maestro had explained his warped humor.
Twelve elect twenty-five, reduced by lot to nine; the nine elect forty-five, reduced to eleven . . . So on and so on. Why all that rigmarole to elect a doge? Alessa had said it was to prevent the Great Council dividing into factions. Violetta had suggested almost the opposite, that it was to keep the inner circl
e in power and the fringes out. The truth, as the Maestro saw it with his cynical eye, was closer to her view than Alessa’s, but he went further. It was much cheaper to bribe five or six nobles than hundreds, he said. Once a few “sound” men had won control of one of those tiny committees, their friends would hold a majority in all subsequent committees through to the final forty-one that made the actual choice. In other words, a doge was elected by bribery and that was what I was going to attempt that night.
My noble parentage and legitimate birth entitle me to take my seat in the Great Council when I reach the age of twenty-five. Many youngsters are admitted sooner, through various loopholes, but at twenty-five all I shall need to do is grow a beard, buy a gown, and turn up at the broglio. There I shall wait for some nobile homo to invite me in and introduce me to his companions, which should be no problem because so many of them already know me. That assumes that I behave myself until then and have enough money to buy the clothes. Manual labor would disqualify me; a serious scandal or conviction for a major crime like graft would. Graft is rife in the Great Council, but it is kept secret. I am especially vulnerable to a charge of corruption because I have no powerful family to back me and my apprenticeship to Nostradamus falls into a shady area on the edge of the permissible. Many narrow-minded patricians might welcome an excuse to strike my name from the Golden Book.
Nostradamus must know that, but he hadn’t mentioned it when he told me what he wanted me to do. I might have refused but hadn’t—I had failed Marina Bortholuzzi and couldn’t bear the thought of more women being stabbed or strangled because I was too proud to get my hands dirty. I had spent the afternoon writing out two copies of the proposed contract with donna Alina Orio and then memorizing a long list of questions the Maestro wanted me to ask in the Palazzo Michiel if I got the chance. Now he was attempting more clairvoyance and I was going to dabble in the truly black art of subornation.
