by David Blixt
Winking, he turned to address the room. “An ode to Buthayna.” And he read the poem, swapping out the name Ipsithilla for her own:
Please, my sweet Buthayna
my delight, my charmer: I ask you
to ask me to join your nap o’ noon.
If you do so, grant me a favour,
let no-one bolt your door,
and don’t go to town on a whim,
but stay at home, and get ready
for nine non-stop fuckifuckations.
Truly, if you should want it, say so right away:
because I’ve dined and am lying here, loaded,
about to make a hole in my tunic and cloak.
“As am I!” called Barto, dimples like chasms in his cheeks, his arms around an Englishwoman from Leeds. Shockingly, she was dressed in the habit of a nun. Amid the laughter, she drew him by the hand up the stairs towards the private chambers.
Trouble returned the book to Buthayna, eyeing her appreciatively. “Buthayna. 'Of beautiful and tender body'. As you are. Are your other names as accurate?”
Again he spoke Arabic, the kind the scholars used. She had not heard it often. It was beautiful. “Buthayna Warda.”
“Warda. The Rose. A fit name for this place. 'Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say; Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?'” The testy eyes turned inwards for a moment, his mouth lingering on the word rose. He leaned forward and kissed her hand. “Well, my rose, tonight you will go unplucked by me.” He passed on, choosing instead a woman in her late twenties, a veteran of the bordello.
Flushed in a way she had not been in ages, Buthayna marveled at the miracle of hearing her own tongue spoken to her. It was most unwelcome, dredging up thoughts and feelings best left buried.
Trouble swaggered up the stairs to the cheers of his fellows, some of whom were stretching, some calling for wine, some settling in to dice, but most eager to follow his lead. Yes, trouble was the very word for him. And while Buthayna felt grateful trouble had not chosen her this day, she also felt a nagging sense that Fate was playing with her.
Passed over by this young lord, she would have to work mightily to convince her employers she had not offended him, whoever he was. Not wishing to sully her reputation, she rose and set about attracting a suitor. She took the book with her, and asked a young man with dark hair to read it to her. He flushed and made an excuse, moving aside. Worse and worse. If she failed to win a client in this environment, she would be sold down, not up, hindering her goal of reaching Venice, which held the best brothels in Italy.
For Venice also had ships. Ships that could take her away to anywhere.
With a smile on her face, she began seducing a cheerful-faced fellow with slate eyes. She was relieved when he allowed her to draw him upstairs, to the private rooms. She closed the door on the part of her mind that understood how perverse it was to be relieved.
♦ ◊ ♦
IN ADDITION TO having the finest whorehouses, Venice also owned elegant abodes in other cities used for a different sort of prostitution – diplomacy.
After a light supper, Pietro, his brother Jacopo, and Tharwat al-Dhaamin walked through Verona's crowded streets and knocked on the embassy door. Instantly they were ushered up the stairs, into Dandolo's ornate office. Behind the rich tapestries, the walls were paneled in dark wood, a Venetian affectation that made sound less apt to carry.
Just arrived himself, Dandolo stood on the carpet donning a dressing gown of ermine and fox fur. With him was a woman in her middle years, fussing over the hem of her astonishing gown, which had picked up a trace of mud.
Dandolo opened his hands expansively as the trio entered. “Ah! My dear, may I introduce Ser Pietro Alaghieri, knight, lawyer, and son of the great Dante. His brother, Signor Jacopo Alaghieri, of Florence. And this man is the famous astrologer Theodoro of Cadiz. Gentlemen, my wife Elisabetta, of the Cortarini family.”
The lady curtsied, greeting each warmly in turn, until she came to Tharwat. “An astrologer!” exclaimed Elisabetta with delight. “Are you here to compare notes with the other?”
“The other,” repeated Tharwat.
“The diviner. Oh dear, I see from Francesco's face that I have said something I should not. Pay me no mind, I'm sure. Old women are apt to prattle.”
Some old women were, but surely not this one. Dandolo had clearly wished the subject introduced early. Nor was the lady's presence lacking in meaning. Dandolo would not do anything untoward with his wife in the house. A friendly greeting, an invitation for witnesses, the presence of his wife – the pains to which the Venetian was going to reassure only served to make Pietro warier still.
“My dear, we have some business to discuss. Perhaps you could send up some vin brulé?”
She had obviously fulfilled her purpose. With kind words for them all, Elisabetta glided from the room. Pietro found himself impressed, thinking of his own mother, who had been just as homely but not nearly so elegant in manner. Perhaps years of training could mend the faults of birth. Or at least ameliorate them.
When the door was shut, Dandolo crossed to Tharwat. “May I say, while I deplore your injuries, I am glad to see you coping with them. Your light is too bright to be dimmed, even by the Church. I, too, have felt the displeasure of a pope. Though it was only my pride that was wounded, not my flesh.”
Tharwat answered with something less than his characteristically stoic manner. “I would have preferred an insult to my pride.”
“Perhaps not. Injuries to the pride can often fester, and prove fatal.” Dandolo seated himself, not behind his desk, but closer to hand. “Come, sit, please. I have a delicate matter to discuss. Ah, the wine.”
A servant entered with a tray bearing four steaming goblets. Dandolo allowed them to choose their own, taking the last. He sipped it at once, then dismissed the servant. “I find nothing warms the way hot wine can. This particular mixture is one of my favourites. A full-bodied red infused with cinnamon and sugar, along with a good many cloves. Grated orange and lemon peels, with a generous portion of Dutch brandewijn. Heat the whole mixture over a blazing fire and serve scalding hot. Is something amusing, Signor Alaghieri?”
Poco was grinning to himself. “Brandewijn translates to 'burnt wine'. So you've heated burnt wine.”
Surprised, Dandolo chuckled. “Making this twice burnt.”
“You should call this 'Twice Shy' then,” said Pietro, sipping. It was delicious.
Leaning back, Dandolo crossed one leg over the other. “I understand any reticence you may have. But as I said in my note, think of this as making amends. Tell me, who arranged the music for the wedding?”
The conversation meandered through mild topics, edging towards politics but never reaching unsafe ground. They talked of food and fashion, poetry and prose. Pietro and Dandolo had a brief and interesting debate over the odd Venetian law that excused a man for a crime if he committed it for love, rendering him out of his right mind.
Through it all, Pietro noted that the Venetian was drinking very little. He might call this his favourite beverage, but he wanted to remain sober. Pietro did the same.
When polite conversation finally lagged, Tharwat reintroduced the topic they were clearly here to discuss. “My lord, your lady wife mentioned another of my profession. A diviner.”
Dandolo continued to nurse his drink. “Ah yes. Perhaps you've seen him? The hulking cripple with the – forgive me, Maestro al-Dhaamin, I do not mean to be callous – with the sunken eye. The eve of the wedding he was admitted to amuse Elisabetta. I was struck by the truth of his answers, and discovered that his pendulum has a true gift – as true as such gifts can be. Again, forgive me. Unlike our renowned Doge Soranzo, I am not an adherent.” Tharwat inclined his head, and Dandolo continued. “This same man happened to be at the Casa Nogarola when Donna Katerina was felled by her unfortunate affliction. He called for help, and spoke of raised voices as he waited in the next room.”
Pietro felt the blood drain from
his face. Was this a witness against Cesco? Were they about to extorted?
Dandolo seemed to read his thoughts. “He claims not to know whose voice he heard. It is likely a lie, but that is of no matter. It is his presence in the Casa Nogarola that matters. Or rather, the reason for his presence.”
Pietro was all attention. So, too, was Tharwat. Poco looked less intense, but certainly interested. “Do you intend to tell us that reason? Or shall we divine it?”
“Perhaps Maestro al-Dhaamin here could do so. But I promise you that I could not. He was there at the request of Donna Katerina. It appears that he'd approached her during the wedding revels, and she asked him to meet. I believe it was to pay him to vanish, but that is mere conjecture on my part. Certainly he took the precaution of leaving word where he was going with the traveling guild to which he belongs, so that they might know if he disappeared. He did not say it, but I believe he feared for his life.”
“If so, why approach her?” asked Tharwat.
“Justice, he claims. And certainly money, though if in the form of a bribe or patronage, I do not know. Alas, their talk never happened, for obvious reasons. Had she died, he might not have come to me. But because he has revealed his intent to the lady, he now fears for his life. Rightly, it seems, as I understand Lord Nogarola is hunting the whole city for this man. Having been here, the diviner felt enough bold enough to come and beg my protection.” Dandolo saw the skeptical arch of Pietro's brow. “My wariness then matches your own now. Was this a trap? A ruse? But I swear to you, it is Fate making fools of us. I had nothing to do with any of this. And, I hope you'll note, the moment I heard his story, I wrote to you.”
Pietro wished he could be as impassive as Tharwat, and leave the wide-eyes to Poco. “You said justice. For what crime?”
“I think you had best hear it from his own lips.” Setting aside his half-drunk cup, Dandolo lifted a small bell from the table at his arm and rang it. To his steward he said, “Ask Signor Girolamo to join us.”
When the steward had gone, Tharwat cleared his throat. “You said his was a true gift. Was his cause to speak to Donna Katerina connected to his divining?”
“No,” answered Dandolo. “He said it was from events that transpired in the years before the gift arrived. I may mention that the question that led me to suspect the talent was genuine pertained to Il Veltro.” He glanced at Poco. “May I speak freely?”
Pietro considered. Poco already knew most of their secrets. “Yes.”
The Venetian inclined his head. “I had dined with Cangrande that evening, but not his heir. When I tested him by asking if I had dined with the Greyhound, his pendulum answered no. He seemed bemused, unaware that his bob had spoken the truth.”
Pietro felt Tharwat's gaze travel to him, and realized he'd never told the Moor that Dandolo knew Cesco's destiny. In a moment of desperation three years earlier, begging to spare Cesco's life, Pietro had blurted it out.
“But it didn't,” objected Poco. “You were—”
“I'll explain later, Jacopo.” The full name was used to convey seriousness. To his credit, Poco closed his mouth. “Signor Girolamo, you said. No family name? No city of origin?”
“He did not provide the former. The latter is all too clear. He is from Bergamo. Only a native to that horrible city is so grotesque to our language.”
Pietro exchanged blank looks with Tharwat and Poco. Girolamo of Bergamo? The name meant nothing to them. “And he is here asking Venice's protection.”
“Not Venice's. Mine. At first I suspected him of desiring only money. But there was a look in his eye that – well, I should not like to see such a look in the eye of anyone I had wronged.”
Pietro was tempted to say, Look into my eye. But the door was opening and the man himself was shuffling in. He looked like a child's toy that had been twisted. There was something amiss with his left leg and hip. It bent him, like a tree on a windblown mountain.
But it was his face that both drew and repelled the eye. The sunken area was not exactly circular, but shaped, Pietro thought, like a horseshoe. In fact, put together, all this damage could have been caused by being trampled. If that was the case, the poor bastard was lucky to be alive.
Girolamo did not remove his cowl, preferring to keep his battered visage in shadow. Introduced, he was invited to sit, which he did uncomfortably. He gazed at the patch over Tharwat's eye, and the scars on his throat, but said nothing.
“Signor Girolamo,” said Dandolo. “Pray tell these gentlemen the tale you told me earlier today.”
Frowning, the crippled diviner took a few moments to frame his tale. “First, understand that I was not always – I seldom traveled in respectable circles. I mean, divining is not considered altogether good by the Church, but it's not illegal. But before, when I was younger…” He appealed to Dandolo.
The ambassador said curtly, “He was often engaged outside the law.”
Pietro nodded, showing no judgment. He was too intrigued by the man's reluctance, which added to his credibility.
“Fourteen years ago, I was hired by a lady to commit a crime. A truly— you have to understand, I had no money—”
“We understand,” said Pietro testily. “Consider us priests, and this is confession. Name the crime, and you will not be punished.”
“Murder,” said Girolamo at once. “I was hired to commit murder. The murder of a child.”
Pietro stiffened, and Girolamo saw it. “I think I know the story you're going to tell. You were hired to go to a house in Padua and murder a newborn boy.”
Girolamo's good eye widened. “How did you know that?”
“It was September, yes?” pressed Pietro. “1314? Just before the first Battle of Vicenza?”
“The night before it,” said Girolamo in hushed amazement. “It was because of Vicenza that I am as you see now. How do you know?”
“I've heard part of this story from the other end. And since I know for a fact that you failed, I promise no harm will come to you. Please, tell us everything.”
After all that, it wasn't much. Girolamo and his boon companion Ciolo, an old hand at this kind of thing, had been hired by a fine lady to kill a child. She told them the brat was her husband's bastard, born of a mistress who meant to usurp her place in Padua. She had promised them a whole chest of gold florins, enough riches that they would never have to work again. They had set out from Mantua, where the lady had found them, and ridden to Padua.
“I remember that night better than I do my own father's face,” said Girolamo. “On the way into the city, it was eerie, quiet. No one in sight. We were just crossing the Ponte Molino when it happened. A whole army came riding out of the gates right at us, didn't it? Ciolo jumped off his horse and into the river. I tried to turn around but didn't manage it. The horse was scared by all the noise and it reared, throwing me under the hooves. I don't remember much after that except pain. I was told later that people thought I was dead. It was only when they tried moving me that I cried out. They took me inside the city, to a doctor. It was weeks before I could walk again. I went to the house, but of course the job was long since finished. It was closed. Not a soul in it.”
“And after the injury,” said Tharwat, “you found you had the gift.”
Girolamo stared at him. “Yes. If I'd had it before, I would have known to take another bridge. Maybe I did know. My hackles were up that night, and that's for sure. Thought it was nerves. I'd never killed anyone before.”
“And you didn't that night,” said Pietro.
Girolamo turned that sunken eye upon him. “You say the boy didn't die. I'm glad. I've always assumed Ciolo finished the job and took the money. I thought I'd find him, somewhere. But he must have been smart and skipped off to Madeira or Crete or someplace well out of the way, where he could live in luxury.”
Tharwat said, “You didn't try divining him?”
“I did. Nothing. Nor the lady. I never touched her. It helps if I know the person, or touch them. But I knew Ciolo, an
d I've never found him.”
“Because he is dead,” said Tharwat. “Killed that night.”
Girolamo looked to Pietro, who nodded confirmation. It took him some time to accept that news, release a long-held rage. “Could have been worse, then.”
Pietro leaned forward. “So you've lived from then to now without knowing anything about the child, or the woman who hired you. What changed?”
“I saw her, didn't I? On the street, after the wedding. And I shouldn't have, I know, but I went up to her during the revels, and told her who I was, and said she owed me. And if she didn't pay, I'd blab all I knew. She told me to wait at her house. I did, but she never came in. I heard her shouting down the hall, and when it got quiet I went to check on her, and she was on the ground drooling, with a huge welt blossoming on her cheek. I called for help, and it came. I was afraid they would think I'd done it. But they didn't.”
Because it was Cesco. He'd ripped up the room. He'd argued with Donna Katerina. He'd struck her. On his wedding night. The night that sealed his fate.
“I heard today that the lady's husband was looking for me, and I came to Lord Dandolo here, hoping for protection. If she's awake, she'll want to make me quiet. She might even say it was me what struck her.”
“Ser Alaghieri won't allow that to happen,” said Dandolo. “He has a peculiarly strong sense of right and wrong. Admirable, especially in one so experienced of the world's multiplicitous injustices.”
It could have been an insult, it could have been a compliment. Knowing Dandolo, it was both. It was also true. Pietro knew that Girolamo was not guilty of the attack on Donna Katerina. At the same time, he knew the diviner was lying. He had heard more than he was admitting to. But that was for another time.
“No,” said Pietro. “We won't allow that to happen. But I think it best if you leave Verona. Under Ambassador Dandolo's protection, of course. I will see what can be done to-” To what? Recompense the man for failing to commit a murder? For attempting to extort money from Donna Katerina? The stress of that might well have been what brought on the stroke. That, and Cesco… “-to make your life a little easier.”
