“There was something, I seem to recall, but I can’t quite remember…but then, Fazzini was early seventeenth century, quite a bit later than Aretino, so I never had any reason to study him. Although I have read some of the diaries. I’d say he was more of a scandalmonger than a satirist. Fazzini reports, while Aretino skewers.”
“Yes, I got the feeling Aretino didn’t like anyone much.”
“True, although he could write the most obsequious drivel when it suited him. Generally, though, he spared no one, especially those in power.” Hoddy warmed to his subject. “It’s true he was a bastard, but I can’t help being intrigued by a man who died of excessive laughter after hearing an obscene joke about his own sister. He was known as the ‘Scourge of Princes’ because his satiric verse was so popular, it could sway public opinion. Even kings lived in fear of him, and he became fabulously wealthy because they and other powerful men sent bribes so that he wouldn’t write about them. Which one must admit is exceedingly clever. I don’t believe there’s another writer in history who’s hit upon such an excellent method of writing. Anytime someone saw him pick up a quill, they threw money at him to put it down again.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” said Andrew Kent, raising his wineglass in tribute.
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Hoddy asked.
“Oh, not at all,” Gabriella answered for him. “He’s received three offers on his book already.” She smiled at Andrew. “I insist that I have the first interview once it’s published, of course.”
“I’m all yours,” he replied.
“Gabriella hosts a television program,” Giancarlo remarked to Claire.
“I heard it mentioned at the conference.” She spoke across the table to Gabriella. “What sort of topics do you cover?”
“Anything that involves history, culture, or art, so it’s pretty far ranging,” Gabriella replied. “I’ve interviewed most of the great artists of our age: Umberto Eco, Luciano Pavarotti, Roberto Begnini…” She shook her head to indicate that this was only a small sampling of her illustrious guest list. “Do you have similar programs in America?”
“Not that I know of, but I don’t watch television much.”
“Of course, it must be difficult to have such a program in your country, since you have so little history and culture.”
“I’m sure there isn’t a show like yours in America because there isn’t anyone else like you, Gabriella,” Hoddy interjected diplomatically.
“You’re too kind.”
“I think Hoddy has a point there,” Andrew said. “Gabriella has more general knowledge about art and history than anyone else I know. How many degrees do you have? Three?”
“Three, yes, it’s true, I’m terribly overeducated.” Gabriella addressed her remark to Claire, speaking as if it were an embarrassing revelation, yet managing to brag about it at the same time.
Gabriella couldn’t be much older than herself, Claire thought with dismay; at least, she didn’t look it. Three degrees? She must be some kind of superwoman. Was it fair for anyone to be so beautiful and so smart?
“Of course, I’m not counting the one from the University of Vienna,” Gabriella continued, “since it was an honorary degree.”
“The last time I was in America, it seemed as if every chat show ended up with people fighting onstage,” Andrew said. “I’m sure they can’t all be that bad, but it does appear as if anyone can be a television presenter, and it doesn’t really matter whether they know anything at all.”
“Then I could easily be a star there, couldn’t I?” Gabriella turned to Andrew with a dazzling smile.
“Anywhere, I’m sure,” Andrew said gallantly, although Claire had the impression that he was embarrassed by Gabriella’s shameless egotism; she behaved as if she were continually in the center of a spotlight. The poised yet bubbly personality that worked so well in a television studio was a bit much within the confines of a dining room.
“More wine?” Giancarlo didn’t wait for an answer, just picked up the nearest bottle and refilled Claire’s glass. “She’s hard to take sometimes, yes?” he said softly, with a glance at Gabriella.
“I think she has too many names.”
Giancarlo stifled a laugh. “I think it’s pretentious, too. Around here, we just call her La Contessa.”
“Because of her, ah, manner?” She left out the adjectives that had come to mind: conceited, self-absorbed, preening.
“No, because she is a contessa. But it’s an Austrian title, not Italian,” Giancarlo said with just the slightest disdain, as if there was something not quite legitimate about an Austrian countess. “But there are better things to talk about, yes?” he said softly, resting his hand lightly on her knee.
Oh my. That was a little more than just friendly, wasn’t it?
Hoddy leaned forward to catch Giancarlo’s eye. “So where’s that gorgeous fiancée of yours tonight, Giancarlo? Natalie, isn’t it?”
Fiancée?
Claire looked at Giancarlo, who appeared as though he’d swallowed his tongue. “She’s in Milan on business,” he replied. His hand slipped from Claire’s knee as discreetly as it had arrived.
“Didn’t you tell me that she works in the fashion industry?” Hoddy continued.
“She’s a marketing manager for Dolce & Gabbana.”
“How fabulous! Does she get a discount on those wonderful clothes?”
“Free samples, actually. They have to wear them when they’re working.”
“I thought she was exceptionally lovely. But then, I’ve always thought that Italian women were the most beautiful in the world.”
Claire sat silently between the two of them, forced to listen as Hoddy waxed eloquent on the elegant attributes of Italian women, and assimilated this new information: one fiancée, gorgeous, named Natalie, who was apparently very well attired. She noticed that the mention of Natalie’s name had piqued Renata’s interest; her curiosity carried across the table like radar.
Claire glanced at Giancarlo, who looked as embarrassed as she felt. It must be true, as he hadn’t denied it, but she had the distinct impression that he hadn’t wanted her to know. Well, it explained a few things, anyway—no wonder she’d been getting mixed messages. She was left with only one question: how soon could she politely say good night and get the hell out of there?
Justice
30 November 1617
“WE WERE SAILING past the islands just south of Istria when we were set upon by pirates out of Dalmatia,” Piero de Pieri said, with a glance down at the hat he held in his hands.
He’s nervous, and rightly so, Girolamo Silvia thought. The Venetian admiral stood alone in the center of the Room of the Four Doors in the Ducal Palace, addressing the Doge, the Signory, and the Council of Ten. He guessed it was the admiral’s first time reporting to the Doge—when ships returned safely, it wasn’t necessary. But rumor had it that the admiral’s last excursion had been a disaster, and he hadn’t even left the Adriatic.
Silvia shifted in his chair and scanned the faces of the other members of the Council of Ten. He had a sudden intuition that the admiral’s account would be in conflict with his own agenda. No one would be happy to learn of pirates so close to home, of course. But when the others knew what he knew, certainly they would be convinced of the larger threat facing them. Or would they? he wondered bitterly. Too often in the past, his wise counsel had been ignored by those less informed. Not this time, he vowed. The very survival of the Republic was at stake.
“They call themselves the Uskoks, the escaped ones,” de Pieri said. He was a short man with wide shoulders and dark, leathery skin. He’d worked his way up through the ranks, and a lifetime at sea showed in his sturdy physique and the deep lines of his face. Although he faced Venice’s supreme governing body, he seemed undaunted by the intimidating presence of so many scarlet robes. Only someone as observant as Silvia noticed the little twitch at the corner of his eye, the fingers that gripped his biretta too tightly, the tiny beads
of perspiration at his temples. “They’re Christian refugees from the parts of Dalmatia that were captured by the Turks,” the admiral continued. “Although they’re in the service of the Hapsburgs to help protect their borders from the Turks, they’re seldom paid, so they survive by plundering passing ships. And a right good enterprise they’ve made of it, too. All of Segna grows rich from their piracy, including the churches and the monasteries. These Uskoks have hundreds of small ships, only ten oars to a side, very fast and easy to maneuver. They brought out dozens of these against us and soon we were overcome.”
The Doge raised a frail hand and de Pieri fell silent. Like most Doges, Giovanni Bembo had been elected to office in the twilight of his life. He’d been Doge for two years now, and Silvia suspected he would not live to see out a third. “Could you not put to sail and get away?” he asked.
The admiral looked troubled. “Their women are witches, Your Serenity,” he said with a wary glance around the room, fully aware of how preposterous his statement sounded to the learned and reasonable men of the Republic. “They congregate in caves along the shore, wailing like tormented souls in Hell, casting spells to bring the boro, the north wind, down upon us.”
“Surely you don’t believe…,” the Doge began.
“I would not believe, except that I witnessed it myself, Your Serenity. A frigid wind began to blow as soon as those women began wailing, then a storm arose and the sea pitched and tossed something fierce. That’s when the Uskoks attacked. Their ships may be small, but they man them with ten men per oar, and they’re strong as devils. Within two hours all four of our ships had been boarded. The crews on three of the ships were on wages and had no stake in the cargo. On agreement that their lives be spared, they stood down and the Uskoks looted the goods. The fourth ship fought back.” De Pieri looked down at the floor. “Many of our men were killed. And the captain…” He looked up again at the Doge, at the six-member Signory flanking him, at the Council of Ten seated along the walls. Silvia saw the glint of anger in his eyes. “The captain was flayed alive, right there on the deck of his own ship.”
An uneasy murmur went around the room. “Flayed alive?” the Doge repeated softly. His papery eyelids slowly closed then opened again, reminding Silvia of an ancient tortoise.
“Yes, Your Serenity, just like Bragadin,” the admiral said. “A trick they learned from the Turks, no doubt.”
Damn them to hell, Silvia thought. The ghost of Marcantonio Bragadin would do his cause no good whatsoever. The dismal end of the Venetian commander of Cyprus was known to everyone in the room. After months of siege, in August 1571 Bragadin was forced to surrender Cyprus to the Turks. When he met with the Turkish pasha to ratify their agreement, he was seized and tortured. Then he was taken to the center of town, where he was stripped naked, tied to a stake, and skinned alive. The butchers began at his feet; it was said that Bragadin did not lose consciousness until they reached his waist. After the deed was done, his skin was stuffed with straw and paraded through the town. The fury this outrage inspired helped lead the Venetians to victory over the Turks in the Battle of Lepanto two months later, and now, Silvia was certain, the similar fate of the captain would stir up passionate feelings against the Uskoks.
The Doge dismissed the admiral and the room buzzed with comment. “Quiet, please,” Bembo commanded. “Everyone will have his chance to speak.”
Even before the other members of the council had offered their opinions to the Doge and the Signory, Silvia knew what they would say. Predictably, Senators Foscarini, Balbi, and Gradenigo advised an immediate strike against the Uskoks. Hotheads, Silvia thought, annoyed; they’re always ready to go to war at the least provocation. Senator Corner, one of the Tre Capi, more temperately suggested finding allies before battling the pirates.
Allies? Silvia thought resentfully as he waited for Corner and the others to finish speaking. What had allies ever done for Venice? He looked at the wall opposite, where an immense painting commemorated the arrival of Henri III in 1574. Venice’s welcome for the young French king was legendary. They had prostrated themselves and nearly bankrupted the treasury with specially designed triumphal arches and commissioned artworks, with a round of lavish banquets—including one for a crowd of three thousand, in which everything, even the napkins, had been made of spun sugar—and with the outfitting of Ca’ Foscari with the most precious carpets, tapestries, paintings, and silk bedding. But what good had it done them? In the years immediately following, Venice had suffered a fire that nearly destroyed the Doge’s Palace, and a plague that killed more than fifty thousand. Their alliance with the French king had helped them not one whit.
Finally the others finished speaking. All had recommended retaliation against the Uskoks. Not one, Silvia reflected with disgust, had considered a simple alternative: that Venetian ships avoid the Dalmatian coast. Why was it always up to him to be the voice of reason?
“Senator Silvia, what have you to say?” the Doge inquired.
Silvia stood to face Bembo and the Signory. “While the events that Signor de Pieri related to us are regrettable,” he began, “it’s a mistake to wage war against the Uskoks. There is piracy everywhere. Venetian merchants and sailors must cope with it as best they can.”
“But this happened in our very own Adriatic!” Balbi exclaimed, unable to restrain himself.
“Which makes it easy to avoid them,” Silvia said. “We know where they are. These small ships the admiral spoke of—surely they cannot venture far from their own coast. The Uskoks are an annoyance, yes, but not a threat.”
“If we allow them to thrive in the Adriatic, we will appear weak,” Gradenigo said.
“We are weak,” Silvia countered, “and so we must choose our battles carefully. Gentlemen, we face a greater threat than that posed by a group of Dalmatian peasants. It has come to my attention that the duke of Ossuna is building a new fleet. As you all know, during the past year he’s been harassing our ships in an effort to monopolize our trade. But these new ships of his are not merchant ships—they’re warships. In addition, he’s planted spies who have passed on secret information about the Arsenale.”
The mention of spies set everyone talking again and Silvia had to raise his voice to be heard. “I believe that the duke has his eye on more than supremacy in the Adriatic. I believe he has designs on Venice itself.”
At this, a few of the senators exclaimed loudly, and the council and the Signory began arguing among themselves. The Doge hushed everyone, then turned his tired eyes back to Silvia. “Do you have evidence that Ossuna is planning an attack?”
“No, Your Serenity, but there are indications…”
“Indications? Philip III may be half the man his father was, but Lerma is someone to be reckoned with, and Spain is still as rich as ever. Are you suggesting that we go to war with Spain on the basis of an indication?”
“I’m suggesting that we not squander our resources when we may very well need them right here.”
The Doge placed his fingertips together and rested them against his chin, momentarily lost in thought. With barely a glance up, he said, “Contarini?”
By the bloody Virgin, Silvia swore silently. Dario Contarini was the Doge’s favorite adviser and considered by some to be the embodiment of the Venetian ideal: robustly healthy, rich, virile, popular, and so politically astute that he’d been appointed to the Signory at the tender age of forty-two. It seemed to Silvia that he was the only one who saw Contarini for what he truly was: two-faced, equivocal, and always willing to bend with the prevailing winds, provided that it benefited him personally. But somehow his lack of respect for Contarini did not have the humbling effect that Silvia felt it should have; the younger senator simply shrugged it off and seemed to embrace every opportunity to oppose him. Even worse, he appeared to enjoy it. As Contarini stood to address the assembly, his fine-featured face could not conceal a slight smirk that Silvia knew was meant for him.
“Senator Silvia is right when he points out that we
don’t have the resources to wage war on two fronts,” Contarini said. “But in the absence of an actual threat from Ossuna, we can’t ignore the fact that the Uskoks are damaging Venetian profits and taking Venetian lives.”
Damn you, Silvia thought as Contarini went on in that oh-so-reasonable tone of his, one that was tinged with just the slightest hint of condescension. As he expounded on the uncertainty of Ossuna’s intentions, his unspoken message was clear: Silvia was an old crank who saw conspiracies everywhere. Silvia gritted his teeth to keep a rein on his fury. It would do no good to show it here.
“As the Uskoks are ostensibly in the service of the Hapsburgs,” Contarini concluded, “we should look to Savoy for an alliance.”
The Doge nodded in agreement. Silvia felt a piercing pain at his temples. The obtuseness of his peers was frustrating beyond belief. His only solace was that one day they would thank him for his foresight; they would thank him and, by God, they would elect him Doge.
“Ossuna could wish for nothing more than to have both Savoy’s and Venice’s armies off fighting on the other side of the Adriatic,” Silvia said harshly. “If this be your decision, we may as well set up a welcoming committee for the duke at Malamocco.”
“Stand down, Silvia,” Bembo said. “We must put an end to the Uskoks’ depredations, but your warning will not go unheeded. If the Three should discover more evidence of Ossuna’s plotting, I trust you will inform us.”
“Of course, Your Serenity.” Silvia couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Contarini. He didn’t meet Silvia’s eyes. By this small admission, Silvia was certain that Contarini had heard the Doge’s implied command to Silvia to keep on with his intelligence gathering. Silvia allowed himself a smirk of his own. Of course he would keep on. And he knew just where he would start.
The Hierophant
17 December 1617
IN THE MARQUIS’S gondola, moored at the Molo, Paolo Calieri listened to the thunderous sound of rain drumming on the felze. The squall had come in from the east just before dawn, and by midday all of Venice was suffering the effects of the deluge. In torrents, rain streamed off the silent bell towers, cascaded from the golden spires and shining domes of the Basilica and the Reden-tore, and spilled down the stone walls of palaces and tenements, flooding cobbled lanes and turning unpaved alleys into mud. Rain gushed into the rising canals, where tufts of seaweed and moss swayed in the murky depths, and reduced the traffic on the Grand Canal to a single galleon, pregnant with spices and aromatic oils, that labored valiantly toward the Rialto.
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