“Then I suggest that you write this letter. It will save your skin—literally.”
She trembled, and gripped the arms of the chair. “I will not do it.”
“I can force you.” He took one of her hands in his, then twisted her wrist until she cried out in pain.
She wrenched her hand away. “If you break my hands, I will not be able to write, will I?”
“There are other parts of you that are equally vulnerable.”
She shuddered again, and held on to the chair as if to still her shaking. Then she stood and looked him in the eye.
“I will not do it.”
We shall see, Silvia thought. We shall see.
Perched on the bench in the center of her cell, Alessandra pulled her knees closer and wrapped her arms around them. The puddle of water that had formed at the end of her cell abutting the Rio del Palazzo had grown to cover the entire floor and was rising with the tide. Although the prison wasn’t old—it had been completed around the time she was born—it had already been dubbed the pozzi, or the wells, as the cell floors were under water more often than not. She knew that the tide would subside in a few hours, but the effect was disconcerting—like being inside the dark, dank hold of a slowly sinking boat.
Her cell was dark and windowless. There was a small window in the corridor, but she could not see it unless she stood at the iron gridwork door, and the daylight that came through it was diffuse and gray. A small torch was mounted on the stone wall outside her cell, but its faint light was barely enough to illuminate the corridor. Here, it would always be night. Already, she’d lost track of how long she’d been there. Since she’d arrived, the only glimpse of daylight she’d seen was when they’d marched her across the Bridge of Sighs to the palace and the Sala dei Tre Capi.
She heard the sound of light, quick footsteps approaching. Not the guard’s, certainly; the Missier Grande soldier who stood at the end of the hall was large enough to fill the doorway. Her curiosity was satisfied when Bianca appeared at her door.
“I’ve brought some victuals, my lady,” said Bianca, and pressed the small, napkin-tied bundle of food through the bars.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You must eat it anyway.” Bianca’s voice was dull with grief; Alessandra was pained to see how haggard and worn she looked.
“Will you be all right, Bianca?”
“Do not worry about me. We brought Nico home. I am preparing him.” A few tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks.
Alessandra reached through the bars and held her hand. “I’m so sorry. I don’t understand what happened.”
“It was not your fault, my lady.”
“I will always believe that it was.”
“Nico would not want you to blame yourself.” Bianca sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. “Now, you must eat.”
Alessandra forced herself to take a bite of the fried fish and corn cake that Bianca had brought. Her maidservant glanced over at the guard who stood at the end of the hall, to make sure he was out of earshot. “Many rumors are flying about the town just now,” she said softly.
“Tell me what you have heard.”
“There is a great exodus from the city. The taverns and the bordellos have emptied, and the mercenaries are leaving in droves. The Missier Grande is rounding up foreigners and anyone connected with the marquis. Some say that the Canal of Orphans runs red with blood—that it is filling with the bodies of those the Missier Grande carries away.”
“And the viscount?”
“There is no word.”
“Bianca, I know that you are fond of Paolo, but do you think he might have given us up to the marquis? How else to account for what happened at Giovanna’s house? I fear his allegiance is with Bedmar.”
“Paolo?” Bianca said incredulously. “Paolo would never do such a thing, he is a loyal Venetian. He will never work for the ambassador again.” A look of pique, followed by sympathy, crossed her soft, round face. “My lady, have you not noticed? Paolo loves you fiercely. He would die before betraying you. And he would be in this prison now, too, if I had not forced him to come away with me by reminding him that you shall have need of him now that Nico is gone.”
The guard ambled over and, towering over Bianca, said that it was time for her to leave. Bianca slipped him a coin. “Five more minutes?” she asked. The guard nodded and stood there. “In private,” she added. He walked back to his post at the end of the hall.
“You must speak to Senator Valier, and to the bishop,” Alessandra said. “Tell them where I am, and that Senator Silvia is threatening me with—,” she stopped; telling Bianca anything more would only upset her. “Just tell them Silvia is threatening me. Ask them to intercede for my safety. Can you do that?”
“Of course, my lady. I’ll go at once upon leaving here.”
“When you get home, go to my room. Behind the painted chest you’ll find a secret place where I keep some coins. Take what you need to see that Nico is well buried.”
Bianca began to cry again.
“Hush, do not upset yourself further,” Alessandra said. “All will be well.”
The guard returned to take Bianca away. Alessandra waited by the door of her cell until she could no longer hear their footsteps. She hoped that her words had reassured Bianca. To herself they sounded hollow, without conviction.
“I’ve been a fool.” Girolamo Silvia stood in the somber torchlight outside her cell. For a moment, she thought he might be admitting that he’d made a mistake by imprisoning her, even that he was apologizing. But when she stood and walked closer to the door, she saw this was an idle hope. The senator’s heavy-lidded eyes were filled with anger and resentment. Alessandra felt the same revulsion she’d felt on their first meeting. He was a disagreeable man; the aroma of frankincense that clung to him did little to mask his smell of decay, his foul breath.
He nodded to the guard. “Take her.”
Take me where? she wondered. To the Court of the Room of the Cord?
The guard opened the door of her prison and pulled her out into the hall. He hurried her along musty corridors lined with dark cells, where condemned men moaned and stirred in the shadows. They turned a corner and the guard marched her to a cell at the end. He unlocked the grated iron entry, pushed her in, and slammed the door behind her.
Inside, all was darkness. Something large moved in the corner. Alessandra jumped back against the door. The mass moved again and her heart quieted a little. It was only a man, she saw, a man lying on the narrow bench, his face to the wall. Then, with a groan, he turned and she saw that it was Antonio.
“Good God,” she whispered, horrified. His face was a mess, the left eye swollen shut, lower lip crusted with blood, a deep cut along one cheek. She rushed to him. “What have they done to you?”
It took him a moment to reply. “I’m not sure, exactly.” Speaking seemed to cause him pain. “I lost track.”
“Can you sit up?”
“If you help me.”
He winced in agony as he leaned against the wall. “I think a few of my ribs are broken.”
“Anything else?”
“My wrist.” His forehead was clammy with sweat. “Could you bring me some water?”
She dipped her hands in the bucket near the door and carried it to his mouth. “What happened at Giovanna’s house?” she asked.
“We were set upon by some men. Apparently they had tracked us from the inn and then tried to trap us inside your cousin’s house. Nico was killed.”
“I know, we found him. Were they Bedmar’s men?”
“No, they were Venetians. The marquis was right to leave the city when he did. I think his time in Venice is coming to an end much sooner than he expected. That might bode well for you…although your being here is not a good turn of events. What happened?”
“I was taken at Giovanna’s house.”
“Are you are all right? You have not been hurt?” He turned his head a little, to peruse her face with his good eye.
“I am well.”
“I’m sorry about Nico. He fought ably; I’m sure I would not be alive if he hadn’t been there to help. I got away, but I had to face one of the men again. After that, I went back to your cousin’s house. I waited for some time, then went to the Rialto, thinking you might have gone there to hire a barge. That’s where the Missier Grande discovered me. Took three of them to bring me in, though.” He smiled wanly, then grimaced with pain.
“Tell me something,” Alessandra began. “Last night…why did you burn the letter?”
“To protect you, of course. Bedmar already wishes you dead. What do you think will happen if he discovers that you have betrayed him to the Venetian authorities? I fear he will never rest until he has his revenge.”
They both fell silent as they heard footsteps approaching. “Do not let on that you care for me,” Antonio said in a harsh whisper. “It will make it worse for you.”
The footsteps stopped in front of the door and the odor of frankincense wafted through the bars.
“Your Spanish lover,” Silvia said. “I should have realized right away who you were protecting.” He beckoned to Alessandra. “A word, signorina,” he said. “And not a word from you,” he added, addressing Antonio, “or I’ll have you taken to the Court of the Room of the Cord at once.”
Alessandra moved to the door. “You see the kinds of things that can happen in this prison,” Silvia said, his voice low but clear. “Are you ready to write that letter now?”
“You don’t dare threaten me with torture,” she said. “Senator Valier would never allow it.” Alessandra wondered if Bianca had been able to deliver her message; if she hadn’t, her bluff might well be worthless.
“Not you, my pretty one,” Silvia said. He tilted his chin toward the back of the cell. “Him.”
Alessandra stiffened. Holy Mother of God.
“The longer you refuse,” Silvia went on, “the more he suffers.”
“No,” she said in a strangled voice.
“All right then,” said Silvia, snapping his fingers. “Guard!”
“No.” She threw herself against the door and spoke to the guard, now brandishing his keys. “Stop, please.”
Silvia nodded to the guard to step back. “So?” he asked.
“He’s committed no crime,” Alessandra protested.
“Conspiring to overthrow the Republic is the most reprehensible crime there is.”
“But you can’t possibly have proof of this.”
“I don’t need proof, my suspicion is enough. You are an ignorant girl who knows nothing of political matters, or of the many threats our Republic faces. I will do what must needs be done to keep the state strong—and I tell you that I need that letter.” He glanced once more at Antonio. “This Spaniard is nothing to me. I would just as soon torture him as not. Perhaps he shall suffer something especially painful first, before he loses consciousness.”
“No…” Alessandra could feel herself shaking. “No, you mustn’t do this, I beg of you. I will do as you ask. But…I will not name him in the letter, and you must take him away from here. I must see you do that first.”
He gazed steadily at her. Already, there was something triumphant in his stare. “You will have to implicate others.”
Others. Others who would suffer even more than Antonio had. It was an impossible dilemma, but Alessandra knew she would go mad if they hurt him. She looked at the senator, smugly waiting for her answer.
“So you would make me a murderer, then?”
“And his savior,” Silvia said with a nod at Antonio.
“Alessandra, no,” Antonio said. “Don’t do it.” His voice was slurred. The cut on his lip had opened and blood dripped from his chin. He didn’t seem to be aware of it.
“I will not have you die here,” she said to him. It was no use pretending that she would do anything other than make this unholy pact with Silvia. He had known she would agree to it even before she did, known that she would sacrifice anything, anyone, to save her lover. In her heart, she was already a murderer, and she knew it beyond a doubt when she looked into the senator’s face. If I had a weapon, I would kill him now, without remorse.
But there was only one way to get Antonio out of here.
“I will do it.” Her face was wet. She touched her cheek. She was crying.
The senator’s face contorted disagreeably. She supposed it was a smile.
Inside the cell, there was no day, no time. Alessandra drifted in and out of sleep. Once she thought that Silvia had come to stand outside her door, then decided that it must have been a dream. Once she awoke to find a little brown mouse only inches from her face, nibbling on the last crumbs of her corn cake. But none of this bothered her. She could rest now.
He was away.
They’d allowed her to watch from a room in the palace as Antonio had been helped into a gondola and rowed out to the lagoon. They were taking him to Malamocco, where he would board a boat for Spain. The ship’s doctor would tend his wounds. He would be safe.
He would be safe, and she would never see him again.
Then they’d taken her back to the Sala dei Tre Capi, where Silvia waited next to a table neatly laid out with sharpened quills, ink, and sheets of parchment. She had thought he would be flush with victory, but instead he seemed to be suffering from a great fatigue, or a deep sadness. A soldier of the Missier Grande never left the senator’s side. Alessandra wondered if he’d seen her murderous intent earlier, if he’d intuited how much she wanted to kill him. Odd. She no longer cared. She no longer felt anything, not fear, not hope, not even abhorrence at what she was doing. Silvia spoke and she wrote down his words as if he were her tutor and she still at lessons.
Even when she had to write the names of the men, the French and Spanish adventurers, as Silvia called them, her hand barely faltered, though she knew she was drafting their death sentence. She could not say with certainty that any were guilty of a crime.
And when she was done, they’d brought her back here. No word or clue as to how long she would be held. Perhaps forever. The senator had said she was never to speak of what he had forced her to do. Perhaps this was his way of making sure—she would live out the rest of her life here, in the darkness and the damp, marking the days by the ebb and flow of the tides.
She heard whispering at the end of the hall, then the guard appeared at her door, jangling his keys.
“Out,” he said.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as the huge man gripped her arm and led her along the hallway. He didn’t answer, simply kept moving forward, propelling her along as easily as a normal man would a child. They walked through the prison corridors, up a short flight of steps and then down again. They were moving away from the Bridge of Sighs, Alessandra realized, away from the palace. But where, then?
At last they came to a large, fortified door. Sentries stood on each side. The guard gave a slip of paper to one of the sentries, who looked it over, then nodded to the other. They unbarred the door and pulled it open. The guard pushed her through, out onto the Riva degli Schiavoni and into the solemn grayness of the overcast morning.
Bianca waited for her. “Thank heavens, you’re safe,” she said, embracing her.
“What has happened?” Alessandra asked, stepping back.
“The bishop sent word that you would be released today. We’ve come to take you home.” At the base of the Ponte della Paglia, Paolo waited in the gondola.
Bianca offered Alessandra her arm, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she looked past the Ponte della Paglia to the Piazzetta and the twin columns that marked the entrance to Venice, then began walking up the steps of the bridge.
Bianca clutched at her. “No, my lady. You must not go there.”
Alessandra shook her off. She continued walking, slow but determined, down the steps on the other side and past the Doge’s Palace. Bianca and Paolo watched her with concern. The heavily clouded sky pressed low. The Piazzetta and the Piazza were deser
ted, and had that peculiar, forlorn feeling that always descended upon Venice the morning Carnival ended. Colored feathers and bits of costume lay on the ground and skittered about in the wind like bright confetti. The square was empty, except for the three dead men who dangled from the gibbet between the columns.
They had been hanged by their feet, the punishment for treason. As Silvia had said, they were already dead by the time they were strung up, but gravity had distended their faces, giving them a gruesome appearance and exacerbating the marks of torture that had been inflicted upon them. At each end, she was certain, were two of the men named in her letter, although she had never seen them before: one was a Spanish bravo with a silver hoop in one ear, the other a French corsair, a captain’s insignia on the breast of his leather jerkin.
And, hanging in between them, Antonio.
Alessandra’s knees buckled and she sank down onto the cold stone of the Piazzetta, her skirt billowing out around her. She was too stunned to cry or to cry out. A seabird hovered high overhead and its plaintive call seemed to echo within her, as if her very soul had shattered.
Years later, she would remember it just so: the three hanged men, herself on her knees, Bianca standing on the bridge, quietly sobbing, Paolo waiting faithfully in the gondola, the empty Piazzetta. As if she’d seen it from above, all of it together, frozen and unchanging, in an eternal tableau.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“WE KNEW FROM Venetian records that Antonio Perez was one of the men hanged that day,” Andrew explained to Maurizio and Gabriella after Claire’s lecture had ended. The four of them stood near the stage as the audience streamed out the doors.
“But his name isn’t included with the others in the Rossetti Letter,” Claire added. “In fact, Utrillo-Navarre was the only known conspirator who wasn’t mentioned, an oversight no previous historian had ever been able to explain. When we discovered that Alessandra and Antonio were acquainted, and possibly intimately involved, this omission seemed even odder. We concluded that Alessandra was trying to protect him.”
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