Votive

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Sì, your grace.’

  ‘Well, then, it’s very clear what you have to do. What we have to do, Captain Sansono – remember, you are my sword.’

  ‘Sì, your grace. I am.’ The Cardinale’s eyes followed Captain Sansono’s hand, which had slid unconsciously to his weapon. Captain Sansono waited for the Cardinale to speak again. When he didn’t, he frowned. ‘Forgive me for my obtuseness, your grace, but I do not understand. What exactly is it that we have to do? Could you please enlighten me?’

  The Cardinale stepped towards the Captain, who tensed. The Cardinale slapped him on the back. ‘Of course, amico mio. Of course.’ He returned to his desk and sat down. He pushed the papers further out of the way and splayed his hands against the wooden surface. The thick golden cross hanging around his neck gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Come closer, captain, come closer.’ He beckoned him forward.

  The captain picked up his chair and moved towards the desk.

  ‘Closer,’ insisted the Cardinale.

  In the end, Captain Sansono had no choice but to tuck his chair into the desk and rest his elbows on the Cardinale’s sacred surface. The Cardinale watched as the man’s eyes went from side to side as he negotiated the space, carefully lowering his arms.

  Leaning forward, the Cardinale stopped only when the tip of his nose almost touched Captain Sansono’s.

  ‘What we have to do, my good, God-fearing captain, is make them so afraid, they will say anything. Anything, do you understand? We must do what is in our power to stop these sacrilegious whispers – whispers that will, if we don’t intervene, rise to shouts and rock the foundations of the Church and this beautiful country.’ His lips barely moved.

  ‘Sì, your grace,’ whispered Captain Sansono, his eyelids flickering nervously.

  ‘And this is how we will do it.’ The Cardinale paused. ‘Over the next few weeks, I want you to treat these prisoners with respect and kindness. I want them to receive good food, vino, blankets and I want you to talk to them. Become their friend. Even if they do not speak in return, you are to talk to them. Tell them about your hopes, your dreams, your family …’

  ‘But your grace, I have no family –’

  ‘I don’t care. Tell them – anything. Make it up. But let them think they are getting to know you. In turn, they will share something of themselves. And, from what they divulge, we will learn about the Estrattore.

  ‘In a few days, I too will join you and speak to these good men, these kind men, these foolish men. Together, we will show them the errors of their ways. Then, I want you to choose one – only one.’

  ‘What for?’ Captain Sansono’s eyes hadn’t left the Cardinale’s.

  ‘He will remain in the dungeons, but the others, we will release them – for now. I want them to return to their family, to their quartiere, their scuola. I want them to share their experiences with everyone. I want them to spread the word about how afraid they were and how well treated. How understanding we are. How good we are, how kind. How Godly. How, no matter what, the laws must be obeyed.’

  ‘What about the one left behind?’

  ‘Ah.’ The Cardinale leant even closer. Captain Sansono could see the pores in his skin, almost feel the grey stubble just starting to grow. His soft words just reached his ears.

  ‘I’m afraid that, like our beloved Lord, he will suffer for all their sins.’ The Cardinale pulled away and smiled. ‘You see, one of them has to pay. For the sake of the Estrattore, he will die.’ Captain Sansono stared and then nodded.

  ‘And,’ continued the Cardinale, ‘after him there will be others. I don’t care who they are, what they’ve done, or what they believe. But we will let it be known that they die for one reason and one reason only.’

  ‘The Estrattore.’

  ‘Sì, amico mio. The Estrattore. The Estrattore makes us do this.’ He began to laugh again. ‘Tell me, Captain Sansono, after that, will the popolani still think the old ways are good? When they so clearly result in so much death? Will they champion this Estrattore, indulge in conspiracy against God and country when it means that those they love continue to die?’

  Captain Sansono returned the smile. ‘No, your grace. I don’t think they will.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said the Cardinale as he sank his long, white teeth into another piece of fruit.

  ‘WE ARE VERY MUCH HOPING that the … ah … accommodations meet your approvals, Signor. Come, this way, please.’

  Lord Beolin Waterford blanched at the senator’s hopelessly inflected attempts to speak his language and his thick accent. He’d tolerated it all morning as this representative of the Doge, not even one of the Council of Ten, but a nobile nonetheless, had escorted him from the dock on Nobiles’ Rise, where his own launch had left him, into a local craft and to this house on the Circolo Canal in the prestigious Opera Quartiere.

  House or ‘casa’, as these Serenissians called it, was hardly how he would describe such opulence. The fat little senator had assisted him out of the gondola, the strangely ornate long boats that the people used for transport. It had glided in through the water-gates and scraped onto the ramp, throwing Lord Waterford forward and forcing a quickly stifled laugh from the gondoliers. He had ignored them and composed himself before leaping over the lapping water and onto the ground floor. He could see the street entrance at the other end of a long hallway that was dark and smelt of mildew and rotting fruit. Lord Waterford had screwed up his nose and reached, once again, for the scented handkerchief that he’d pressed against his face during the entire journey. He asked himself the question that had puzzled him from the moment he left his ship: how could a place that looked so resplendent smell so terrible?

  When he’d sailed into the lagoon over two months ago, past the forbidding Arsenale, and set eyes on Serenissima, he’d been enchanted. It was unlike any city he’d ever seen. The last time he was here, it had been in a Kyprian corsair, and under cloak of darkness, so he hadn’t appreciated the beauty of the city or its liquid surrounds. This time, he’d had weeks of leaning on the ship’s railing, staring across the waters, to seduce him and make him long for landfall and the opportunity to explore.

  At last it had arrived. Officialdom had stamped his passport, checked his papers and those of his men and extracted their outrageous fees, finally allowing him to fully appreciate this jewel of a place. Nothing, not his days of anticipation and ambivalence about what lay ahead, nor even his previous covert entry, had quite prepared him.

  Waterford was enthralled as they rowed along the crowded canals, by some miracle not colliding with the other craft that crammed onto the motile streets. It was overpowering – the sight of so many boats, the shouting, the smells, the colour, the chaos that somehow never spilled into tragedy. And this was despite the huge losses the city had suffered during the recent plague.

  Throughout the journey, he caught glimpses of stunted waterways between the elegant buildings, with their mixture of arched windows, colonnades and Gothic splendour; stagnant ponds that owed more to household rubbish than the sea for their existence.

  When he thought this arrant disregard for the resplendence of the domain could get no worse, he happened upon areas that took his breath away – not in disgust, but awe. The pea-green water would open out, revealing its glowing sinuous path between eternally slanting homes, offering stuccoed and smooth façades of differing hues, hemmed with lichen and moss, and tall windows, some with lace verandas, all crowded with pretty faces – the women of Serenissima. There were striped palines and bobbing gondolas, scattered like party favours after a night of celebration. All of this was reflected in the water that embraced, reflected and inverted it, making it even more unreal and irresistible. It was Serenissima captured in its element, and he saw her with shiny new eyes.

  His mind wandered back to his cold, distant homeland and he found himself thinking about his own wife and son and wondering how they were faring. Already he’d been gone from Albion for months, and the missives he’d received from his
family had been short and to the point. Clearly, they had been vetted by the queen: they revealed nothing.

  His instructions had been clear. The last, which had arrived just before he disembarked, was rolled tightly in his pocket. When he was alone, he would read it, but with the knowledge that other eyes had seen it first. Although the seal was intact, Waterford knew the Serenissians had opened and read the contents. Unlike the other correspondence he’d received, this one had not been delivered by a Mortian, thank the gods, but by a courier pigeon – easily intercepted.

  The jarring enunciation of the senator brought him back to the present, and he followed him up a flight of stairs built halfway along the central corridor. Ascending at a moderate pace, he glanced into the rooms on either side of the ground floor. Additional barrels and sacks were being unloaded and checked, his people working frantically to bring order to the mess, to sort their cargo and begin distribution. It was a way of establishing ties – this issuing of benevolence through material goods. He was counting on it to open doors.

  Which was why he didn’t argue when the agreement for renting the casa he’d been assigned was brought aboard. The oily Serenissian merchant who owned the property was bowing and scraping while justifying the disgraceful amount he was expected to pay for rent. He simply signed and paid. The look of disappointment on the merchant’s face was laughable. These Serenissians loved to barter. Waterford wanted it known that the Albions had money from which they were easily parted. He’d already set aside a huge sum for gambling in the infamous Serenissian casinos.

  He had a reputation to establish, and that included biding his time before seeking an audience with the Doge. Though this would be a political faux pas, he would cite ignorance of alien customs as his excuse and instead focus on putting his men in place, contacting their spies and trying to understand this maze of a city and its secretive, greedy inhabitants and their peculiar ways before he was welcomed into the ducal palazzo.

  Light spilled onto the top of the stairs and Waterford stumbled. He was still finding it hard to walk steadily. The floor kept canting, or at least his legs kept remembering the rolling deck of his vessel.

  Before him, the senator paused with a questioning look on his face. Waterford cursed himself for not paying more attention before glancing around and, for the second time that morning, found himself lost for words. Now he knew what was expected of him, what the senator was waiting for – a response.

  In contrast to the dinginess of the lower floor, the first floor was bathed in sunlight. A row of multi-arched windows on either end of what was a very long and narrow room, a vast hallway by any other name, pulled his eyes first in one direction and then the other. From the top of the pointed flexures, he was drawn to the ceiling painted with scenes from ancient times. Gods and goddesses gambolled with imaginary creatures who cheekily evaded capture or sought succour at a large, divine bosom. Figures robed in white waited in the wings, serene-faced and all-knowing.

  ‘Estrattore?’ asked Waterford, pointing towards them, tucking his handkerchief back into his sleeve. There was no need for its perfume now that the scent of beeswax and other odours filled his nostrils. At least this floor was clean.

  ‘Sì, yes, yes,’ said the senator, colour filling his cheeks as he glanced over his shoulder before rudely turning towards one of the many servants in the room and brusquely issuing orders for food and drink.

  Waterford knew he’d touched a nerve, but he was surprised to see those the Serenissians considered heretics so brazenly portrayed. But it was a scene more reminiscent of fairytales and folklore; was that why it still remained? The Estrattore, considered monsters, could be tamed by being incorporated into history as myth?

  Taken aback, he viewed the room afresh and noted the lavish furniture and portraits that adorned the walls, the scattering of elegant tables and the preponderance of coloured glass – wrapping the sconces, holding candles, decorating cabinets. It wasn’t to his taste. Nor was the gilt that the Serenissians overused on everything. Why, there wasn’t a corner of this room that didn’t emit a golden halo. It was, to his unaccustomed eyes, garish.

  ‘Signor,’ said the senator loudly, making him jump. For such a small man, he had a booming voice. ‘What is your, how you say it? Impressione?’

  ‘Impression?’ Waterford pulled a stray hair from his coat sleeve and let it flutter to the floor.

  ‘Sì,’ smiled the senator, his head bobbing like a duck’s, while his eyes followed the passage of the hair.

  ‘Signor. You may tell your Doge and the Council of Ten that, on behalf of my queen, I am humbled by such grand surroundings, which do great honour to both me and my country.’ Waterford spoke in fluent Serenissian.

  The senator’s head whipped up and his mouth fell open. ‘You speak our language.’ It was not a question, and Waterford knew the poor man was trying to recall any conversations he’d had in Waterford’s hearing that would reflect badly on Serenissima. It was all he could do to hold his laughter back. These Serenissians, with their formality, their rigid rules. He also knew the fact he was assured with their tongue would be reported at the highest levels. Good. There were some areas in which he did not want to be taken for granted. He’d keep these wretched foreigners on their toes.

  ‘Who could not learn the most beautiful language in Vista Mare?’ Waterford bowed, his hand held over his heart.

  The bloom that had filled the senator’s cheeks disappeared and his frown was replaced by a smile. He smoothed the front of his togati over his rotund belly. ‘I see you have learnt not only our language, Signor, but some of our ways as well.’ He looked Waterford up and down, reassessing him. ‘Come, I will show you the rest of the casa. We have spent many weeks preparing it for you. It was not only the Morto Assiderato that kept you on your ship, but our desire to present you with a residence worthy of your status. It’s our fervent hope that you find your wait was also … How you say? Worth your while.’

  Waterford did not deign to reply, but followed the senator in and out of the various rooms that lined either side of the corridor. There was a library, a study, offices, the long portego at the front, a place to dine, to drink and, finally, to sleep, all lavishly and similarly decorated.

  Waterford made appropriate noises of appreciation, strolling through room after room, but his mind raced. They’d prevented his ship from docking for weeks, even though they’d happily unloaded most of its cargo: the grain, spices, sugar, livestock, even salt, never mind the gold, furs, jewels and fabric. These were used to feed a hungry and frightened population as well as salve the nobiles, who had been forced to attenuate their extravagant tastes in a time of need. What was being stored below was not only personal supplies essential to the running of the house, but additional items to be used at his discretion. The plague, what did the senator call it again? Oh, yes, the Morto Assiderato – frozen to death – had become a convenient excuse to literally keep their new allies at bay, a means of demonstrating where and to whom power still belonged. Message understood, he thought as he continued to survey the casa he’d been allocated in his new role as Ambassador of Farrowfare in Serenissima.

  It wasn’t until he’d shared an ombretta and some food – olives, cheese and pieces of rather stale bread – with the senator, farewelled him in a stately manner, given final orders to his major domo and endured the attentions of his young valet, Jack, that Waterford was left alone.

  In his gilded bedroom, seated in shirt and leggings before the fire with a glass of ruby wine, a silver decanter brimming by his side, and a thick pillar candle burning brightly, Waterford finally unrolled his queen’s most recent instructions. Noises from below drifted through the gleaming floorboards as his weary men continued to labour throughout the night. Outside, on the Circolo Canal, and from within the quartiere, strains of music and a lone high voice came through the shuttered window, melodious tones that soothed. The pure notes of a young male – a castrati most likely – rose above the others, accompanying him as he read
.

  After the usual flowery formalities, the letter continued:

  Remember, my dear Lord Waterford, that while in Serenissima, every word you utter, every action you take, is in Our name. All you do, you do with Our authority and with Our unequivocal blessing, as We have long discussed. Always strive to achieve a mutually agreeable outcome. We will look forward, over the following months, to your reports and to blessing Our new Serenissian friends with Our bounty, for they have suffered much and the time has come to cast aside old enmities and rebuild relationships that will further everyone’s interests. Above all, Our goal is to work in our common interest, helping Serenissma regain her health so she in turn can help Us. We do not need to remind you that the rewards for such an enterprise are potentially immeasurable.

  We trust that you understand the gift We have given you with this most precious of postings and the attendant power it bestows and that, when the time comes for you to return to Us, you will bring gifts of equal value from Our beloved Serenissima – namely, their heart and trust, so that We will be reminded of our fresh accord daily.

  The missive was signed with Zaralina’s usual curlicue.

  To anyone else but him, it would seem typical of a ruler’s instructions to a new ambassador. Only he understood it had been written with full knowledge that it would also be read by those for whom it was never intended. The warning was implicit in her words – play his role well, offer everything to the Serenissians, earn their confidence, be bountiful and generous, and find the Estrattore. Unravel the mystery of the boy whom the Mortians located, and discover the whereabouts of the girl of the legends. The girl that Queen Zaralina wants so badly. That was the gift he was charged with bringing home. Once again, he was being forced to be little better than a trader in slaves. No, he was worse. At least slave traders didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were. He’d already brought his Queen one child; now she was asking, no, demanding another. And, if there were two Estrattore dwelling here, then he had to get them both, whatever it took. Were there no depths to which he would not stoop? Again, thoughts of his wife and son rose in his mind. No. Where their safety was concerned, there were no limits. Zaralina knew that – she counted upon it.