by Sam Barone
By now they had drawn near to the Ducal Palace, and the crowd of idlers in the street started cheering at the sight of a Knight of St. John.
“Antonio, you will do nothing whatsoever without informing me. You will give me your word on that.”
Antonio bit his lip. But the Knight had killed a man to protect him. “Yes, Sir Annet.”
“When we’re alone, you will tell me the whole story. Everything.”
“Yes, Sir Annet.”
They reached the Palace, where a crowd had gathered. They began shouting and cheering at the arrival of the Knight from Malta, and the din prohibited any more conversation. The happy throng blocked the way to the entrance, and the Doge’s ceremonial guards, stationed outside the entrance, had to descend the steps and help clear the way. At last Sir Annet’s party passed within the massive bronze doors, to the relative quiet inside.
Antonio recognized the Doge’s chamberlain, Dom Salvatore Russo. Marco had pointed him out one day when Russo had visited the Arsenal. The chamberlain greeted them, offering a gracious bow to the Knight.
“Welcome to the Palace, Sir Annet,” Russo said. “I will guide you to the Sala del Senato, where the Doge and the several members of the Signoria will join you shortly. Your attendants can wait for you in the Hall of the Compass.”
“Thank you, Dom Russo.” Sir Annet replied in French. “This is my interpreter and advisor, Deputy Ambassador Antonio Pesaro.”
Antonio bowed to Dom Russo, then glanced at Martin, who looked uncomfortable at being separated. Nonetheless, there was nothing he could do.
The chamberlain led the way through the magnificent entry hall, up the Golden Staircase, and into the Sala del Senato, the Senate Hall. This chamber was reserved for full meetings of the Signoria or other occasions when the Doge wished to overawe his visitors. Antonio had never been inside the Palace. Marco had tried to describe it, but lacked the words to do it justice. What Antonio saw was truly breathtaking.
Works of art by the masters covered every wall and ceiling, so many that the frames butted against one another. Sculptures, paintings, carpets, carved wood, added more decorations, though the bare walls themselves would have been impressive enough. Skilled artisans from all of Europe had worked on the Palace, with the sole aim of impressing upon everyone who entered that the wealth and power of the Republic had no equal.
Nevertheless, Antonio tried to follow the Knight’s example, who apparently could ignore the splendor almost as if he’d seen it all before. Antonio had to work to keep his eyes from studying the fine artworks.
When they entered the empty Senate Hall, Dom Russo escorted them to a large table topped with red-veined marble that faced a dais. A curved platform spread out from each side, so that the rulers of the republic all sat equally close to the visitor’s table.
The Doge might be the official ruler, but technically he remained only the first among equals. The Signoria could vote him out of his exalted position at any time, though such a happening rarely occurred.
At age 79, Dom Girolamo Priuli had been Doge for seven years, being elected to the office upon the death of his younger brother, Lorenzo, who held the office before him. This morning Uncle Marco had described Girolamo as someone who lacked the brilliance of his predecessor, but managed the affairs of the Republic well enough. He had, after all, kept the Turks at bay, a difficult juggling act in itself.
His two key advisors were Dom Andrea Moro and Dom Francesco Falieri. Uncle Marco had tried to explain the complicated power structure of the Signoria, but the morning’s leisurely breakfast had only provided time to scratch the surface of a Gordian Knot of political intrigue. However, Antonio did grasp a few basic facts.
Falieri and Moro had hated each other for years. Both were merchant princes who led large trading houses whose ventures spanned all of Europe and beyond. Both had alliances and arrangements with the other members of the Signoria, and those allegiances shifted often, as followers joined, departed, or changed sides. Doge Priuli had his own followers, and the three main factions existed in an uneasy peace, a triumvirate that cooperated when necessary, but left each faction always seeking to gain an advantage.
“Why doesn’t Lady Masina just poison Moro?” Antonio asked during breakfast.
Marco had shrugged. “Moro has many relatives and even more friends. Even Masina couldn’t poison all of them, and she and her husband know what would happen if Moro died suspiciously. An assassin’s knife is often more reliable than poison.”
Since neither man alone had enough influence to win the last election for Doge, Girolamo Priuli had emerged as the compromise candidate and nothing had changed since his ascendance. Except, of course, his consolidation of power.
Sir Annet took his seat at the center of the table, and Antonio sat on his left. Servants brought pitchers of water and wine, and a platter of small pastries. De Clermont ignored the food and drink. Instead he made the Sign of the Cross, clasped his hands together, and lowered his head in silent prayer. Perforce Antonio joined him, though he had never seen the Knight offer more than a quick prayer before dining.
As the silent praying went on, Antonio realized that the negotiations had already begun. The cathedral clock struck nine. Of course the Doge would be at least a quarter hour late, possibly longer, to show any distinguished visitor his relative lack of importance in the grand scheme of Venetian politics.
Most of those who waited for the Doge’s arrival soon betrayed their anger or nervousness, either by restlessness, partaking of the wine and food, or by the expressions on their faces. But Sir Annet’s prayers made him oblivious to the passage of time and placed him in a superior position, as a representative and servant of God. He gave the impression he would be content to sit here and pray for the rest of the day.
Antonio knew he and the Knight were under observation. The paintings and wood paneling that covered the walls no doubt concealed a few spy holes, and the Doge or his servants would be watching the visitors for signs of impatience. This time the wait would be futile. The Knight could keep to his vespers for hours, and then express gratitude to the Doge for permitting him so much extra time to commune with the Almighty.
The Knights of St. John, Antonio decided, were well versed in intrigue and political maneuverings. They had, after all, kept their independence for hundreds of years, all the while dealing with the major Christian powers – Spain, France, Rome, Genoa, and Venice.
In less than ten minutes after the nine o’clock hour sounded, a door behind the dais, so well concealed that Antonio hadn’t noticed it, swung open. The Chamberlain entered, lifted his head, and intoned in a loud voice, “Monsignor el Doxe, Serenissimo Principe di Venezia, Dom Girolamo Priuli.” From habit, Antonio mentally translated the words into English – “My Lord the Doge, Most Serene Prince of Venice.”
The Chamberlain stepped to the side and bowed low, as the Doge swept by him.
Sir Annet hesitated just the slightest amount. No Knight of St. John would interrupt his prayers to leap to his feet for some earthly ruler. He ended his prayer, repeated the Sign of the Cross, and rose. Antonio kept pace with Sir Annet.
Both men bowed low, and held the position for as long as one might count to five. When Sir Annet straightened up, the Doge had ascended the dais and stood before the ornately carved and beautifully upholstered chair, almost a throne. Eight members of the Signoria followed in single file behind the Doge, and they took their places to the left and right of the dais.
The Doge eased himself onto the cushions and arranged his ermine-fringed robe. Only when satisfied did he glance at the visitors. “Please be seated, Sir Annet.” The members of the Signoria also took their seats. Falieri sat to the left of the Doge, Moro to the right.
Sir Annet sank back into his chair, leaning slightly toward Antonio as if expecting him to confirm his words. “God’s blessing on you, Dom Priuli, and to all the members of the Signoria. My Order wishes to give thanks to the Republic for agreeing to meet with me.”
The words were in halting Italian, but spoken distinctly, so that each word could not be misunderstood.
“Our congratulations on your great triumph, Sir Annet. The Knights of St. John have won a great victory in defeating the Turks,” Dom Priuli said. “One of our agents arrived from Brindisi this morning, confirming the news. Before we discuss business and other matters that brought you here, we would like to hear the details about the siege.”
“Of course, Dom Priuli,” de Clermont said. “But I fear my Italian is not up to such a task. But my companion and Deputy Ambassador, Knight of Grace Sir Antonio Pesaro, will be pleased to answer any questions, if you will permit him.”
Antonio knew there was nothing wrong with Sir Annet’s grasp of basic Italian, but the Knight preferred to study his listeners.
Dom Priuli’s eyes went to Antonio. “You are English, I’ve been told, and recently arrived in Venice. Your uncle is Master Silvestri, at the Arsenal?”
“Yes, Dom Priuli.” Antonio spoke in Italian. He bowed again, determined to be as oily as the Doge. “I came to my family’s home in Venice, to exchange various techniques of gun smithing between the London and Venetian guilds. I was almost ready to return to England when I was assigned to Sir Annet’s galley on the run to Malta.”
But the Doge clearly had no interest in Antonio’s personal story. “You arrived in Malta just as the siege began. Tell us about it.”
Antonio thanked God that no one wanted to hear his tale. “My Lord, the Turks arrived at dawn on the morning of Friday, the eighteenth of May, in 190 ships. They blockaded Grand Harbor, and within a few days, landed 40,000 troops on Malta, along with 120 cannons.”
Antonio related the story of the siege, and never in his life had he had such an audience. The Signoria had dealt with the Turks for a 100 years, many times paying them tribute for peace. That kept the Republic in a precarious existence. As the Turks grew stronger and more warlike, their demands for gold increased.
In the last few years, the Venetians recognized their own coming danger. With their empire expanding, the Turks would soon surround the Republic by land, and the temptation for the Sultan to simply add Venice to his holdings would become irresistible. The monstrous invasion fleet that had attacked Malta could just as easily have sailed up the Adriatic and attacked Venice.
Instead, the unconquerable Turks had been defeated, and by a handful of men led by an order of mad knights that should have died out 100 years ago. Malta’s victory had changed the dynamics in the Mediterranean, might even upset the Republic’s role in the balance of power. As for the Turks, everyone knew they would not stand for such a setback. They would strike again, and their next target, since Malta had proved a hard nut to crack, might very well be Venice.
So the Doge and his ministers hung on every word Antonio uttered, seeking to understand not only how the Knights had emerged victorious, but what military tactics Venice could use in its own defense.
As he spoke, Antonio studied the faces of his audience, concentrating on the Doge and Falieri. Dom Priuli wore a gold-threaded hat that resembled a crown and covered more than half his forehead. Dark brows and almost black eyes stared at Antonio over a sharp jutting nose. His long beard was mostly gray, with only a few streaks of black and brown showing. His cheeks bore the faint pockmark scars of the pox in addition to the deep lines of age.
His ermine robe could have graced the king of Spain or France. A lace-embroidered shirt decorated with golden buttons, each the size of a small walnut, put his wealth on display, as did the heavy gold ring on his right hand. But most men only saw his eyes when staring up at the Doge of Venice. Hooded eyes that displayed the power of the man. An old man with few limits on his authority and plenty of peevish anger for the younger rivals surrounding him.
Francesco Falieri was much younger, in his early fifties. Like all the members of the Signoria, he wore a soft cap with a pointed tuft protruding from one side and stitched with gold threads. A white head cover showed beneath his cap. Falieri wore his black beard short, unlike most of the others listening to the story of the siege of Malta. He was probably the youngest of those facing Antonio, and Falieri still had the powerful frame of a man in his prime. A dangerous opponent, Antonio decided.
Andrea Moro had a lean, almost emaciated look about him. Thin lips failed to cover yellowing teeth, and his wide-set brown eyes stared at the Knight from Malta. Moro was also in his early fifties and, like Falieri, probably spent each day wondering how much longer the Doge would live. According to Uncle Marco, both men were yet unready for a full-scale power struggle. Whichever one failed to replace Dom Priuli would probably end up dead or banished from Venice.
Antonio continued his story, recounting the major battles separated by the daily shelling that sapped the defenders’ strength and morale. St. Mark’s Cathedral sounded the hour of 10 o’clock, and at least another 30 minutes passed before Antonio ended his tale.
The Doge had asked no questions during Antonio’s recital. For a few moments, as a weary Antonio moistened his throat with a second cup of water, no one spoke.
“We have many questions,” Dom Priuli said, “but they can wait until we refresh ourselves.” He glanced at the Chamberlain, still standing behind the Doge’s chair. “We will reconvene in 15 minutes. Show our guests where they can refresh themselves.”
The Doge stood, then left the chamber through the same door he had entered. The Chamberlain stepped off the dais. “Sir Annet, Sir Antonio, perhaps you would like to follow me.”
They did, and soon found themselves in a small and plainly furnished latrine a few doors down from the Senate Hall. None of the Signoria were present, so Antonio decided they must have their own place to piss, probably into solid gold pots.
“You told the story well, Antonio,” Sir Annet commented.
“Thank you, Sir Annet. With each retelling, it becomes easier.”
Even if the chamberlain had not been present, Antonio and the Knight would have said little more. No doubt even this room had its listening hole.
Back out in the hall, they took time to examine some of the paintings in their gilded frames, any one of which could have been the central piece in a king’s collection. But when the Chamberlain cleared his throat, they returned to the Senate Hall and resumed their seats. A moment later the Doge and the other members entered in a dignified procession, taking their seats as before.
In the Senate Hall, Antonio expected to be subjected to a barrage of questions. But the Doge had another subject in mind.
“Antonio Pesaro, this morning a detachment of La Forsa attempted to arrest you for the murder of Olivio Moretti, a worker in the Arsenal. You killed the clerk accompanying them.”
So the evil news had been waiting for the first break in the conference. “Your pardon, My Lord,” Antonio said. He leaned closer to de Clermont, and spoke to him in French, keeping his voice low. Sir Annet nodded, then replied in French, speaking slowly so that Antonio could translate easily.
“Sir Annet begs me to inform you that it was he who ordered the clerk killed. The . . . man could not produce a warrant, or even an order from the Court. The clerk claimed that a woman had ordered my arrest – he declared her to be Lady Masina Falieri, My Lord. When the man refused to clear the way, Sir Annet ordered him killed.”
The Doge’s face betrayed nothing, but Falieri could not keep an expression of surprise off his, as his wife’s name burst into the conversation. The Doge saw it, too, as did Moro, who could not keep the smile from his mouth. “Your wife again, Francesco?” Moro said. “Did she forget to tell you?”
Falieri clenched his jaw and darted a look of hatred at Moro. But Falieri said nothing.
The other members of the Signoria also had smiles at the news. Obviously Lady Masina had interfered in the affairs of the merchant princes before.
Before anyone on the council could speak, Sir Annet again leaned over and whispered to Antonio. “My Lord, Sir Annet asks me to tell you the story of Olivio . . . if you
are interested in hearing it. It may explain much.”
“We’ve heard you tell one story, why not another?” The Doge leaned back in his chair.
Once again, Antonio started with the story of the voyage to Malta, but this time he went over the incident that had removed Olivio from his command of the Arsenal staff, and then the discovery of the missing weapons.
He told them everything, the voyage to Malta, the unloading of the casks of gunpowder, and the attack in the alley that left Tozzo dead and Antonio nearly so. When he finished, he studied the Doge and his council. While few showed sympathy with the tale, Antonio saw no signs of active hate.
“So, My Lord, if I had not challenged him to a duel, he would have been brought back to Malta in chains, for murdering one of your own Venetian citizens there. Olivio would have been hanged for that crime. I knew that upon my return to Venice, Olivio would have fled or gone into hiding, knowing that he would be charged with murdering Tozzo. But even in Venice, I’m sure my testimony, supported by the Knights, would have sent him to the gallows. I preferred to deal with him myself, and save everyone the trouble.”
“And does Sir Annet agree with this fanciful tale?”
The word “fanciful” came close to accusing the Knight of lying. After Antonio translated, Sir Annet lifted his eyes and met the Doge’s stare. He spoke directly to him, knowing that several of the Signoria, perhaps most of them, would be familiar enough with the French language to follow his words.
“I was there, commanding the galley, and witnessed the proof of Olivio’s theft. I would have hanged him there, but Sir Antonio pleaded with me for his life. In a moment of weakness I let him live, and another man, a young Venetian, died for my mercy. But far more important is the role Sir Antonio played in defending Malta. But for his actions during the attack of July 15, it is possible that Malta might have fallen. It was for his deeds that day that Grand Master Valette awarded him the rank of Knight of Grace in the Order of St. John. And named him as Deputy Ambassador to Venice.”