The Rossetti Letter (v5)

by Phillips, Christi

  He peered out from under the canopy at the forlorn scene before him: the Piazzetta and the Piazza San Marco were as tightly shuttered and empty as the deck of a battened ship. He thought about his collection of spiderwebs, tenderly preserved between translucent sheets of parchment and kept in the driest cupboard in his room. Even though he took such care, the webs’ pearlescent threads never lasted through the wet Venetian winter, but their ephemeral delicacy contributed to their fascination. Paolo marveled at the way they disintegrated so slowly and beautifully, and left behind the bits of treasure they had caught: an iridescent insect’s wing, a shiny beetle carapace. So tiny yet so exquisite; if only he had more time to study them.

  Paolo got to his feet as the Spanish ambassador appeared from the arcade of the Doge’s Palace and strode across the rainswept square. The marquis stepped into the gondola and shook his cape from his shoulders. It was wet through, just in the brief time it had taken him to cross the Piazzetta. He leaned back on the upholstered bench and looked up at Paolo, who stood unbowed against the rain, one hand gripping the oar, waiting for instruction. “To the embassy,” he said, raising his voice over the sound of the storm. Paolo nodded and rowed them away from the dock.

  The ambassador watched the Doge’s Palace slip past, its multi-arched, pink and white facade unusually solemn under the dismal sky. The rain depressed him. There was water enough in Venice already, too much water without more of it falling from the sky. He felt a sudden, sharp longing for the scent of earth in his nostrils, the familiar, spicy loam of the Spanish plains, instead of Venice’s moldering mildew. His appointment to Venice was considered one of the most prestigious in the diplomatic corps, but Bedmar often wondered if Venice was fit for men like him, men who would rather be astride a horse than in a gondola, who preferred vast, silent vistas and barren mountains to this damp, cold rat-warren precariously balanced on the sea. It was nothing but water and stone, stone and water, a place of reflections and illusions, deception and guile. Someday the whole city would melt into the lagoon like stale bread in broth, and Bedmar wasn’t at all sure he would be sorry.

  Mother of Christ, he was ill-humored. For the first time since he’d arrived, Bedmar wondered if he was in over his head, lost in a maze of plots, feints, lies, and half-truths as confusing as Venice’s watery streets. Just when his fortunes were improving—Philip III had come through with a shipment of silver and gold coin—Ossuna had suborned his own cousin, that young fool Javier, to gather intelligence on the Arsenale. Had the duke truly believed that Javier could outwit the Venetians at their own game? Bedmar had known from the beginning of their enterprise that the duke was dangerous, but he had thought their mutual need of each other would provide security against any betrayal. What was Ossuna up to? He was going to have to watch his back more carefully from now on.

  Paolo executed an expert flip of the oar, and the gondola bobbed heavily into the heaving Rio del Palazzo directly behind the palace. Above them loomed the Bridge of Sighs, which connected the Doge’s Palace to the prison. From the lion’s den into the lion’s mouth, Bedmar mused. He felt his bile rise again. These Venetians would be sorry if they tried to catch him in their voracious maw; he’d give them a case of indigestion they’d never forget. They called themselves noble, but they were nothing more than merchants, men without rank or title. This Senator Silvia had sent for him as if he were a lackey! He’d submit to it once, but not twice. He was a marquis and an ambassador of Spain. If Silvia meddled with him again, he would know his wrath.

  The senator had received him in his chambers in the Doge’s Palace. A moon-faced, slow-witted clerk led Bedmar into a richly furnished study, where a sickly light seeped through windows that appeared to be melting under the steady downpour. A blazing fire in the grate kept the chill at bay without illuminating the shadowy recesses of the room. From the dark places glinted the Eastern excess that crowded Silvia’s private sanctum: gilded paneling, Venetian glass candelabra, a gleaming parquet desk, a row of jewel-studded gold goblets.

  “Over here.” A powerful voice, edged with impatience, sounded from the center of the room. Silvia sat in a brocade-covered chair near the grate, facing the fire. His wood-soled shoes poked out from beneath the hem of his toga. The right shoe had a sole at least an inch thicker than the left.

  So the stories about the bull were true, Bedmar thought. But he hadn’t known until now that it had left the senator lame, a crookback with a shortened limb.

  The senator noticed the direction of Bedmar’s gaze, and pulled his feet under his robe. He shifted and turned, and the marquis was nearly overcome with the aroma of frankincense that emanated from him and mingled with smoke from the hearth. His fur-lined scarlet toga appeared bloodred in the firelight, and his sallow skin glowed with a deceptively rosy hue. Girolamo Silvia was an unpleasing man, with a beaklike nose, sunken cheeks, and long, narrow hands that Bedmar suspected had wielded a stiletto more than once. But in spite of his lush surroundings and his princely attire, Bedmar sensed an austerity in Silvia that he might have, in a place other than irreverent Venice, thought of as priest-like. The association was not reassuring, however; Silvia’s countenance reminded him too much of the grotesque bird mask, filled with prophylactic herbs, that physicians wore to ward off the black death. If the senator was a priest, he was a priest in the service of the Devil, if an ascetic, an ascetic with assassin’s hands.

  “Have a seat, Ambassador,” Silvia said in the same gruff tone. “I trust I am not keeping you from your duties of office.”

  “Spain’s good relation with the Republic is my duty of office,” Bedmar replied smoothly as he sat down. “I am at your service, Senator.”

  His polite manner made little impression on Silvia, who dispensed with further amenities. “Do you know a man named Luis Salazar?”

  Bedmar paused thoughtfully. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “Odd, since he was a bravo in your employ.”

  “These men come and go. I know few of them by name.”

  “Perhaps you will recall his face. He had a dueling scar upon his lip, quite pronounced.”

  “No, I don’t remember anyone like that.” Bedmar cocked his head. “What is the point of your inquiry?”

  “Luis Salazar was arrested some weeks ago. He was in possession of state secrets passed to him by an Arsenale worker.”

  “Why should this concern me?”

  “Because it was Salazar who led us to the man responsible for bribing the arsenalotto who provided this secret intelligence. A man who was also employed by your embassy: Javier Diego de la Esparza.”

  Bedmar felt himself blanch, but his face registered no emotion other than mild interest.

  “Do you know him?” Silva asked.

  “We have a passing acquaintance.”

  “A passing acquaintance? I believe he is your cousin.”

  “A distant cousin.”

  “Distant or not, I thought you would like to know what he told us before he died.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Javier was a delicate sort. Prison did not agree with him.”

  The oily bastard. Bedmar had a sudden desire to reach over and snap Silvia’s neck. He could do it—he had done it, to heartier men than he. He had a swift, satisfying vision of leaving the senator slumped in his chair and walking out of the Doge’s Palace without a backward glance. But then of course he’d have to keep going—all the way back to Spain. No, he’d never depart without the riches that were due him. No point in letting this crookback senator goad him into doing something stupid. Bedmar smiled. “Please go on,” he said.

  “Your cousin was in the pay of the duke of Ossuna. The duke is building a new fleet, with which he plans to attack Venice.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Do you expect me to believe that this is the first you have heard of it?”

  “You can believe whatever you like. But I am only an ambassador. I have no authority over the viceroy of Naples.”

  “Pe
rhaps this statement of Javier’s will interest you: ‘The Spanish ambassador has his house full of bravi and assassins, and keeps a bank to receive bets on elections to the Great Council. The ambassador intends to blow up the Great Council, and he has stored in his house barrels of powder, which he pretends are full of figs and oil.’”

  “These are statements made under torture—”

  “But does that necessarily make them less true? Perhaps we should consult your Holy Inquisitors for their opinion on this. After all, Spain has been…instrumental, shall we say?…in developing new methods of uncovering the truth.”

  “It is God’s wish for heretics to suffer.”

  “How convenient it must be to know what God wishes,” Silvia said. “I myself am never entirely sure. Tell me, is it God’s wish for you to emulate that English zealot Guy Fawkes? If you’re not careful, you may end up like him, hanging from a scaffold. Your diplomatic immunity does not extend to acts of war against the Republic. The only reason you are still a free man is because your cousin did not implicate you in his crime. He insisted that he was working for Ossuna, not you.”

  “I am a free man,” said Bedmar, “because I answer only to the king of Spain.” He stood up. “Need I remind you that I am the official representative of the most powerful country in Europe. When you threaten me, you threaten Spain. That’s a dangerous game, Senator, and one I suspect your colleagues would not like to play. I came here today out of courtesy, but should you summon me again, you will find me much less gracious.” Bedmar turned toward the door. “You are welcome to search my house at any time,” he called over his shoulder. “You will find nothing but figs and oil.”

  It was the senator’s outright threat that had made him certain he had nothing to fear, Bedmar reflected as the gondola turned into the Rio della Fava. If Silvia had evidence of his and Ossuna’s plan, he’d be brought up in front of the Ten or the Three without any warning or explanation. No, the senator was groping in the dark. A more astute tactician would have kept secret Javier’s confessions, and let him wonder and worry. But Silvia had revealed all. Had he slipped up, or was there another purpose behind it?

  Whichever it was, Bedmar made a mental note to send for Sanchez when he got back to the embassy and have him and his men move the barrels of powder to a new hiding place. They’d have to do it soon—perhaps as soon as tonight, Bedmar thought, as Paolo steered the gondola into an unfamiliar waterway. He leaned back and peered up from under the felze at his gondolier. “Where are you going?” he shouted.

  A quick flurry of hands revealed that their new route was due to the rising tide. Such a peculiar youth. Sometimes, like now, in the driving rain, with his hair plastered against his face, his head low and his eyes wide, Paolo reminded the ambassador of a wet, hungry dog in the moment before one knew if it would wag its tail or bite.

  The gondolier crouched low as they passed under the Ponte Pinelli. On bright days, striated light from the rippling water reflected gaily on the rounded inner walls of the bridge. The Venetians, in their strange, slurred tongue, had a special name for the effect. But on this gloomy afternoon, the ancient arch pressed around them like a secret, abandoned cave, weeping with condensation, streaked with algae, rancid with decay. With a stink like a crypt, Bedmar thought, like the smell of death. As the gondola glided into the open canal, the marquis suppressed an involuntary shudder.

  Silvia looked up as Batù stepped out of the shadows. As always, his eyes came into view first. Silvia studied their Asiatic contours, their ghostly blue irises.

  “Well?” the master inquired of the disciple. “What did you think of him?”

  “He’s confident. He does not fear you.”

  “Not yet, perhaps, but he will.” Silvia got to his feet and walked to his desk, where he opened a flagon of wine and splashed some into a goblet. “He knows of Ossuna’s plans, I am sure of that. But he did not know of his own cousin’s espionage—which means that he and Ossuna are not in complete accord. This could work in our favor.”

  “Why do you let him go free? Why haven’t you arrested him for the crimes de la Esparza confessed?”

  “As the ambassador pointed out, a move against him is a move against Spain. We have a treaty with them at present, a treaty neither country obeys to the letter, but an outright breach would call the Spanish army down upon us. No, we cannot move openly against the ambassador. To bring him and Ossuna to justice, we’ll need evidence of their plot. In the meantime, though, we can move against him secretly. There’s no reason why his life in Venice should be one of ease and pleasure. This is, after all, a very dangerous place.”

  The Sun

  21 January 1618

  SURELY IT MUST be called for what it was: madness. What Antonio had seen of Venice during Carnival, in the two days since he’d returned, convinced him that everyone in the city was possessed by folly. Masks disguised true identities, from the lowest servant to the highest noble, and Venice was alive with music and a thousand gambols: balls and comedies, gondola races, jousts and combats, goose catching and bull baiting. The three-month celebration drew people from all parts of the world, and the variety of costume, custom, and complexion was greater than he’d ever seen, even during his years in Sicily. The entire city had been transformed into an open-air bazaar: at every corner, mountebanks peddled their medicines in a dozen different tongues; sellers of beads and lace and glassware could be found in all the squares; foodstuffs of every sort were offered from booths or by vendors wandering the streets.

  “Isn’t it amazing?” Alessandra asked as they stood near the base of the Campanile on the Piazza San Marco.

  Amazing was a tame word for it, Antonio thought. The Piazza looked as if it had been taken over by a throng of fools. The square was full of masked merrymakers, puppeteers, rope dancers, musicians, jugglers, gamblers, almanac makers and fortune-tellers, whose tables were set with globes and conjuring books. He watched as a soothsayer held up a long, tin pipe to whisper his augury into the ear of a curious monk.

  “No need to answer, I can see that you’re astonished,” she went on.

  “As astonished as you were when I arrived at your house this morning?”

  “Maybe not as astonished as all that,” Alessandra admitted.

  Her gentle laughter provoked a strange sensation in Antonio’s chest. He hadn’t planned on seeing her again, but as soon as his errand was done, he’d found himself at her door. As he looked at Alessandra, he realized how often he’d thought of her, how he’d compared every woman he’d seen to her and found them all wanting. Even so, his memory hadn’t done justice to her loveliness.

  “Just how did you come to be in Venice again, by the way?” she asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “You will not tell me?”

  “Does it matter?” To tell her that he was once more a messenger for Ossuna, relaying letters between the duke and the marquis, seemed a confession that was beneath his dignity. And truly, it was better if she did not know of the communication between the two. Her suspicions had been aroused the last time.

  “I see. No more questions, then,” Alessandra said. “Let us continue with our tour. So far, you’ve seen the Rialto and the Merceria; now we stand at the very heart of Venice. Our renowned Basilica famously houses the remains of our patron, St. Mark, cleverly smuggled from Muslim lands in a basket of pork. It’s also home to other relics sure to delight the faithful, including a small ampula of our Blessed Savior’s blood, a goodly sized piece of the true cross, a part of St. Luke’s arm, one of St. Stephen’s ribs, and a finger once belonging to Mary Magdalene.”

  “Almost enough to build another saint, it would seem.”

  “The marble columns at the entrance to the Piazzetta were brought from Constantinople almost four hundred and fifty years ago and were erected by an engineer named Nicolò Baratieri. For his service to the city, Baratieri was granted rights to set up gaming tables, which as you can see are still there. And just above that is where criminals
are executed—a gibbet is strung between the columns.”

  “You’re clearly a learned guide, but there’s no need to go on about that.”

  “The gibbet is for the common criminal,” Alessandra continued, blithely ignoring him, “but high on the Campanile is a cage reserved for the punishment of wicked priests, where some have been confined and made to live on bread and water for weeks at a time. When I was a child, there was one such up there—I believe he became quite an attraction for visitors. There was even a popular song about him, ‘The Lament of Father Augustine.’ My brother and I used to sing it quite a lot, to the consternation of my father. It was a terrible, cruel song about how he was wasting away, but we thought it very funny. Soon after that, ‘The Lament of Father Augustine’s Woman’ became even more popular. I recall it was most concerned with a particular pleasure she missed while her lover was strung up in that cage—quite scandalous. My father absolutely forbade us to sing that one.”

  “The true scandal is how Venice treats its priests,” Antonio teased her. “When I leave here, I’m going directly to Rome to advise the pope to excommunicate the entire Republic once again.”

  “Another interdict? The Great Council will simply ignore it, as they did before, and order the priests to continue celebrating Mass in spite of the ban. There is a well-known story about a priest who was not sure, during the interdict, whether his loyalty lay with Venice or with Rome, and so announced that he would not perform the sacraments until he received inspiration from the Holy Ghost. He was immediately informed that the Holy Ghost had already inspired the Council of Ten to hang anyone who disobeyed them.”