Votive

by Karen Brooks

  The mist clung to us with damp purpose, adding to the weight of our clothes, making me bitterly cold. The air was so still, a precursor to the snow that would later flutter and fall. Just as my teeth began to chatter and I’d lost the feeling in the end of my nose, we finally turned off the Circolo Canal and into one of the bigger waterways that also sliced through the city. Here too elegant, multi-storey casas with their arched windows and engraved facades loomed above us, appearing – impossibly – to float on the dark green waters. Craft lined the sides of the canal, canvas covers securely in place, bobbing against their palines. It was almost mesmerising watching Salzi’s oar split the water, hearing snatches of song, voices, the thump of cargo, the slap of waves and the cheer of happy men. The further we went, the noisier it became, and I realised with growing excitement that we were heading for the mercato, the major marketplace of Serenissima – a place I’d heard so much about, but never before visited. I leant forward, willing the gondola to go faster as anticipation surged through me.

  Salzi steered carefully, weaving us through the now heavy traffic. I forgot my earlier instructions not to twist my head and instead looked in every direction.

  There were hundreds of gondolas drifting, bumping and pushing past each other. Some rested against water-stairs, emptying their passengers onto the fondamenta. Others aimed for little jetties, remaining still long enough to either take on people or offload them. The cold disappeared in the warmth of chatter, laughter, and human enterprise.

  In moments, we were out of the gondola and on the fondamenta ourselves. My zoccoli, which were at least fifteen inches high, enabled me to see in all directions. Domed by the grey blanket of mist that hovered a respectable distance above us, the mercato spread out in an explosion of colour and sound.

  It was a series of wide calles, lined by two-and three-storey casas that leant together like conspirators, blocking the light, while below them occupying every square inch of space were stalls, with vendors behind, beside and in front of them shouting the benefits of their wares. Women with baskets over their arms argued with the men and fondled the fruits and other produce, adding to the din. We pushed through the crowd, Hafeza and Rosalina in front, Giaconda beside me and Salzi bringing up the rear.

  Moving slowly through the throng, we encountered dirty urchins, giggling at their game, scurrying past my skirts, sweeping them in their wake. Stallholders promising customers the best deals blocked my path, waving their produce beneath my nose, cajoling, pleading with me to buy. Salzi would step forward and shoo them away. I saw other courtesans, the hair on their heads as high and elaborate as their zoccoli, their pale faces deeply rouged, beauty spots prominent on their cheeks or necks. None was alone, but accompanied by servants or, in some cases, patrons. All were masked.

  There were dwarves, nuns from the convents, tradespeople of all description milling, shopping, and gawking. Upon togati and doublets, I saw many a woven crest, a pang of recognition making me draw breath. Chandlers, candlemakers, butchers, tanners, paper and maskmakers all mingled with fishmongers, fruiterers, fabric and spice merchants. Perfumes filled the air and faces of different colours wandered past, oblivious to my stares. I saw men blacker than Hafeza, their skin so dark, they looked like shadows in our midst, their wide, white smiles splitting their faces, bringing them to life. There were people with eyes the shape of almonds and beautiful skins the colour of a golden sunset. Their voices were musical as they chanted rather than spoke. I saw hunchbacks, people pushing against the throng to touch their deformity for good luck. Cripples, some like Jacopo, only much worse, limped by. There were beggars, nobiles, mothers, children and even, my heart almost stopped, a real-life harlequin. He pirouetted in a small space in the corner of a campo, then dropped to his knees on the stones and began plucking a mandolin. Soldi were thrown to him, bouncing off the cobbles, but not before a dwarf, also dressed in the geometrical patterns of his master, and hidden beside a floppy-eared donkey with huge panniers, detached himself from the beast and scooped them up, encouraging further generosity with a series of clumsy cartwheels.

  We continued to press ahead. I glanced at the stalls – there were fruits of all shades and shapes on display, mounds of spices that looked like vivid dust that could blow away in the wind. I inhaled their pungency and tasted them deep in my throat. A man dressed in a turban and shiny robes beckoned us to try the liquid in his bizarrely shaped vials. Perfumes mixed in a wild infusion and I tried to catch the different odours and place them. My head spun and my heart soared. I wanted to drink this moment in, sup on this melange of wonders.

  As we continued, a juggler appeared out of nowhere, flinging flaming torches into the air. The crowd gasped before breaking into applause as he first spun them so quickly they formed a circle of light and then caught them, one by one, dousing the flames.

  I was still trying to see what he would do next when I was steered into a nearby series of rami, up some wooden stairs and then whisked across a bridge. On the other side of the Circolo, the noise and number of people diminished and then completely vanished. We wandered briskly along the empty fondamenta and I wondered where we were going. I looked at the signs hanging over the shops and recognised the insignia of the tailor – the golden thread, reel and scissors. We had crossed into the Tailors Quartiere.

  We turned off the main canal and into a dark ramo. Light did not reach this narrow lane. Giaconda drew to a halt before an unremarkable shop. Its window was streaked with grime, making it hard to see inside. A cat snaked past the door, rubbing its scrawny body along the wood, yawning as it did and revealing its sharp little teeth.

  Before Salzi could reach the door, it was flung open, and standing there was the strangest man. Dressed in a light-coloured togati, which in itself was unusual, he wore a yellow cap upon his head. The sleeves of his shirt were the same mustard colour, only the cuffs were stuck full of pins and an assortment of ribbons. He was as short as he was wide, barely reaching my elbows. He had deeply hooded eyes and a nose that resembled a beak – it was long and very narrow. I wondered if he had to inhale harder than most in order simply to breathe.

  ‘Buon giorno! Signorina Maleovelli, how wonderful it is to see you!’ His voice belied his looks. It was resonant and thickly accented. There was something hypnotic about it. ‘Come in, come in!’ He bowed so low, his large but slender hands scraped the floor which, I noted as I lifted my skirt and stepped over the threshold, was scrupulously clean.

  Only Giaconda and I entered the premises. The others waited outside, which was just as well, because the interior was cramped. I dropped my dress and looked around. In every direction there were yards of fabric, stacked in bales, rolls and simply hanging in lengths across every wall and surface. It was like a chest of soft jewels – dazzling. This was also because the shop was illuminated by dozens of candles, good-quality ones that exuded no smoke or odour. Positioned so as not to pose a danger to the materials and sitting in long, silver holders that had wax catchers at the base, they added grandeur to the place that I would not have assumed from its exterior.

  ‘I received your message, Signorina, and I have what you requested.’ He bowed again. ‘Is this the lady in question?’ He tipped his head at me quizzically.

  ‘Sì, Signor Tedeschi. This is my father’s ward, Tarlo Maleovelli. The cloth I asked you to procure is for a dress I want you to make in order that we can formally introduce her to society.’

  The old man bowed again and nodded vigorously. ‘A dress? Sì, sì.’ He looked me up and down. ‘I can see why you have gone to such expense, shall I say, taken such a risk. She is worth it, no? What a lovely shape, what fine bones.’

  Giaconda did not answer; she simply inclined her head slightly.

  I continued to gaze around the shop, looking at the sumptuous material, trying to pretend that Signor Tedeschi’s scrutiny didn’t bother me. I recognised velvet, silk, wool, damask with its heavy patterns – all expensive textiles. One aspect of my education had not been wasted.
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  ‘Well, Signor Tedeschi, where is it? We do not have time to loiter,’ said Giaconda brusquely.

  ‘Aspettare, wait, please,’ said Signor Tedeschi and plunged into the fabric, appearing to be consumed by its soft maw. On closer inspection, I saw there was a door hiding under the impromptu curtains. He returned in seconds carrying a long roll of what looked like spun gold.

  Under the gentle light of the candles, the bolt shimmered like molten metal, reflecting the flickering flames and casting a wide halo. It was stunning, and I found myself lost for words. I could sense Giaconda’s eyes on me from behind her mask. ‘You like this, Tarlo?’

  ‘It is … beyond lovely.’

  Giaconda smiled. ‘Molto bene, Signor Tedeschi. We will take it.’

  The Signor made a sound that might have been delight.

  ‘Included in the price we agreed upon is the making of the dress, sì?’ added Giaconda.

  ‘Sì, Signorina, it’s all included in the quote I gave you.’

  ‘Bene, bene. I expect you at the casa tomorrow morning, then. My maid has some initial measurements for you to start with. I also want you to follow my design to the last detail, is that clear? I will provide you with the jewels you are to sew onto the dress tomorrow.’

  My eyes widened in astonishment. Jewels on the dress? The Maleovellis were sparing no expense – this was to be a grand introduction indeed. I wondered where and when it was going to occur. My heart started to beat faster at the thought.

  ‘It is clear, Signorina. This is a very exciting commission. You honour me with your patronage.’

  ‘Only so long as this is kept secret, Signor Tedeschi. If I should find that one word of this escapes, then not only will you never have our patronage again, you will no longer enjoy the business of anyone in Serenissima.’

  ‘I understand, Signorina. I am always discreet.’ The small man regarded Giaconda with knowing eyes.

  ‘Sì. That you are, Signor.’ Giaconda reached out and touched the old man’s face. His eyes lit up.

  He took her hand and kissed her glove. Giaconda pulled it away with what appeared to be reluctance. ‘We will start tomorrow,’ agreed Signor Tedeschi. ‘When do you require the dress?’

  ‘By the end of the week.’

  ‘The end of the week?’ Signor Tedeschi staggered backwards into his bales, clutching one to prevent himself from falling, the other screwing up his shirt over his heart. ‘Signorina, non é possible!’

  Giaconda reached into her purse and pulled out a small leather pouch. It bulged like a bag of nuts. She held it out in front of her. ‘I think you’ll find it’s not only possible, but it will be done.’

  Signor Tedeschi released the grip on his clothes and held out his hand. He rested the pouch in his palm. He weighed it thoughtfully before a smile wiped away his frown. ‘Ah, you’re right, Signorina. Miracles can happen – all they need is a little faith.’

  Giaconda freed the purse. The coins clinked together as they hit his hand. ‘Or a lot.’ She nodded curtly to the Signor. ‘Till tomorrow then, Signor Tedeschi.’

  ‘Ci vediamo, Signorina Maleovelli.’ With a grand flourish, the old man held open the door, bending in half as he did.

  We sailed past him and back into the draughty ramo.

  ‘Give Signor Tedeschi those measurements, Hafeza,’ ordered Giaconda. Hafeza obeyed, passing a folded piece of paper to the tailor, who bowed again.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Giaconda, turning and leading us back the way we had come. It wasn’t long before we were once again caught in the current of people.

  We were just about to cross back over the huge bridge that separated the Opera Quartiere and the marketplace when something caught my eye. Pressed momentarily against a building as a group of soldiers marched past, I saw a square of paper pasted to the outside of a shop. A corner had lifted and it was fluttering in the wind. In the centre was a crude picture of a young boy with unruly black hair, a small chin and cross brows. His expression was pure evil. I would not have given it another glance except for the eyes. They were the only thing of colour on the paper. Silver blazed from the poster, drawing the eye, drawing my eyes.

  Bile rose in my throat and I didn’t need to understand what was written below to know who this was meant to be – it was me – as the Cardinale chose to represent me to the popolani; to those he now promised to reward with many a lifetime’s worth of riches should they report or catch me.

  My head began to spin, my heart to hammer. Coldness gripped my chest.

  Without thinking, I snatched it off the wall and crumpled it into a ball. Only then did I notice that this was not the only one. Pasted onto every surface available was the same image over and over. Crowds had gathered to watch the young boys, urchins, with satchels on their backs, pages in their hands, pasting the offending picture up wherever they could.

  What started as a faint whisper soon became a roar.

  ‘Estrattore, milliones! Estrattore!’

  Giaconda turned at the noise and her face paled as she too saw the poster, read what it said.

  ‘Come, we will leave now. Slowly, with dignity. Do not attract unnecessary attention.’

  This time, she grabbed my arm. I did not have the desire or ability to draw from her. I could barely stand. Faces blurred, smiles transformed into leers as all lips formed the word, ‘Estrattore.’ Every set of eyes that lighted on my face saw through my disguise – accusation and retribution was everywhere.

  I barely remember reaching the gondola, but when I did, I retreated into the felze. I sat there in the darkness, the window shut, the curtains drawn, clutching my mask to my face, breathing deeply, trying to control the fear that threatened to break me.

  I felt the gondola shift and heard the splash of the oar. Then I heard Salzi begin to sing and Giaconda to converse as if there were not a care in Vista Mare.

  The snow that had been threatening all day finally began to fall and the women joined me, brushing their capes before they entered. Cramped, it was also warm. Giaconda shot me a warning look. I knew what it meant. We would talk about what had happened when we were in the privacy of the portego.

  I knew what I wanted to say – how could they even think of introducing me now? Now that not only the Cardinale, but all of Serenissima was searching for me.

  But it was what the poster promised to do with me when I was caught that made my heart plummet and my body grow numb.

  At the bottom of the poster, by decree of the Cardinale, was my destiny. When I was found, there was to be an execution. Not of the kind poor Renzo suffered. No. I was not to die quickly. I was to suffer the traditional death of an Estrattore.

  In front of all Serenissima, upon a pyre to be especially built by the Circolo Canal, I was to suffer the fate of the worst kind of heretic.

  In a twist of cruel irony, the apprentice candlemaker was to be put to the flame.

  DANTE FOLLOWED KATINA THROUGH the marshes, trusting the horses to stay on firm ground. He watched her back swaying, in tune with Birrichino’s rhythms, Argento’s making him rock side to side as well. The saddlebags tied across Birrichino’s rump were bulging, packed as they were with most of Katina’s possessions. Those attached to Argento also carried some of her gear; Dante hadn’t been there long enough to accumulate much so was happy to concede what room there was in his packs to her.

  Katina had barely said a word since they left Settlement. At first, he’d chattered aimlessly to fill the space, to try to assuage her grief at leaving. But gradually he’d quietened, and respected her silence. Her separation from her lovers had been … difficult. Poor Debora and Alessandro. In the end, there had been nothing more to say or do. They’d just stood together, their faces cast in misery, watching him and Katina load the horses and then ride away. He’d turned at the last moment, just before the mist swallowed them, the camp, and the other Riders who’d finally emerged – not to say farewell, but to ensure they’d really left. His time at Settlement had been brief; it hadn’t been what
he’d call welcoming, but he’d still felt that it was somewhere he wasn’t ready to leave. Now the security of the Bond Riders’ home had been ripped away. On the bright side, farewelling Settlement also brought him closer to what he had to do – find Tallow. Excitement surged through his veins at the thought; a thrill that was quickly replaced by guilt as he observed the slump of Katina’s shoulders.

  For him, it was yet another beginning; for Katina, leaving Settlement signalled an end – of her status with the Bond Riders, of her time with Debora and Alessandro and, potentially, her long life. He couldn’t imagine how that must feel – knowing that, in all likelihood, you were going to die soon. Perhaps that was why Elder Maggiore had come to their tent just before they left to speak with Katina alone. Perhaps he was preparing her for the worst. They’d spoken for a long time, hidden away from prying eyes and ears. Curious about their conversation, Dante had learnt enough about Katina to understand she’d tell him when she was ready.

  Over the last couple of weeks, knowledge of their departure had tainted everything – his lessons in horsemanship, fighting and tracking. It had coloured their rests in the tent, which seemed to become more frequent. Even the passionate love-making of the Bond Riders had turned into little more than long embraces, surrounded by quiet. Dante would hear them, sliding across the enormous shared bed to hold each other, occasionally whispering. Thoughts of the future were like a spurned lover who would not leave. They hung thick in the air, an unspoken intrusion.

  In an effort to distract them both, Katina had focused her energy on training him. If he’d thought Debora and Alessandro tough masters, they were nothing compared to Katina and her demands. She worked both him and Argento until he was one with the sweating, feisty mare. She made him practise his sword technique until he bested Alessandro every time. Katina fought him with her daggers, making him bleed, cutting him without care for the consequences until he learnt to block and counter-attack. She insisted that Debora teach him how to lift a purse without the owner being aware, that he learn how to read lips, understand the meaning behind simple hand gestures and mannerisms and how to disguise himself so he appeared neither a Bond Rider nor chandler, so he could blend with the popolani in Serenissima again.