25 February 1618
VALERIA, THE UPSTAIRS maid, carried a tray set with Florentine china and breakfast pastries into the bedchamber. La Celestia lounged in a chair next to the crackling fire, still wrapped in her sable-lined dressing gown. The slight puffiness in the courtesan’s face and her sleep-heavy eyes attested to the early hour. The maid glanced discreetly but with noticeable displeasure at the person who had disturbed her mistress’s morning, a man in a crimson toga who stood at the window, looking out at the drizzling rain and the gray sky.
“Will that be all, my lady?” she asked, curtsying.
“Yes, Valeria.” La Celestia smiled to herself as the maid left the room. She’d seen the look Valeria had given her guest. Her maid seemed to have a particular dislike of senators, though La Celestia didn’t have the slightest idea why. With their robes off, they were just like other men.
Except for this one, perhaps. Not that she’d ever seen him without his toga, or had any desire to. An encounter might make him more amenable to her influence, of course, but that wasn’t possible. He’d been unmanned years ago, before he was yet of age. Her most potent manipulative skills were of no use in this case. It made her uneasy in his presence and wary of his power.
La Celestia poured cups of wine as Girolamo Silvia turned from the window. His countenance never failed to distress her. In it, familiar features had been sharpened and narrowed, and the result was an unattractive, distorted reminder of another, more handsome face she had once loved.
“I expected more from you,” Silvia said as he walked to the chair opposite hers and sat down. In spite of his unpleasant appearance, the senator carried himself with dignity. His limp was noticeable only if one knew to look for it.
“Is it not too early to talk of such business?”
“Not for me,” he replied. “But then, unlike you, I conduct my business during the day.”
Not all of it, La Celestia thought. What about those secret meetings of the Three, the long nights in the Court of the Room of the Cord?
“I told you from the start what I wanted,” Silvia continued. “I don’t like being disappointed.”
How dare he come here to threaten me? La Celestia felt her bile rise, but kept herself in check. As much as she would have liked to throw him out, she could not afford to make the senator her enemy. “I did what you asked,” she said sharply. “I introduced Bedmar to a girl. The rest was up to you.”
“You have a selective memory, I see. I expressly told you that I wanted a full accounting of the ambassador’s actions.”
“And I told you what I wanted in return. Until you make good on your promises, I see no reason for procuring this intelligence.”
“I made you no promises. What you expect is impossible.”
“Your own family bought its way into the aristocracy,” she reminded him.
“My ancestors didn’t purchase their nobility, they were admitted to the Libro d’Oro in recognition of their outstanding service during the War of Chioggia. And that was more than two hundred years ago.”
“Contributing three thousand ducats to the state coffers didn’t hurt, I’m sure.”
“The fact remains that no new families have been admitted to the Venetian aristocracy for two centuries. The rules for inclusion in the Libro d’Oro are set. It’s an impossibility for a courtesan who isn’t even a Venetian citizen.”
“You know it’s not for myself. My daughters are of noble blood. All I’m asking is that you help Caterina and Elena become legitimized so that they can marry nobility, as they should.”
“Large dowries will go a long way toward gaining entrée into the aristocracy. I know a few impoverished nobles who would gladly overlook the girls’ illegitimacy for the gold.”
“But if my daughters are not legitimized, my grandsons will not be entered in the Libro d’Oro, or be allowed to serve on the Great Council.”
“Such grandiose plans for the future, La Celestia. Does the little courtesan from Treviso envision a Doge among her descendants?”
She knew it was unwise, but she couldn’t curtail her sharp tongue. “At least I have descendants.”
The sour look that crossed Silvia’s face was a warning she’d gone too far, but was somehow satisfying. “Conferring legitimacy is not as easy as you imagine,” he said.
“Surely you wield enough influence. Can you not see how important it is? By the Virgin, they’re your brother’s daughters.”
“They’re my brother’s bastards.”
“He would have married me if—”
“If he had come back from fighting the Turks. Or so you believe. I’m not convinced that he would have married you, had he lived. But we’ll never know, will we? In any event, you are left with two daughters without patrimony. If you hold out hope for their future, you will do as I ask.”
The senator wasn’t going to give an inch. What made him such a hard-nosed bargainer? “Spy on Bedmar?” she ventured.
“The ambassador has something I need. This young courtesan, she stays overnight at the Spanish embassy sometimes, yes?”
“I believe so.”
“I will tell you what it is, and where it is, and you will instruct the girl to get it for me.”
“You want her to steal something? You’ve chosen poorly. Alessandra’s no thief. I’m sure you’ve already placed spies in the embassy. Why not use one of them?”
“The ambassador’s rooms are locked when he is away and no one is allowed in. She’s the only one with access.”
“Except that he’ll be there as well.”
“And peacefully asleep, I should imagine.”
“How am I to convince her to do something so foolhardy?”
“The Spanish ambassador plots an attack on Venice. It is not so far-fetched to believe that anyone so intimate with him would be an accomplice to his intrigue. I can easily imagine her hanging alongside her lover.”
“So I’m to coerce her with threats?”
“It isn’t a threat. If she does not cooperate, it is a promise.”
“You might have appealed to her patriotism instead. I’m sure she would not like to see Venice sacked by Spanish forces.”
“You may try that, if you think that will be more effective.”
“You are a cynic.”
“I’m practical. And I’m in a hurry.”
“The marquis is a clever man. And dangerous. I’m not convinced this is a wise course. If he discovers the girl in the act, there’s no telling what he would do. I’ve made a substantial investment in her and I would be very unhappy to lose such an excellent source of income. What’s more, he’ll know that she would not attempt something like this on her own, and he’ll suspect me. No, I won’t do it.”
“I think you will. The ambassador may be dangerous—but you forget, I am equally so. Perhaps more dangerous, to you.”
“Will you promise to help my daughters?”
“I won’t promise anything, but you will do it nonetheless. If you do not, I will make it known that the men who play cards in your house are being systematically cheated.”
La Celestia turned pale. “You cannot prove it.”
“I can. It would ruin you, La Celestia. It appears your greed has overcome your common sense.”
La Celestia held the senator’s gaze for a long moment. If he were bluffing, then he was highly skilled at it; she did not want to challenge the certainty she saw in his eyes. She wondered which of her servants he had corrupted; only one, she hoped. As soon as Silvia left, she’d begin making inquiries of her most trusted staff, and with any luck she’d root out and dismiss the spy before the day was over. No doubt he or she would go back to Silvia for a rich reward, and placement in another courtesan’s household. And so it went.
“What must I do?” she asked.
28 February 1618
“It’s a morocco-bound book, with no title,” La Celestia said. “I am told that Bedmar keeps it in a small damaschina chest in his study. The key to the chest i
s somewhere in his desk.”
Alessandra met with the courtesan in La Celestia’s sumptuous gondola, moored near the Broad Alley of the Proverbs on the Rio di San Martino. Inside the felze, only one small lantern was lit, barely chasing away the shadows. Outside, La Celestia’s blackamoor gondolier, Moukib, sat at his post on the stern, keeping a careful watch.
“And who told you this?” Alessandra asked.
“Do not concern yourself, it’s better that you don’t know. Once you have the book, you must leave the embassy at once. Go to the Lista di Spagna, then to Ponte degli Scalzi. Moukib will be waiting under the bridge, and will bring you to me. I’ll return the book to you a day later. You must replace it in the chest just as you found it.”
“Replace it? That may prove even more difficult than taking it. I usually see the marquis only once or twice a week. Am I to invite myself to the embassy? I have never done so before. It will raise his suspicion.”
“I don’t know how you will do it, but it must be done. And carefully. Bedmar must never know that the book was missing.”
“What is this all for? I deserve to know that, at least.”
“The ambassador plots against Venice. He assembles an army of mercenaries with which he hopes to take the city, and colludes with the duke of Ossuna—”
“The duke of Ossuna?”
La Celestia looked at her sharply and Alessandra instantly regretted her outburst. “Do you know of the ambassador’s dealings with the duke?”
“No.” Alessandra tried to keep her expression composed as her mind reeled. Was the viscount involved in this plot? “Why is this book so important?” she asked.
“It’s the key to the code he uses to write to the Spanish king. With a copy of this key, all his thoughts, all his movements will be exposed. But it will be successful only if the book is taken and replaced without his knowledge.”
The marquis would surely show no leniency if he discovered her treachery. “What do you imagine he will do if he catches me?”
“Make no mistake. He will kill you.”
“And you expect me to undertake this fool’s errand?”
“You have no choice. If you do not do it, you could be implicated along with the ambassador and any others who conspire with him. You could hang.”
She had chosen the courtesan’s life for the freedom it offered; now, Alessandra realized, she couldn’t be less free. “You introduced me to the ambassador just for this purpose, didn’t you? From the very first day, when you came to my house, you knew it would lead to something like this.”
“I did what I had to do. And now so must you or you will hang along with the Spanish.”
“But I know nothing of any plot.”
“You do know something, however—something you’re not telling me.”
“I know nothing.”
“I think you lie. I hope you have a good reason for doing so. Do you protect the marquis? Can it be that you’re in love with him?”
“No, of course not. Are you certain that he conspires against Venice?”
“It seems so, yes.”
“How do you expect me to dissemble so completely?”
“I know that you are not suited to this, but you must find a way. I speak as someone who cares about you—”
Alessandra laughed bitterly. “Cares about me? When did you ever care about anyone but yourself? Tell me, La Celestia, what’s in this for you? More money? Are you not rich enough yet?”
“I am not so coldhearted as you imagine. I do care about you, and I should not like to see you hurt. And think of this: the ambassador contrives a treacherous plot that places every Venetian in danger. You can help stop it. Is that not worthy?”
“Of course it is, but—”
“I know it’s dangerous. I won’t lie to you about that. You must believe I am sorry for this—but in this instance, neither of us has a choice.”
“Someone is forcing your hand, too?”
“Yes.”
“If I take the book and replace it without the marquis knowing, will we be safe?”
“Yes.”
Alessandra was silent for a moment. “All right, then.”
“You understand exactly what you must do?”
“Yes.”
“Please, make sure he is quite soundly asleep first.”
“He does not tire easily, and he is always on his guard. He will wake as soon as I rise from the bed.”
“I feared as much. That’s why I brought you this.” La Celestia held out a small glass flask filled with an amber-colored liquid.
Alessandra did not reach for it. “Is it poison?”
“No, just a sleeping draft. A few drops in his wine should do the trick. But no more or you’ll make him ill, and you don’t want him to suspect anything untoward.”
Alessandra took the flask, turned it in her hands. “Have you any other advice for me, La Celestia?”
The courtesan leaned back against the cushions, her mouth pursed in a concerned moue. “Don’t get caught.”
2 March 1618
She’d done as La Celestia instructed, but with unfortunate results. Alessandra looked with dismay at the ambassador. The sleeping draft had taken hold much faster than she had expected; she’d had no time to lure him into bed. They had taken supper in his private rooms at the embassy; even before he’d finished his beefsteak, he’d passed out in a wing chair next to the dining table, in full sight of his desk and the damaschina chest where the code book was kept. She was seated opposite and had been watching his steady breathing for some time now, but fear kept her rooted to the chair. What if he woke up? She shivered, thinking what the marquis might do if he discovered her rifling his desk. Then she recalled La Celestia’s warning: If you don’t steal the book, you’ll hang along with the Spanish. She imagined the rough sisal noose scratching at her throat, so tight it burned, the terrible choking feeling. She’d heard that it was considered a mercy when a man’s neck was broken instantly by the rope; worse was the slow suffocation that some endured. A sobering vision of herself so gruesomely dispatched—purple faced, tongue lolling, legs thrashing in vain—brought her back to the task at hand. The sleeping draft wouldn’t work forever. She must hurry.
She carried a taper across the room and in the candle’s light examined the desk. It was an intricate affair, with more than a dozen small drawers on the credenza-style top, and another long, narrow drawer beneath the parquet desktop. She tried the largest first, finding nothing but sheets of writing paper and a few fresh quills. The smaller drawers, too, held writing accoutrements: inks, wax, powder. Finally, a glint of metal: the tiny brass key fit perfectly into the locked chest.
She extracted the book carefully. It was compact in size, not much larger than her hands, and bound in a wine-colored morocco. With an eye on the slumbering marquis, Alessandra turned the pages. The book was written in Latin, but seemed to make no sense at all, being composed of random words, sentences, and quotations she recognized from Cicero, Virgil, Seneca. Inhumani-tas omni aetate molesta est, she read: Inhumanity is harmful in every age. Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae fuit: There has not been any great talent without an element of madness. What could it mean? How did the marquis use this book to formulate a code?
She started as a sharp knock sounded at the door. She dropped the book, scrambled to pick it up, then quickly tucked it inside the velvet purse she’d brought with her that evening, setting it on the empty chair with her shawl.
She cracked the door open slightly. Bedmar’s manservant, Pasquale, stood in the hall. “There’s a messenger here for the ambassador.”
“The marquis is sleeping.”
“But he insists—”
“He does not want to be disturbed.”
“It’s urgent.” From out of the shadows came a familiar voice. Antonio pushed past Pasquale, who slipped away into the dim recesses of the corridor. As he stepped inside, he brought the cool, damp air of the Grand Canal with him, along with the aromas of r
oadside taverns, horses, beds made of straw. Underneath, his natural scent was tangy and sweet, like apple cider.
“Sleeping?” Antonio said. He took in everything at a glance: the fireside table set for two, the remains of their dinner, the bottle of wine, Bedmar slumped in his chair, head thrown back, lost to the world. “Hard to believe.” His eyes roamed over her gown, cut low in the courtesan’s style, aureoles peeking over the lace neckline. “Especially as you’re such a fetching sight.”
The words were complimentary but his snide delivery was not. She hadn’t seen Antonio since Carnival, and he exhibited little of the charm she remembered; he seemed tense, distant, angry. For weeks, she had imagined that the viscount harbored intimate feelings for her, and many times she had wished for his return to Venice—but not now, she thought with dismay. Not tonight.
“I must admit, when I first saw your face at the door, I expected quite a different scene,” he went on in the same cutting tone. “Shouldn’t you be playing the lute for your lord, seducing him with your voice, delighting him with your…skills?”
She could see that he was travel weary, but what right did he have to be so contemptuous, so cruel? “The ambassador’s the worse for drink.”
Antonio walked closer to Bedmar and studied his slack-jawed face. “I’ve thought the marquis many things, but I never thought him a drunkard.” He looked suspiciously at Alessandra.
“The wine is strong.”
“Is it?” He picked up Bedmar’s glass and sniffed, then raised it to his lips.
Alessandra instinctively moved toward him, her hand raised in warning. “It is not very good.”
He looked at her levelly. “But it does the trick, obviously.” He slowly put the glass down. “Just what are you up to?”
“Nothing.” Alessandra picked up her purse and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “I’ve had a note from Bianca. I must go home.”
“Why in such a hurry?” Three strides and he had crossed the room, blocking the door.
“It’s an urgent matter.”
“Ahhh.”
She stood before him, wondering if he noticed that she was trembling. “You must let me pass.”
The Rossetti Letter (v5) Page 24