by Dave Duncan
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
In 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 épée. 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 me 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?”
“Yes.”
“Offered a choice of refosco, malmsey, or retsina, which did you choose?”
Grunt. “I never drink retsina except with a certain friend I expected to see there. I knew he would choose it, so I did, for old times’ sake. We used to drink it together years ago during the Cyprus campaign. It still tastes like turpentine.”
“Yes, sire. That is the whole point.”
He had completed his business. Jacopo put away the chamber pot and began assisting him adjust his draperies. It was a few moments before the doge turned to scowl at me. “What are you blathering about, Alfeo?
“Could Your Serenity have switched glasses with your friend?”
“Mother of God!” The ruddy ducal complexion paled visibly. “He really was poisoned?”
“My master believes so.”
The doge sank onto a chair, official business forgotten. “What evidence has he?”
“His professional opinion, sire—his medical opinion.” Not something he had read in the stars, I meant. “He detected symptoms of a certain drug. That is why he asks if you might have accidentally switched glasses with the procurator.”
Nasone pondered for a moment. “I cannot swear we didn’t. We looked at some books together.”
“But you noticed no sudden change in the taste of the wine? You had no intestinal problems later, no irregular heart beat or excessive saliva?”
Mention a symptom to some people and they will at once imagine experiencing it, but Pietro Moro is the least suggestible of men, a human barnacle. “No. I hardly touched it before I spoke with Bertucci. When we had finished our discussion, I gulped down the rest and left.”
“Who could have known Your Serenity would be there?”
&n
bsp; He leaned back and glared at me. Legally doges may be figureheads, but they usually get what they want. They do not appreciate being cross-examined by mere apprentices.
“Only Bertucci himself. This is your master asking all this, not just apprentice Alfeo Zeno wasting an afternoon to get out of honest work?”
“I am here by his leave and will report every word to him, I swear.”
He stared hard at me. “We are both liable to get in trouble over this, lad. We ought to be singing this song to the state inquisitors. And they may be a lot less gentle with you than they will be with me.”
I said, “The matter is still in doubt, sire. The drug my master detected can also be a physic and we have not yet learned whether or not Procurator Orseolo’s physician had prescribed it. If he had, then the procurator’s death might have been due to an accidental overdose.”
Moro grunted again. “Listen, then. The Imer man wrote to tell me he had some rare books for sale. I sent for him and looked them over. Most were the usual monastery scrapings—tedious preaching by long-dead bores. But there were a couple I found interesting. One was a fine fragment of Virgil’s Aeneid and the other was a play I did not know, which Imer claimed was a lost Euripides. It looked exciting, but of course I was noncommittal. I named an agent who should be invited to the general viewing and might bid on my behalf. At the end of my meetings that day, I found a note from Bertucci Orseolo confirming that he would be going to the sale in person. He had heard disturbing rumors about Imer and wondered if the books were all they seemed to be.”
So that was how it had been done? The doge must have seen a reaction in my face. He paused, but I outwaited him, all eager and expectant.
“It was too late for me to be sure of getting hold of my agent to change my instructions. I decided to go and see for myself if there had been substitutions made. There had not. Your master agreed that the Virgil was a very early, very valuable copy. He said he thought the Meleager was just Hellenistic imitation. So did Bertucci. I was not at all sure I believed either of them, but a doge must not risk being made to seem a fool, so I had a footman fetch my agent, told him not to bid on the Euripides, and left. You’re suggesting I was lured there to be poisoned?”
The valet was chalk-white.
“I think the possibility should be kept in mind, Your Serenity.”
“Bah! A doge is not a king. I have no real power. Why should anyone try to assassinate me, huh?”
“Ambition, sire? Terror? If the sultan can strike you down, he can make other rulers tremble.”
“Ridiculous! That’s far-fetched. And I very rarely go charging out of the palace on a whim, Alfeo.”
“Of course not, sire. But if you had been taken ill later, you might not have mentioned that you had done so. It is only a theory so far, I agree. Why should anyone want to kill the procurator either? My master believes he was poisoned in that room.”
“Bah! Your master claims to be able to read the future, too. The past is usually a lot easier.” Pietro Moro glared at me, his mouth moving as if he wanted to grind his teeth. He heaved himself to his feet, and paused. “I won’t accept any babbling about planets, but if my old friend Bertucci really was murdered, just tell me who did it and I will see his head roll across the Piazzetta, understand? I don’t care who he is!”
“I understand, sire.”
“Tell Sciara when you have anything to report. Jacopo, give him a lira.”
I bowed and withdrew—with my lira.
The short winter day was already ending when I boarded the gondola at the Molo.
“Where to now, Your Excellency?” Giorgio asked.
That was a good question. “No sign of those two fine boys of yours?”
“None.”
“I still need to see Karagounis.” He lived quite close. “But Doctor Modestus is more urgent and I must consult him before they lock up the Ghetto. I don’t want to kill the horse, though.” The Ghetto is at the far end of the Grand Canal.
“It’s a good, strong stud horse, Alfeo. This is my job.” Giorgio is far stronger than he looks. He worked the gondola out into the Basin and then began swinging his oar like a fly whisk, stooping into every stroke, overtaking everything in sight. Admittedly he did not try to sing at the same time.
There is no finer street in the world than the Grand Canal, whose waters lap the doorsteps of gilded palaces and bustle with boats of every kind—gondolas, galleys, barges, rafts, and skiffs. I have never seen it look more beautiful than it did that evening, lit by the low sun and a-sparkle in its own strange light. We passed by the Customs House and a succession of great family houses—the Giustinians’, Corners’, Darios’, Barbaros’, the House of the Duke of Milan, and many more. We swept past my birth parish of San Barnabà, where the barnabotti brood in their embittered poverty, and then more palaces, the new Rialto Bridge coming into sight, a single great arch of marble double-edged with shops. Beyond the bridge and around the second bend we passed the great markets, stripped now of their morning crowds, and then another magnificent parade of palaces escorted us to the Canal Cannaregio, where we turned off to follow lesser ways to the Ghetto Nuovo.
Ghetto is a Venetian word, of course, and a concept that has been copied by many other cities, but Venetian Jews fare much better than most. Christoforo saw me and came slithering through the throng that was streaming in and out of the great gate, shouting my name and grinning with delight at accomplishing his mission.
“He’s still in there. Come along!”
The Ghetto is a warren of narrow calli and a central campo seething with people, almost all of them Jews in their required red hats. The buildings are higher than anywhere else in the city; there are shops and stalls everywhere, but no church, no wayside shrines. The women wear bright clothes and jewelry—rings and chains of gold—and some are very beautiful. Christoforo slipped through the crowd like a minnow, so I was hard put to keep up with him, but he led me unerringly to the door where his brother waited.
“He’s still here,” Corrado said. “Five floors up, he said.”
I told my helpers where they could find their father and solemnly handed them four soldi apiece. Belatedly wondering at my chances of getting that back from the Maestro, I began my climb. At the top of the first flight up I heard and then saw the second-best doctor in the Republic plodding down toward me, bag in hand.
Isaia is narrow-shouldered and stooped—almost hollow-chested—with a permanently worried look, which he claims increases the fees people are willing to pay him. He dyes his beard gray to look older, is armed with a sense of humor deadlier than a bravo’s stiletto, and plays the deadliest chess west of Cathay.
“Alfeo! Your helpers assure me that your master is well.”
“Much better than he deserves. If he weren’t, you are certainly the one he would send for.”
“Why not a restorer of antiquities?” He showed strong teeth in a smile. “So you must be the one with a problem. A case of the French disease, is it?” We were nose-to-nose in a dingy, dimly lit stairwell that bore a strong smell of old cooking. It was an odd place for a medical consultation.
“No. Chastity and frequent self-flagellation protect me. The Maestro wants your opinion on a case.”
Modestus rolled his eyes. “The Lord’s wonders never cease. This is only the third time he has done that and I must have asked his advice two dozen times. I shall be happy to do what I can. Will you tell me here, or shall we go to my house?”
“Here will do well. The subject was an elderly male of choleric humor. He limped slightly on his right leg…”
Isaia listened without comment, but I could soon sense that he had guessed the name of the deceased. When I had finished, he said, “Those symptoms sound to me like poisoning with the herb digitalis.”
“Not oleander?”
“Possible. Digitalis more probable.”
“My master’s opinion also. Treatment of choice?”
He sighed. “Very difficult in a man of his years.
He was already trying to vomit, so perhaps water, as long as he was capable of swallowing. The point is moot, though, isn’t it? His doctor bled him that night and again the following morning, then attributed the subsequent death to old age.”
“You are ahead of me,” I said. “I was going to ask you the doctor’s name so I could find out what medicines he had prescribed, if any.”
“I am still ahead of you, but I feel unhappily close to betraying a colleague.” The gloom did not hide Isaia’s discomfort. “He is a good man, although he was a better one twenty years ago. He, too, asked my opinion of the case this afternoon.”
“Why consult you if he believed the death was natural?”
“He was having second thoughts about it, although foxglove had not occurred to him. When I suggested it, he admitted he had never prescribed it in his life or seen its symptoms. I advised him to take his suspicions to the Ten.”
“Will he?”
Isaia laughed. “What do you think?”
But now that Isaia had confirmed that there had been murder done, I had no excuse not to do so. I could feel thin ice cracking under my feet.
“I am very grateful and will tell my master. Also, I ask a more personal favor. There is an attorney named Ottone Imer.”
Isaia is much too quick-witted ever to hesitate. His pause was deliberate.
“I have heard of him.” The near-darkness emphasized how resonant and compelling his voice is. Usually it is soft, a comforting bedside voice, but now I heard the steel in it, warning me off.
I said, “I heard rumors that he is heavily in debt.”
Even in the Republic, which tends to listen to its purse more than its Pope, officially only Jews lend money, and moneylenders are as secretive as doctors or courtesans.
“This is important, Alfeo, or you would not ask?”
“It may turn murder into treason. That could not make the crime more serious, but it might save some innocent people from suspicion.”
Isaia sighed. “Then I agree that it is important. I will ask around. They will tell me if I say it is important, and I will let you know very soon.”
