‘I’ve been thinking about it a bit, that’s all,’ she said pertly. ‘Father told me that the Ghetto is actually on a small island in the heart of the district of Cannaregio. So I think that we should be looking around there.’
Ned gave a little gasp, remembering the rendezvous with Henri. ‘Did you say Cannaregio?’ he said faintly.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Celia sharply.
He shook his head and stammered, ‘No . . . nothing.
4 3
Just something . . . er, something I heard. It... er ... I heard it was a rather tough sort of area. A bit. . . er . . . dangerous. Too dangerous for a young woman and He trailed off.
She glared at him. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Just. . . someone . . . someone I was speaking to, just before. I met them on the way here. Celia, guess what— I managed to speak some Italian, so I can’t be as tineared as all that! I was able to string quite a few words together. You see, I — 5
‘Yes, yes, tell me about it later,’ said Celia impatiently. ‘Anyway, you need not worry about me. I’m not going as a girl—but a boy.’
‘What!’ said Ned, diverted from his story. ‘You can’t do that! Your father—’
‘If you say anything to him I’ll never speak to you again, Ned Fletcher!’ cried Celia, fire in her eyes. ‘And that’s God’s truth! Never ever!’
‘No, no, I won’t say anything,’ he stammered desperately, ‘of course I won’t, but Celia, how will you—’
‘Wait and see,’ she said, tossing her head. ‘Meet me outside this house, tomorrow morning, after Father’s left.’
‘Where’s he going?’ said Ned, staring.
‘To the Ghetto, to meet Dr Tedeschi. He told me he would be going in the early morning. After that he’s going to meet with Salerio’s son.’
4 4
‘With who?’ said Ned, confused.
She snorted impatiently. ‘Don’t you remember? Sale- rio was the Venetian agent for Father’s group. The one who was murdered. His son has taken over the business. Father thinks he may know something.’
Ned nodded. ‘Oh. Right.’ Then something else she’d said struck him. ‘But wait—you said he was going to the Ghetto with Dr Leone!’
‘Yes. So?’
‘He must have told the doctor what was going on, then.’
‘Of course. He said Dr Leone was completely trustworthy. What’s more, the doctor knows the Ghetto, as he’s interested in old Hebrew books or something. . . . Anyway, listen, Ned. I’ll be watching from the window to see when he leaves for the Ghetto. Give him a few minutes’ head start and then come over. I’ll wait for you downstairs. Mistress Quickly might want to come, of course, but I’ll try to stall her. If she does, we’ll find a way to lose her somewhere. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Ned, staring at Celia. She really is enjoying this, he thought. She fancies herself very much as general of our little campaign . And Ym to be her foot- soldier. . . . Never mind, YU show her. Yll show her how brave and resourceful I am too. . . .
‘Oh, and see if Dr Leone has a map of the city somewhere, and bring it with you,’ Celia went on, blithely
-M- 45 ->>•
unaware of his train of thought. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m really tired and need a rest.’
There was no doubt it was a dismissal—and a pretty
firm one at that. There was nothing Ned could do but swallow his pride and retreat from the Marinetti house in as dignified a manner as he could manage.
A STRANGE EXPEDITION
I hat night, at the simple dinner they all shared at his house, Dr Leone told them a little about the Countess of Montemoro, who had accused Sarah Tedeschi of witchcraft.
The Montemoros were an old Venetian family, he said. Once, they had been very powerful, and Montemoros had sat on the Council of Ten, the ruling body of Venice. But in the lifetime of the previous Count, a violent drunk and gambler, the family had lost both reputation and fortune. They were only rescued from ruin,
-<-4* 4 7
explained Dr Leone, by the present Count’s marriage to Magdalena da Piero, the present Countess. She came from one of the richest families on terra firma, which was what Venetians called the mainland. Magdalena had come with a very large dowry and a hard nose for business. She had soon set about repairing the Montemoro fortunes. These had prospered beyond anything her husband could have dreamed of. Their only child, Isabella, would be a very rich prize for a suitor one day. But to the Countess’s fury, the Montemoro family had still not been reinstated into the Council of Ten; her husband, the Count, was reckoned to be a weak and unreliable man. Besides, Venetians were snobs; the Count was thought to have married beneath him, for the da Pieros, though wealthy and influential, were not from the old Venetian families listed in the city aristocracy’s Golden Book.
‘She’s a piece of work,’ said Dr Leone with feeling. ‘I call her “the she-wolf”—the emblem of the Monte- moros features a wolf’s head—and she no doubt calls me something just as unflattering.’ It turned out they had clashed over the fact she disapproved of alchemy, calling it ‘mere sorcery and charlatanism.’ She had even tried to influence the Duke to issue a banning order against alchemists. ‘But fortunately, I, unlike her, have the ear of the Duke,’ he went on, ‘and that sour gorgon was sent packing with a flea in her ear! She’s a nasty piece to cross, though, if you have no influence. She’s
■<4- 4 8 •>>■
rich as Midas these days, what’s more, for all her ventures prosper and her ships come home safely laden with goods.’
‘Lucky Countess,’ said Matthew Ashby glumly. That’s not the case for us lesser mortals, caught in the grip of ruthless pirates.’
‘I’m sure the pirates, cruel as they are, would be far too frightened of the Countess’s reputation to risk getting on her bad side,’ said Dr Leone, smiling rather grimly. ‘They’d bite off more than they can chew, attacking a Montemoro ship. She’d pursue anyone who did her wrong to the ends of the earth, of that I am sure. Well! I wouldn’t give a fig for this Tedeschi girl’s chances, if she’s caught by the Montemoro she-wolf, so we must try and stop it happening.’
The next day dawned grey and drizzly. Master Ashby and Dr Leone went off early in the morning as planned, but in a covered post-chaise rather than on foot. Ned, watching at the window, waited till the post-chaise had vanished from sight before going over to the Marinetti house. But Celia wasn’t outside yet. He waited, stamping his feet to try and keep warm. He took a look up and down the street. Not a soul was stirring. He wouldn’t mind being inside with Celia, curled up in front of a nice warm fire in her room, and . . .
Stop it, he told himself sternly. You must tread carefully. You must not annoy her. You must not rush things.
You must not frighten her away. Remember ; there's Henri still lurking around and . . . But the thought unfortunately started another one. What would happen that night? Would he see the next day’s dawn? Or would he be lying in his own blood in some dark alley and—
Tsst, 9 Celia’s voice said, behind him.
He started, turned and stared, amazed. Celia’s blue eyes smiled at him from a dirty face; her hair had been rubbed with cinders to dull its colour and then expertly pinned up and shoved under a large, shabby velvet cap. The doublet and hose she was wearing were stained and crumpled, and over them she wore a shapeless dark cloak.
‘What’s the matter, Ned? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
Ned found his voice. ‘Where did you get those dreadful clothes?’
‘Found them in the servants’ quarters,’ she said defiantly.
‘You mean you took them! Oh, Celia, what will your father do if he finds out?’
‘He won’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Will he?’ she added, • crossing her arms and glaring at him.
‘No ... no ... I mean, not from me. But someone might talk. The servants . . .’
‘They didn’t see me.’
‘And y
our aunt?’
‘She was snoring heartily when I left. I don’t think
5 0->->
she’ll wake before midday. You know she loves her sleep. We’ll be back before she knows I’ve even stirred.’
‘If you say so,’ he said quietly. In her shabby clothes and bizarre disguise Celia suddenly looked both stranger and more approachable. She didn’t look like a rich merchant’s only daughter any more, but a street child with fewer prospects even than a lowly clerk. One thing was, she didn’t look at all like a boy to him—she never could—but to someone who didn’t know her, she might well pass muster. His heart was beating fast. Going on this strange expedition with her was something he would not have missed for the world.
‘Now, Ned,’ said Celia brightly, ‘did you find a map?’
Smiling, Ned fished in his clothes. ‘Yes. Here it is. I’ve already looked at where we should go. See, here? If we go back to that little square up there, and then turn here and . . .’
Cannaregio is one of Venice’s oldest districts and the most northerly. It stretches in an arc bounded on one side by the Grand Canal and the other by quays that look out towards the islands in the lagoon. A mixture of the grand and the shabby, its alleys and canals are always busy, and that day, despite the weather and the early hour, it was already a bustle of market colour and activity.
Here, in the heart of Cannaregio, the Ghetto was very close. Because Jews were forbidden to live anywhere but on the isle, they had to build up into the air rather than
5 1 •>*>■
sideways, so their buildings were very tall, up to six floors—the tallest buildings Ned and Celia had ever seen.
The gates that led across the two bridges into the Ghetto had been unlocked at sunrise, and Jews in their regulation red cloaks and yellow hats mingled in the busy market scene. Most of them were men or boys, but there were a few women amongst them, mostly matrons of a certain age, and once a pretty young girl, walking rapidly behind her parents, head down.
‘Ned, don’t stare,’ hissed Celia in his ear.
Ned had not meant to be rude. But in London, despite Master Ashby’s liberal attitude, he had rarely come into contact with Jews, and certainly not so many or so varied in looks as the Venetian Jews. Some were dark as Moors, others fair as Germans, others still little different from the other Venetians who milled and bustled amongst them—except for those distinctive cloaks and hats. Here, Jews were officially protected by the state and the Ghetto was guarded at night by Venetian watchmen. But even if malefactors could not invade the Ghetto at night, its inhabitants could not leave either. And during the day, when they could circulate freely, they were required to wear the yellow hat and the red cloak. It must be strange, to live like that, Ned thought suddenly. To be for ever marked.
‘Look.’ Celia dug him in the ribs. A wolfishly handsome young man in cheap finery had waylaid the family of the pretty young girl. He was talking rapidly to the
5 2
father, while his eyes kept darting to the girl. She kept her eyes down, but there was a tension about her, like a deer poised for flight, that made it clear she was uncomfortably aware of the young man’s scrutiny.
The young man stopped talking. He put a hand on the shoulder of the older man, who visibly stiffened, then gave a faint smile. He nodded in farewell, gathered up his family, and walked on swiftly. The girl didn’t look back. Not once. But the young man stood there for an instant, watching them go.
‘I’m going to talk to him,’ said Celia, and before Ned could react, she was off, elbowing her way through the crowd to where the young man stood. Ned hurried after her.
‘But what are you going to say to him?’ he hissed. ‘You can’t just ask him if he’s seen Sarah Tedeschi! Anyway, why should he?’
‘Just wait and see,’ said Celia infuriatingly. ‘ Signore / she said as they reached the young man. ‘ Signore , per favore . . . ’ She held out a hand on which, to Ned’s astonishment, reposed a silver coin. He hadn’t even seen her palm it out of her purse. He hadn’t known she was capable of such a thing. Was there to be no end to Celia’s surprises?
The young man stared at her. Then Celia unleashed a torrent of seemingly fluent Italian, hardly any of which Ned could understand, but which he took to mean was some sort of explanation that she had seen him drop that
-M- 5 3 ->->■
silver coin just a little distance away and was keen to give it back to him. The young man listened without saying anything, his bright dark eyes resting thoughtfully on Ned. Then he said something to Celia, and she nodded.
‘ Grazie . Molto grazie, 3 said the young man slowly, and took the silver coin from Celia’s hand. He bit it, obviously suspecting it was some sort of forgery. Satisfied, he looked at them again, this time especially at Ned. ‘ Grazie, 3 he repeated.
‘Er . . . prego / Ned answered falteringly, as the thanks seemed to be aimed at him.
The man smiled. ‘Straniero? 3 Ned understood that. The man was asking if he was a foreigner. He didn’t want to be just any sort of foreigner.
7 nglese, 3 he said a little too loudly.
‘Ah,’ said the young man. He looked at Celia and said something to her in rapid Italian. She grinned and replied.
‘I told him I am your guide and servant,’ she hissed to Ned as the young man laughed.
Ned frowned, an odd feeling twisting in his guts. ‘That’s not funny. Why is he laughing?’
‘Because I also told him you were a typical barbarian Englishman, who’d never seen anything like Venice before and liked to gawk at everything.’
‘Well, thank you very much,’ said Ned indignantly.
Celia didn’t answer. She was talking to the young man again. He seemed to be in high good humour—and no
5 4
wonder, thought Ned sourly, with a silver coin he’d got for nothing in his purse and a chance to laugh at barbarian Englishmen!
They talked for a little while. Every so often the young man would shoot one of those bright, blank gazes at Ned, who tried to ignore him.
At last Celia and the man stopped talking. She turned to Ned. Time to go. Pretend to get annoyed with me or something, so we can just go, or I think he might hover around us for a while.’
‘No wonder, as you’ve been handing out money for nothing,’ said Ned crossly.
‘You’ll see it’s not for nothing. But he’s getting a bit nosy now, so I think we should go.’
‘What am I supposed to say?’ growled Ned. He looked at her, then at the man, watching them with narrowed eyes, and snapped, ‘Right. Now, my fine fellow, it’s time to stop chattering like this. We have work to do!’ And he flapped a hand at Celia. ‘Come on, boy! I weary of being kept waiting while you gossip like an old woman!’
The man said something to Celia. She shrugged and fluttered a hand regretfully, making it clear she had to leave with her supposed employer. ( Scusi f signore . Arrivederci . ’
Arrivederci, Vamico / said the young man, and Ned could feel the bright eyes boring into his back as they made their way quickly through the crowd.
They walked on rapidly till they had left most of the
crowd behind. They were in a quiet street by a little backwater when Ned stopped. ‘Celia, that was quite some performance.’
‘Did you think so? Good. They say only men and boys can go onstage. Do you think I would have made a good actor?’
‘Celia!’ said Ned, scandalized.
She laughed in his face. ‘Don’t worry. I have no intention of becoming one. Plays bore me. I want real life. That was real life, wasn’t it, Ned?’
‘It certainly was,’ he said wryly, suddenly so badly wanting to kiss her that he had to keep his arms stiffly by his side. In his bossiest big-brother voice, he said, ‘Now, Celia, you have to tell me what he said, and whether it was worth that silver coin or not.’
She grinned. ‘Well, I said to him that you, heathen Englishman that you are—’
‘Celia! Heathen Engli
shman indeed! I’m no pagan!’
‘I know you’re not, but to a Catholic, like Italians are, Protestants are little better than heathens. I had to be in character, Ned.’
‘Oh. The cheek of those Papists! Right. Then what?’
‘I said that you were fascinated by the Ghetto, and particularly Jewish girls.’
‘Celia!’ protested Ned, shocked.
‘Shh. Listen. He said then that Jews were scum, but that their women were mighty beautiful. I said you wanted to know if there was any way of meeting one,
-H- 5 6 -H*-
in secret. He laughed and said it was not easy, but it could be done. He had seduced dozens himself. I don’t believe him for an instant, mind you. He’s one of those dirty talkers. I doubt any Jewish girl has even given him the time of day. But, more to our purpose, he also said that though the girls are usually protected by their families, there are ways you might meet them. People come to the Ghetto to work—builders, for instance, carpenters, painters, and such. Jews aren’t allowed to build themselves, so they have to bring in tradesmen from outside when they need to build anything, or add to it. Then there’s moneylending—he’s borrowed money himself. That Jew he spoke to in the street, with his family—that’s the moneylender he used. He says he’d love to get close to the daughter, but has not been able to.’
‘He looked like a villain to me,’ said Ned warmly. ‘I think the moneylender would be wise to keep him well away from his daughter.’
‘I am sure he knows that,’ said Celia drily. ‘Anyway, you see. It can be done.’
‘Yes,’ said Ned. ‘That is all very well, but does it get us any closer to the person who helped Sarah? Did you enquire about her?’
‘Of course not,’ said Celia. ‘That would have been far too dangerous.’
‘He did not look like a very savoury character,’ agreed Ned. ‘What are we going to do now?’
‘I suppose we should try somewhere else, 5 said Celia a little doubtfully.
‘What about in the Ghetto itself?’ said Ned.
‘Father and Dr Leone might still be there—they might see us.’
The Madman of Venice Page 4
