The captain of the ship gripped the great wheel and grinned at the tempest.
Hours later, when the fury of the wind had spent itself, the captain shouted orders to hoist sail again. He went down to his cabin. As he approached he could hear loud moans, and snatches of prayer in Hebrew. He entered and found a small man dressed in black, lying on his back on the floor in a pool of filth. The sick man clutched at his middle. He writhed and groaned piteously at every lurch of the ship on the still turbulent sea.
“O God of the Jews,” he muttered through his beard, “I know I am a miserable sinner, but no man is deserving of such a punishment!”
The captain laughed. “Well, Malachi,” he said heartily, “didn’t I tell you the weather was too good to hold? I was afraid you’d go through an entire voyage without seeing what a real storm was like.” He knelt at the smaller man’s side and lifted him tenderly by the shoulders. “Do you want a bucket, old friend?”
“Bucket? Bucket?” Malachi squeaked. “Why would I need a bucket? I have nothing inside, not even my vital organs. Everything, I have given everything to the sea. I am an empty shell, a husk of the man I once was.”
The bigger man laughed heartlessly.
“Go away, Rafaello, I implore you. If you haven’t the decency to sympathize with a dying man—”
“You’re not dying, Malachi. You’re only playing for sympathy. Come on. I’ll get you to my bunk and send the boy in with some food.”
“Food? Food? And how would I digest this food, with no stomach? Please go, Rafaello. Let me die in peace. When you see my wife, tell her that I love her and the little ones. Look after her. I hope there’s a little money left from this voyage—”
“I checked the hold. We’ve lost some molasses—the barrels splintered—but everything else is all right.”
Malachi grunted. “That’s good. I can die now, knowing they will be cared for. Funny. The thought of Death isn’t horrible at all. It’s a great relief, as I always thought it would be. It is good to learn one last truth.”
“Save your philosophizing until you reach land,” Raf advised him. He slid his arms under the other man’s shoulders and knees, and lifted him gently. He laid the wasted form on his bunk and covered him with blankets. “I think you’ll live, Malachi. The storm is over and the sea is calm.”
“Calm? Look, the lantern up there is swinging so hard it’s knocking against the ceiling. Everything is moving and swaying. When the boat tilts I think I’m going to fall on the wall on the other side of the room. You call this calm!”
"Don’t think about it,” Raf suggested. “Think about getting home. You can swagger in front of the girls like a real hero.”
“Hero?” Malachi squeaked. “I am no hero. I am a victim, a simple man, a merchant. If man was meant to sail, God would have given him wings and scales. Man is a land animal. A biped. He belongs in civilized places, like cities, with other men.”
“Yes, in squalid rooms with no ventilation, listening to the sounds of others making love, smelling the stink of somebody else’s cooking, breathing the same stale air they breathe. No, you ask too little of life, Malachi. No man deserves to live as we do on land, in filthy ghettos that most Christians wouldn’t house their pigs in. Far better to have an airy palazzo with a wide open courtyard and a few orange and olive trees. But as a Jew I can’t aspire to that. So give me a tall ship with open decks and all the fresh air and sunshine I want.”
“You’re not making me feel any better, Rafaello, with all this talk of stinking air and stale cooking. Have a little pity on your old friend. You are a sailor, a brave man. I am only a poor scholar—”
They were interrupted by a weary-looking sailor. “Ship ahoy, sir, port side. Venetian warship—or what’s left of her.”
Raf Leopardi went up and spied on the ship with his glass. She was listing badly. One of her masts was missing, and he thought he detected serious damage on her starboard bow, just above the water line. He ordered his men to bring their ship, La Maga,alongside, and to lower a small boat. He himself led the boarding party.
It was a death ship. It had recently seen battle; some of the gun ports weren’t even closed. The acrid stench of smoke and blood clung to the sodden decks. The ship. La Serenissima, probably would have burned if the storm hadn’t come up in time to douse the flames. Dead men, those who hadn’t been washed overboard, lay shot or drowned on the lower decks. They found a few survivors below, including Admiral Angelo Sagredo, leader of the Venetian fleet.
They attached a tow line and took the survivors on board La Maga. Most were suffering from exposure or exhaustion. When Sagredo recovered a little, he told Raf that they had done battle with Barbary Pirates, who had been driven off by the storm.
“Two other ships went down with all hands,” the Admiral said weakly. “The last of the fleet. Senate sent us out two years ago to wipe out the pirates. We asked for reinforcements, more ammunition, more ships and men; they refused. New Commissioner, Loredan, said they couldn’t afford it. Too busy spending money on parties for foreigners.”
Raf nodded. He felt a surge of anger. So Loredan was responsible for this pitiful finish to a mission that had started out as a noble crusade to rid the Adriatic and Mediterranean of the Barbary devils who had plagued traders for so long. Loredan. He might have known.
He remembered the consternation in the ghetto at the tightening of restrictions against Jews. That had been Loredan’s doing, too. After the new laws came into effect, Raf’s grandfather had decided to leave his home and seek out a more welcoming business climate. Raf had refused to accompany him. “It’s just what they want us to do, don’t you see?” he had argued. But the old man was tired of fighting the Venetian government. On the voyage to Greece, he had sickened and died. Raf blamed Loredan. Why couldn’t they at least leave the Jews in peace, even if they wouldn’t give them a say in their own government?
Now Loredan the Jew-hater had become Loredan, Commissioner of the Seas. In Raf’s mind, he epitomized the true shame of Venice: greatness fallen to weakness and impotence. The entire noble class was corrupt. The stink of their decay hung around them like a plague-sickness, infecting every place they frequented, everything they touched. They were a dying race and hadn’t sense enough to know it. But a new day was coming.
“—should have given up,” Sagredo was saying. Turned back. But we were so close, only a few hundred miles from Tunis, where the Bey bases his ships. If I’d had the powder and the men, I could have surprised them. Blown the whole fleet right out of the water.”
Raf was silent for a few minutes, then he said thoughtfully, “I have a hold full of gunpowder. And twenty barrels of rum. If I remember correctly, the mouth of the harbor at Tunis is fairly narrow.”
“That’s right. The harbor itself is quite small— easily defensible.”
“And vulnerable.” Raf grinned. “I think we should go after them.”
“Are you mad?” Admiral Sagredo stared. “In this tub? They’d eat you alive!”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of a fight—much as I’d like one. I was thinking—about a bomb. A very big bomb.”
“I don’t understand.”
“La Serenissima will leave this world in a blaze of glory—instead of limping back to Venice, towed by a merchant ship. First we’ll take her guns and set them up on this ship. Then we’ll load her up with rum and gunpowder, sail her into the harbor at Tunis some night when the wind is right, and set her afire. They won’t be able to get near her, of course. The fire will spread to their own ships, and if any of them try to sail out of the harbor to safety, we’ll be waiting to pick them off.
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Sagredo said. “Who’s going to sail her in? How will they get off?”
“I will,” Raf said as if it were obvious. “And I suppose I’ll have to swim.” He laughed suddenly. “I was hoping I could show my friend Malachi a little excitement before we got home!”
Fosca examined herself critica
lly in the mirror.
“Ugly,” she pronounced witheringly. “I cannot believe that you expect me to go out into the street looking like a feather duster! It’s hideous! I don’t care if Marie Antoinette herself is wearing her hair this way. 1 hate it!”
Her hairdresser cast Antonio an imploring look “You speak to her, Signor. I cannot! She is not happy with anything I do these days. My best, I do my best for her, and still she scolds. I have done the hair of the Queen of France herself, in this just way. She was delighted, but Madame Fosca calls it ugly! What can I do? What can I do?” he wailed.
Antonio made placating motions with his hands and went to stand behind Fosca, who was seated at her dressing table. He could sympathize with the little Frenchman. These days he couldn’t please Fosca either. She had been restless, irritable, and dissatisfied with everything and everyone, ever since the Morosini affair. Antonio suspected that she and Loredan had had words. She complained constantly of boredom but rejected any suggestions he made to banish it. Things she used to like to do gave her no pleasure anymore. She reminded him of a caged lioness he had once seen in a menagerie.
Antonio plucked a fat rose from a bouquet on the table and fastened it above Fosca’s right ear. “There. Now it is the rose that looks ugly, by comparison.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. Fosca smiled feebly.
“You are the most outrageous flatterer,” she sighed deeply. “Dear Antonio. I adore you.” She cocked her head and touched the rose lightly. “Yes, it’s a little better. More—interesting. And,” she added with a touch of venom, “more attractive than the atrocity that Monsieur de Valle created. If I had rivals in love, Monsieur, I would send them to you. After you had worked your magic on them, they would be rivals no longer.”
The Frenchman was almost in tears. He was not accustomed to such abuse from the gracious ladies of Venice, who were originally the most sweet-tempered and charming creatures he had ever met in his life. So had Madame Fosca been once, before she quarrelled with her lover. At least, that’s the story he had heard from other clients.
Before the hairdresser left her boudoir, Antonio pressed extra sequins into his hand. “Forgive her,” he whispered. “She doesn’t mean it. She knows she has never looked more beautiful than since you came to her, but she can’t help—”
“I understand, Signor,” the Frenchman said sadly. “When a woman’s heart is broken—.” He gave a Gallic shrug, sighed profoundly, and went out.
Fosca pouted. “You’re angry with me, too. Don’t bother to deny it. Well, why don’t you leave me, then? I don’t care! You never loved me anyway!”
“I will never leave you, Fosca,” Antonio said warmly, taking her hand. “Perhaps someday, when I am old and deaf and blind, but then only because it would make me sad that I couldn’t appreciate your beauty. Until then, I shall be ever faithful.”
“But you’re still angry,” Fosca sniffed. “I can tell.”
“No, never!” Antonio protested. “Does one become angry with the sun when a cloud passes over its face? Or with a flower, when it wilts and fades for want of light and water? No, Fosca, you are a child of nature, a daughter of the gods. If you don’t behave like the rest of us ordinary mortals, we have no cause for complaint. We can only quake—and adore you from afar.”
Fosca laughed, and Antonio beamed. It was the first laugh he had heard from her in many weeks.
“You poor put-upon darling,” she said fondly, touching his cheek with her curled forefinger. “I don’t know what I would do without you. Well, what new distractions do you have in store for me today? A visit to a fortune-teller, perhaps? I won’t go. I have no future, and therefore no fortune. Or shall we go sailing on the lagoon? No, that’s a bad idea. I’d be tempted to throw myself into the water, and you would throw yourself in after to save me, and I would have to save you because you never learned to swim. Or we could go and listen to a storyteller spinning his absurd lies about love and destiny and romance in faraway places.”
“How would you like another visit to the alchemist?” Antonio suggested with a grin.
“And be robbed of every silver coin I possess? I think not. Wait, what about that little tavern I’ve heard about, behind San’ Zuliana, where the Freemasons meet? I have heard that they do some very strange and marvelous magic.”
Antonio said quickly, “I’m afraid not, dear one. That place was closed by the Inquisitors just two days ago and all their books and implements confiscated.”
He tried to steer her away from anything that Loredan would consider dangerous or inappropriate, and it wasn’t always easy.
“How utterly boring,” Fosca grumbled. “Well, I won’t gamble. I’ve lost every penny I had and I absolutely refuse to borrow from you again. It’s shameful, isn’t it, the way I behave? Do you think I’m bewitched? Or insane?” Antonio hastened to reassure her that none of these things could possibly be true. “I should know better, when it comes to gambling. After what happened to my father. Ruined. Penniless. Because he couldn’t stay away from the tables. Tomasso is the same way. He takes every sequin I give him and just tosses it away. He squanders his stipend from the State, too. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but what’s the use? I’m every bit as bad as he is.”
Her mind began to dwell on the serious consequences her father’s penury had had on her life. Antonio saw her eyes grow sad and he said quickly.
“You are reckless and foolhardy, my angel, and I adore you that way. All your friends do. Now come out with me for a little stroll. We’ll do the Liston, if you like, and spy on everybody and find something to amuse us. We’ll take coffee at Florian’s and later we might even stop at the latteria and gorge on some lovely whipped cream. Then we’ll dine and later we’ll go to the theater.”
At that moment Giacomo Selvo burst into the room. He was wearing a brilliant turquoise coat and red breeches, with a red and green striped waistcoat and similarly striped stockings. His cloak was slung carelessly over his shoulder and he held a red mask by its ribbons. He bowed over Fosca’s hand and said breathlessly,
“I’m in a tearing hurry, my dears, you have no idea! Forgive me, I can only stay a minute—”
“But where are you off to, Giacomino?” Fosca wondered.
“To the afternoon session of the Senate, of course!
”His friends exchanged worried looks. Never, in all the time they had known him, had Giacomo displayed any interest at all in the workings of government. It might have been the proscribed duty of every noble to attend the sessions of the Grand Council and to cast his vote, but Giacomo gladly paid any fines the state levied against him, just so he could forego that privilege.
“Are you ill, darling?” Fosca asked, touching her fingers to his forehead. “I think he’s raving, Antonio.”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” Giacomo said impatiently. “Today the Senate is giving an award, a citation of merit, to the Jew, Leopardi. He’s the hero of the day, the month, the year! Everyone will be there, just to see what happens.”
“But what could happen?” Antonio shrugged. “An award ceremony isn’t exactly exciting.”
“Well, for one thing, Loredan himself is going to present the citation. And this Jew fellow has said some fairly strong things about him in public—there’s no telling what will happen, with a Jew involved. Everyone knows what they’re like.”
Fosca frowned. Except for her departed tailor, she had never wittingly had anything to do with a Jew. “No, what are they like?” she demanded.
“Why, my dear, they kill little Christian babies and eat them at Eastertide!”
Fosca gave a horrified shriek.
“Why do you think Loredan—the State—wanted to get rid of them? They’re like rats. You think you’ve seen the last of them, and they pop up again someplace else.”
“Like pimples,” Antonio observed. “But tell me, why are they citing this Jew at all?”
“Really, I can’t believe you haven’t heard all about :t. It’s been in the Gazzettino
and—”
“I’ll never read that rag again,” Fosca sniffed.
"They refused to print Antonio’s ode to my eyes!”
“We’ve been rather idly busy, or busily idle,” Antonio explained.
“Well, his merchant ship came in last week, with only half the cargo that it had when it left America. Do you know where the rest of it went? He put it on board a rotten warship and set fire to it and blew up the whole harbor at Tunis. Wiped out the Barbary fleet, just like that! It’s the first time in years that the seas have been free of those pirate rascals. Oh, the Jew’s brave enough, I suppose. The Commission of the Seas has even received a letter of congratulations from King Louis of France, praising the navy on their decisive victory.” Giacomo snorted derisively. “As if they had anything to do with it!”
“You will pardon my bafflement, my friend,” said Antonio, “but why this sudden interest in things bellicose and navigational?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Giacomo looked surprised. “Why, I bought some shares in his ship, La Maga,before she sailed. And in spite of losing the rum and gunpowder, he still managed to bring in a little profit. Now I don’t approve of this buccaneering, and I shall tell him so. But on the whole, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing. An award like this carries a lot of weight with big investors. Why, there’s even talk of a commission for the man, in the Venetian Navy! Can you imagine? A Jew, an officer in our Navy? I’ll bet Loredan is furious! Admiral Sagredo himself is pushing for it, too. Yes, Leopardi could well get some fine merchant ships built for him now. A whole fleet!”
Antonio gathered up cloaks and masks and Fosca's fan. As they followed her down the marble staircase to Giacomo’s waiting gondola, he said, “I congratulate you, dear friend. It was very decent of you to let me know about a fine investment opportunity like Leopardi’s Maga. It wouldn’t have been like you to keep the knowledge to yourself. You’re not that sort.”
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