Votive

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Please?’ I begged as she regarded me over her shoulder. ‘I promise, I will never do it again. Never. Just please don’t tell Giaconda. She’ll tell Signor Maleovelli and …’ I didn’t know what else to say. What would they do? What could they do? Throw me out on the fondamenta? Unlikely. It wasn’t the punishment I was afraid of – there wasn’t really anything they could do to me. I just didn’t want them to know what I’d done. They would restrict me even more than I already was.

  I stared at Hafeza’s dark mien, at her conflicted expression, and was appalled at myself. I was manipulating Hafeza! I was as bad as the Maleovellis. She was a slave, bound to her mistress. It wasn’t right that I test her loyalty like that. Disgusted with myself, I released the material in my hands, feeling it slither out of my grasp and sat back on the chair, defeated.

  ‘It’s all right, Hafeza. Go. I’ll wait.’ I let out a long sigh. ‘Tell Giaconda.’

  I’m not sure what changed Hafeza’s mind, but instead of heading towards the dining room, she took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. Then she led me back down the corridor and into my room. Speechless, I half-ran to keep up.

  Pushing me gently inside my bedroom, she went to shut the door. It was then I noticed that the tray had been collected. That was how she knew. I stopped her. ‘Grazie, Hafeza. I am indebted to you. I promise I’ll never sneak out again. I’ll never listen in on conversations – well, not unless I’m invited. Grazie mille.’

  It was hard to read Hafeza’s features in the glow of the fire. She showed her teeth in what I took to be a smile and did the most astonishing thing of all. She lifted her callused hand and stroked my face, cupping my cheek briefly. I resisted the urge to extract. My heart filled and I smiled, searching for words of gratitude, of friendship. But before they came, she slid out the door and closed it behind her.

  As I trudged across the floor, I wondered at Hafeza’s actions. Baroque was wrong. I had found the friend I was looking for – someone I could trust. Hafeza risked a great deal in not telling Giaconda. I raised my hand to where hers had been only moments before. She’d touched me. Not because she was coerced or because it was part of my elaborate toilet, but in affection.

  I climbed into bed and pressed the part of my face that she’d stroked into my pillow. For the first time since I’d been in the Maleovellis’ casa, I went to sleep with a smile on my face.

  ‘GET DRESSED!’ GIACONDA SWEPT INTO TALLOW’S bedroom, followed by Hafeza, who flung open the shutters.

  Startled into wakefulness, Tallow sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes and trying to shake the pall of sleep away. ‘Scusi?’ For just a moment, her escapade last night came back. Her hands fell away and she became very hot. She glanced at Hafeza, who was busy pouring scents into her washing water. Had she told? Did Giaconda know? There was nothing in Giaconda’s manner to suggest anger, only repressed excitement. Tallow turned towards her cautiously.

  ‘We have a huge day planned for you, Tarlo! Come on, get out of bed. It’s not like you to be so slovenly.’ She turned to Hafeza, who was sorting through some dresses in a chest near the screen. ‘No, not that one, it’s too bright. The dark one with the silver lace on the sleeves. That will do nicely. Brush down my black cape. Tarlo can wear that as well. It’s cold outside.’

  Tallow looked from Hafeza to Giaconda, trying to clear her head. Outside? Giaconda was already fully dressed in an elaborate gown of deep purple and grey with hints of blue cut into the sleeves. Garlands of pearls were sewn into the bodice and along the cuffs. On her head, she wore a matching cap with a shadowy veil thrown back over her hair. As she collapsed into a chair, Tallow caught a glimpse of her zoccoli. They had the highest heels Tallow had seen yet. They were well over twelve inches. It was far too elaborate an ensemble for indoors. Tallow glanced at the window. It was raining heavily. Water thrummed against the windowpane. The day was dark and uninviting.

  ‘I don’t understand. Have I slept in? Why would I need a cape?’ Tallow climbed out of bed and picked up a cup of steaming cafe, grateful for its warmth as it slipped down her throat. Before she could have another sip, Hafeza snatched it out of her hand and whipped her nightgown over her head. Used to being naked, Tallow reached for the cup again, blowing across the surface before drinking. After a couple of swallows, her head began to clear.

  ‘You’re filling out nicely, Tarlo.’ Giaconda lazily studied her form, leaning back in the chair, appraising her in the same way Quinn would discuss the fishmonger’s fare before making a selection.

  ‘Your breasts have grown and your hips are also becoming beautifully rounded. It won’t be long before we’re able to seek offers for you – well, once we work out what to do with your eyes. You’ll fetch a wonderful price.’ Tallow gulped. They’d talked about this before. How once she was presented in public, they would both receive and invite offers from gentleman keen to bed her. Virgins fetched the most money. Giaconda herself had been a virgin many times over. It was to be their way of placing Tarlo in certain nobiles’ lives. After last night, Tallow had a better idea of what might be expected of her. It filled her with a mixture of dread and longing.

  Hafeza lifted Tallow’s right arm in the air and rubbed the flesh vigorously with a cloth.

  ‘That’s cold,’ said Tallow, breaking out in goose bumps.

  ‘Sì. I told Hafeza not to bother heating the water. We don’t have time.’

  ‘Time? For what?’ asked Tallow, cringing as the cold washer was dashed over her breasts and between her legs. Hafeza indicated for her to sit, so she could wash her feet.

  ‘Today, my dear Tarlo, you leave the casa!’ Giaconda beamed.

  Tallow’s jaw dropped. She didn’t even flinch as one after the other, her feet were plunged into a bowl and scrubbed. ‘Leave? But how? Why? My eyes …’

  ‘Ah, so many questions, Tarlo.’ Giaconda threw her hands up in the air. ‘All you need to know is that today I am your teacher and your lesson will take place outside. And for that to happen, you will wear a mask.’

  ‘But … I thought Carnivale was still weeks away?’ Hafeza began to dry her, running the towel up and down her body. Accustomed to the routine, Tallow held out one leg, then the other, talking around Hafeza’s bobbing head. She wanted to give the woman a sign of gratitude. Hafeza hadn’t exposed her.

  ‘Sì, it is. But it’s the nature of Carnivale that in the lead-up, we celebrate its approach with masks and it so happens that it’s perfectly appropriate for ladies to wear them this very day.’ Opening the purse tied to her wrist, Giaconda pulled a fabric mask out. She unfolded it and began to tug it into shape. Black with dark beads sewn around the eyes and along the nose, it was adorned with deep purple plumes. Giaconda stroked them back to life.

  ‘Why today?’

  ‘Something special is happening, Tarlo.’ She shook the mask in front of her. The black stones sparkled even in the dim light, but the feathers refused to cooperate, remaining flat. Giaconda frowned and kept fiddling with the strange cloth half-face. ‘This is a chance for you to learn a great deal. We aren’t going very far – just to the palazzo in Nobiles’ Rise. You, me and Papa. Jacopo will stay at home. The ride is difficult for him. But I promise you, what you’ll learn today is more than I could teach you in a month. Now hurry!’

  Tallow felt her heart swell. She was to escape these walls, even briefly – and with the Maleovellis by her side. Would the mask be enough to disguise her? What was it she was going to see?

  Hafeza continued to dress her, lacing her corset, pulling woollen stockings over her legs, wrestling her into the dress and pushing zoccoli onto her feet before finally pinning the mask securely into her hair so that it hid the entire top half of her face. Tallow couldn’t stop plucking at her skirt, fiddling with her locks. Hafeza had to slap her hands away a few times and chide her with an angry finger.

  When she was finally ready, Giaconda stood up and slowly circled her, like a gull before it dives. Tallow’s throat grew tight. From behind her mask, she followe
d Giaconda and, standing in front of the mirror, she also took stock of her appearance. The mask was wonderful; sitting away from her skin, it concealed her eyes. They were just like the glittering jewels that arced in place of her eyebrows – lustrous and dark.

  ‘I thought you might need a veil, but you don’t,’ said Giaconda finally. ‘Good, It’s important you’re able to see everything today.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Come, Papa awaits us.’

  With a grateful and knowing smile for Hafeza, Tallow followed Giaconda from the room.

  THE RAIN HAD CEASED AS, along with Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli, I left the comfort of the gondola’s felze and stepped onto the fondamenta that led to the piazza outside the Doge’s palazzo.

  Taking Salzi’s proffered arm, I followed the Maleovellis onto the cobbles, reorganising my long, black cape as Giaconda had shown me. Unable to see anything from the felze, as the Maleovellis had kept the window shut, I eagerly pulled the hood over my hair and drank in the sites.

  It wasn’t what I expected.

  It was not the buildings – they were as grand as I had hoped and my neck soon hurt from twisting to and fro. No, what astonished me most of all was the people.

  As we mounted the stairs towards the Rise, there were hundreds and hundreds of figures all heading in the same direction, across the wide expanse of the main piazza and towards the Grande Canal. I had never seen so many people in my life. My eyes darted everywhere, drinking in the atmosphere, the sights. What was most astonishing was that they did not speak a word. A little voice of warning started to toll in my mind.

  Sombre, the mass moved forward, the only sound the whisper of robes, the clack of heels, the splash of puddles as they all progressed towards a giant wooden platform erected at the lagoon end. From her great height, Giaconda was able to cut a swathe through the people and bring us very close to the stage. I felt a tingle along my spine. There was only one row between us and the platform.

  I was relieved to see that many people were either masked or veiled. Giaconda was right; I would not attract even a second glance. As the jostling stopped and places were found, the mask also gave me a chance to study everyone, to absorb my surroundings.

  To my right was the Doge’s palazzo. An enormous angular building, it still managed to appear light, rising from the fondamenta a blushing contradiction of delicateness and substance. An elegant balconette jutted out about halfway along, overseeing the crowds beneath. Red and gold curtains framed it, fluttering in the wind.

  The press of the bodies made me feel warm, but since there was a chill in the air, I didn’t mind so much. The smell, however, was not so pleasant. Being accustomed mainly to the aromas of the Maleovellis’ casa and Giaconda’s scent, I found the odour of so many unwashed bodies difficult to stomach. I wondered at how much I had changed in so short a time. Underneath it, I could smell the tang of the sea. I tried to see past the platform, beyond the lagoon and the masts that keened against the clouds. Out there was the Mariniquian Sea and all the places Baroque had told me about.

  The bells in the campanile began to toll. Their long, sonorous notes rang out over the piazza, forcing the crowd to complete stillness. An insolent flock of pigeons swooped overhead, cooing and chirping, defying someone to break ranks and shoo them away. They alighted in the eaves of the palazzo, twisting their pretty heads to study the human assembly.

  The last note of the bells lingered, taken over by the steady slap of water breaking against the fondamenta. A gust of wind almost blew my hood off; I caught it just in time. As I lowered my hand, the crowd stirred. Behind me, there was a flourish of trumpets. We raised our chins to watch the Doge appear on the balcony. Swathed in his gold robe and cone-shaped hat, the corno ducale, he looked more like a frail old nonno than he did a ruler. Beside him was a small elderly woman – the Dogeressa. Drowned by her dark cape and a sea of servants who quickly surrounded her, I caught only a glimpse. Dwarfing both the Doge and the Dogeressa was another man. Dressed in scarlet like a senator, but with a high cap bordered with gold, he had a pale, lean face. His eyes swept the crowd. A huge golden crucifix encrusted with jewels hung around his neck. So, this was the Cardinale. The man who built a reputation on hunting Estrattore. I imagined his arm unfurling from within his wide sleeves to point me out among the thousands, demand my arrest.

  Movement to my right drew everyone’s focus. Pushing their way through the crowd, which quickly opened a space to admit them, came over a dozen hooded men, climbing the rough-hewn stairs on either side of the podium. Their black togati swept their ankles, their hoods bobbed loosely about their heads, the slits for their eyes opening and closing with each step. I wondered if this was a new fashion, an extreme mask, until I saw what two of them carried.

  One of the men had a huge, thick-bladed sword. He raised it when he reached the top of the dais. It gleamed in the grey light, its blade smooth and sharp. At the same time, another man dropped a large chunk of wood, slightly curved on top, in the centre of the platform. In front of that, he put down a crudely woven wicker basket.

  The people before us moved back as the basket hit the stage. They didn’t stop, despite the murmurs of protest, until there was at least three feet between them and the platform. I almost tripped as I was forced to retreat. The man who had brought the wood laughed. It was a grim sound, muffled beneath the fabric of his hood. I noticed a small piece of embroidery on the shoulder of his togati – a rope twined around a crossed sword and axe.

  In a flash, I knew who these men were: they were part of the Guild of Death – Scuola Morte. What was going on? I began to extract from the stones beneath my feet.

  Excruciating pain, excitement tinged with bitterness, fear, terrible secrets, lust, unhinged thoughts and righteousness overwhelmed me as I naïvely absorbed the emotions of thousands of people, past and present. My knees began to buckle.

  By God! My eyes flew to the platform. I knew what was happening. It had happened thousands of times over the centuries. The fondamenta harboured its memories – of that deadly contraption and many other stories. I had simply caught a glimpse and nearly lost myself.

  ‘Stop that immediately!’ hissed Giaconda, grabbing my arm and holding me upright. ‘That’s precisely what the Cardinale is looking for! You will give yourself away.’

  I had been brought here not to be indulged, as I’d so stupidly thought, but to witness an execution. Why? I glanced at Giaconda and then Signor Maleovelli. But their faces revealed nothing as they stared ahead.

  Giaconda let me go. ‘Control yourself.’

  I did.

  After what seemed like an age, there was a commotion under one of the arches in the Doge’s palazzo. Again the crowd roused, and people were pushed and stumbled into one another. A file of soldiers forced their way through, their spears glinting above people’s heads. In their midst was a prisoner.

  The soldiers reached the platform and, using their weapons, prodded the criminal. A member of the Council of Ten followed.

  The prisoner was brought to the edge of the rostrum and made to face the crowd. I could smell him from where I was. He was filthy. What had once been clothes were now rags, covered in blood and excrement. The wounds of his torture wept, turning his flesh into one giant canker. His hair was matted and glued with bodily fluids. He was tall and skeletally thin and he looked very old. I felt a wave of sympathy for this poor man and wondered what he’d done that his life should end in such a way. Where were his family? How did they feel?

  His head was bowed into his chest as if ashamed to face not only his accusers, but also his fellow popolani.

  My knees began to quiver and my heart to thunder.

  The member of the Council, some nobile, let the crowd study the prisoner for a moment before, with a glance towards the balconette and a signal from the Doge, he stepped forward and unfurled a piece of parchment.

  ‘This man is condemned, before his Doge, the Church, his fellow citizens and, above all, before God as a heretic.’ His voice was
loud and deep. ‘He has consorted with enemies of the Republic and has thus forfeited his life. After all, a dead man makes no war.’

  If I had thought it quiet before, it did not compare to the utter paralysis now. It was like one of those black hoods, covering us all. I could hear my pulse sounding in my ears getting faster and faster, louder and louder. I looked up at Giaconda. Her eyes were glittering beneath the veil. A thin smile turned her lips. Signor Maleovelli just stood.

  The nobile turned to the criminal. ‘You may say your last prayers.’

  The prisoner gave the barest of nods and then in a clear, melodic voice, faced us and sang the prayer that I would often hear on a Sunday morning as I’d lolled about the rooftop in the Candlemakers Quartiere – the ‘Salve Regina’. A hymn to the Queen of Heaven, Mother Mary.

  ‘Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae …’ began the prisoner.

  I knew that voice. I began to pull at the laces against my throat, gasping for air. My head spun. No. This could not be happening. I stared through my mask, hoping that what I suspected was not true.

  But beneath the filth and injuries, even more apparent now as the old man tilted his head proudly and sang forth, I recognised those dark eyes, the proud bearing, the firm chin. His grandson had them too.

  The man about to die was Dante’s grandfather, Renzo Macelleria. The man who had welcomed me into his home. Who had shown me nothing but kindness and compassion. The man I saved from consumption and the Morto Assiderato. I threw back my head as the light around me narrowed into a pinpoint of darkness.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ hissed a voice in my ear and I felt hands grab my elbows and hold me upright. Fingers pressed into my flesh so hard I nearly cried out. ‘You will watch this, Tarlo, and you will learn,’ spat Giaconda. ‘Here begineth your lesson.’

  I wanted to screw my eyes shut, to retreat into the blackness swamping my mind, but I couldn’t. The Maleovellis gripped me so tightly, I was compelled to watch. To watch the dear man who had given me succour, as brief a time as it was, die a brutal death.