Seven years younger than his brother Orso, Segalo Fosian was dressed in a heavy canvas doublet and leather hose with grieves over his lower legs. He was well-muscled and broad-shouldered; white knots of scars on his hands attested to the hard labor he supervised at the Arsenal. There was a skeptical cast to his features that was not present in Orso’s face, and this sharpened as he took stock of the two men in the room. He went to touch cheeks with his brother, then swung around and looked steadily at di Santo-Germano, his face twisted with concentration. “Well,” he announced as he completed his swift inspection, “he doesn’t look like a kidnapper, I’ll say that much. That may be of some help when you appear at the hearing.”
“What does a kidnapper look like?” di Santo-Germano asked, bemused.
“Not like a dignitary,” said Segalo. “Or like a man able to handle his own affairs without recourse to scoundrels.”
In spite of his formidable composure, di Santo-Germano blinked in surprise. “I should think not.”
“There are those who say otherwise in your regard, or there would be no reason for concern—men much closer to the Savii and the Minor Consiglio than you are—no insult to you, Orso,” he appended.
“I didn’t suppose so,” said Orso Fosian quietly. “But I had not yet explained to di Santo-Germano what has transpired in the last two days. You stole the wind from me on this, Segalo.”
“Oh.” He looked from his brother to di Santo-Germano. “I thought you must know by now. I never meant to distress you.”
“You have not—not yet, in any case,” said di Santo-Germano, moving back toward the Turkish chair. “Whom am I believed to have kidnapped?”
Orso made a fussy gesture with his gnarled hands. “There’s time enough to discuss this after we have had some wine and bread.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Segalo. “You cannot think what a—” He broke off at a signal from his brother. “I have heard,” he went on to di Santo-Germano, “that you left an account to pay ransoms for your oarsmen and crews, and it is as empty as all the rest. Badly done, very badly done.”
“It was,” said di Santo-Germano, “and all the more so because some of those oarsmen and crew have died because of it.”
The footman knocked before bringing wine and bread into the room, along with a plate of broiled scallops. He set these on an ornate table from Trebizond, then left the three men alone.
“Take what pleases you,” said Orso, reaching for the bottle of wine and one of the three glasses. As he poured, he said, “Some have been saying that you never had money in the ransom account—that you claimed you did, only so men would sign on with you, believing you had enough to ransom them, if that should be needed.” He handed the glass to his brother, then poured a glass for himself.
“That would be very foolish of me, as well as contrary to Venezian law,” said di Santo-Germano, once again giving no sign of being flustered.
“I hope you will be so sensible in days to come,” said Segalo. “You must know that all you do is being scrutinized.”
“So I hope,” said di Santo-Germano, “for I have done nothing to give countenance to the suspicions you mention.”
“You are a clever man,” said Segalo, although it was unclear whether this was intended as praise or blame.
Orso clicked his tongue, then held up his glass. “To your vindication, di Santo-Germano.”
Segalo raised his glass as well, but said nothing before tasting his wine. Then he looked squarely at di Santo-Germano. “Do you know Leoncio Sen?”
The directness of the question shocked Orso, who tried to intervene. “For the Saints and the Sea! have a little tact.”
Di Santo-Germano regarded Segalo steadily. “I believe I know who he is. But am I acquainted with him—no, I am not, although I have a slightly nearer familiarity with the man I think is his uncle, Christofo Sen.”
Orso faced Segalo, gesturing for a little less heat from his brother. “You see? I told you this man has no reason to do the thing he is accused of doing. He is being manipulated for the benefit of someone else. What purpose would incline di Santo-Germano to kidnap Leoncio Sen? What would he gain from it?”
“Money,” said Segalo bluntly. “If you will pardon me, di Santo-Germano, a fortune has been taken from you, and you may need to recoup some of your losses as quickly as possible. What better way than a swift payment of a ransom?”
To both Fosian brothers’ discomposure, di Santo-Germano laughed. “If this is the result of such a ploy, it makes no sense at all that I should do it.” He ducked his head, considering the charge Segalo had leveled at him. “If I were to choose someone to kidnap, it would not be a lesser relative of an important official, as I recall Leoncio is, but a man of high standing and great personal fortune, not presently in Venezia, and without the close connection to the Savii, and the Doge.”
“Most interesting,” said Segalo. “So you have thought about it.”
“Not as a thing to do, no,” said di Santo-Germano. “But having paid three large ransoms for my crews and oarsmen—as the Minor Consiglo is aware I have done—I cannot help but think about the implications of kidnapping, and I will apply my conclusions to this situation.” He stood very still, his presence made more imposing by his lack of movement. “Even if I were a Venezian, and therefore protected from certain … shall we say? … oddities of law, I would be reckless to try to kidnap a Venezian in Venezia, where surely he is better known than I am. Leoncio Sen has done nothing to me to warrant my displeasure, so I can think of no benefit I would gain from putting him in harm’s way.”
Segalo downed the rest of his wine in a single draught. “There could be other reasons for your kidnapping Sen.”
“And what would they be?” di Santo-Germano asked pleasantly.
“Leoncio Sen has been known to gamble with Gennaro Emerenzio, and has won money from him on several occasions,” said Segalo, raising his voice and taking a step toward the foreigner in black.
“All the more reason for me not to remove Leoncio Sen from the reach of the courts,” said di Santo-Germano. “I want to find Emerenzio, not give him more opportunity to escape.”
Orso refilled Segalo’s glass, making an attempt to interrupt the sharp exchange between his brother and his guest without being obvious about it. “Now, Segalo, think. What di Santo-Germano has said is sensible. If he presents his pleading in such a manner to the court as he has to us, he must convince the judges of his innocence of those charges.”
“But, as a foreigner, he will have to provide proof of all his statements,” said Segalo, a little less belligerently than before.
“So I might,” said di Santo-Germano, “and I thank you for telling me what I might expect at the hearing.”
Segalo snorted his incredulity. “You are hardly a man to be overwhelmed with gratitude, I would guess.”
“Not overwhelmed,” di Santo-Germano agreed. “But I do know the value of forethought, and you have provided me that.” He glanced at Orso. “I thank you, too, for furnishing me this opportunity.”
“I hadn’t thought it would be so—”
Segalo glared at his brother. “I think you may want to keep some distance from this man.” He stared at di Santo-Germano. “I intend nothing to your discredit; I want only to save my brother from any taint of impropriety.”
“Which you fear my friendship may inspire,” said di Santo-Germano. “I understand, and I will not subject you to the compromising potential of my presence.” He bowed slightly to Segalo and then, a bit more courteously, to Orso. “I appreciate your help in these difficult times, Consiglier. I trust, when all of this is over, we may resume our cordiality.” Saying this, he went to the door and let himself out, then made his way to the loggia and the landing steps where Milano was waiting.
“Is there trouble?” Milano asked as he helped di Santo-Germano into the gondola.
“There is trouble already,” said di Santo-Germano, “but it comes from an unexpected direction.” He pressed his lip
s together as if to keep himself from speaking, then said, “You and the other gondolieri exchange information, I suppose.”
“I will not gossip,” said Milano.
“I am not asking you to,” said di Santo-Germano. “But if you should hear about a young blade being abducted a short time ago, I ask you to find out all you can concerning the incident, and report it to me, if you will.”
“Why should I do this?” Milano asked, curious at this request.
“Because there are those, apparently, who have said I am responsible for it, and if I cannot divert suspicion from me in that regard, I may never be able to press my case against Gennaro Emerenzio,” said di Santo-Germano. “This is one thing Ruggier is in no position to do—he is as foreign as I am.”
Milano leaned into his oar as he considered this request. Finally, as he maneuvered between a small barge and a fisherman’s lanteen-rigged boat, he said, “If I hear anything more than speculation, I will inform you, Conte.”
“There are three ducats for you if you bring reliable information.” Di Santo-Germano closed his eyes and leaned back as Milano continued to row for the Rivi San Luca.
Text of a letter from Erneste Amsteljaxter in Amsterdam to Grav Saint-Germain in care of the Conte di Santo-Germano, Campo San Luca in Venezia, written in scholars’ Latin and carried by business courier; delivered seventeen days after it was written.
To the most excellent Grav Saint-Germain, the greetings from Erneste Amsteljaxter on this, the first day of October, 1531, the city of Amsterdam, with the assurance that I have not sent this to impose upon your most generous nature, not to inform you of any mishap, but to describe our present circumstances here:
I have been to see Mercutius Christermann at Eclipse Press to discuss the possibility of doing a book of tales told by women. I would ask women to tell me their tales; then I would write them down and he would publish them. He said he would only undertake such a venture if I secured your permission first, for which I am now applying. If you are willing to have such a book appear from Eclipse Press, then I would contrive to have the work completed by the end of 1533. I ask you to consider your answer carefully, and to weigh the advantages against the disadvantages in providing such tales to the public. I have made bold to approach you on this matter because of your approval of the folk tales you have already published. Mercutius Christermann has reminded me of all the problems inherent in such a project, so you need not reiterate them for me. But I believe there is merit in this undertaking, as well as folk tales not often recorded that would be of interest to scholars in many places.
At present there are six women living with me in this house: one is still married, but she has sought refuge from her husband, who beats her: her priest has not approved her separation, and so we have said that she is the step-sister of one of the women already resident here, whom she has come to nurse. The others here are widows whose husbands left them without means, and who lack family to succor them. They have no wish to have to beg for their bread. The oldest among them is forty-three, and a grandmother; the youngest is seventeen. Had you not made this house available to me without conditions imposed, I could not have extended my hand to these women, and so I thank you most profoundly for your kindness to me, and by extension, to these women.
Rudolph Eschen has been to visit this house, and he has advised me not to take in any more women until he can present a declaration to the courts that my purposes here are charitable and have your endorsement; one of the Spanish captains has accused me of running an improper house, and has asked that the women be branded as harlots if they continue to live here. I am following his instruction, and I will continue to do so until you advise me otherwise. I have no intention of doing anything that might endanger the function to which I have decided to dedicate this house.
On other matters, I fear my brother has run into another patch of trouble, and I have sent him twenty ducats to provide him support for the next several months, or until he can gain another position. He has pledged to pay me back in full, but this cannot occur until he has found appropriate employment. I ask you, if it is not too great an imposition, to look about for a post he could obtain. I know Onfroi’s intentions are of the best, but he has yet to establish himself in the world and until he does, much of his support must come from me—and without you, I would have no support to share with him, so I appeal to you, for my sake and yours, to help Onfroi.
I look forward to your good counsel in these arduous times and ask you again to add your voice to preserving that which you have made possible. A sworn licence from you in regard to my intentions and obligations as approved by you would aid Advocate Eschen in dealing with the Spanish and the courts. Of all matters in this letter, that is the most urgent, and I trust you will be able to supply Eschen with what he requires before the end of the year.
With my thanks and my prayers,
Your most allegiant,
Erneste Amsteljaxter
7
By the end of the second day, the storm had reached the height of its fury; all over Venezia shutters remained closed while waves slapped and clambered at the landing steps, occasionally washing into campi, loggie, and kitchens; ships and boats and barges of all description were secured to pilings, moorings, and docks to keep them from being battered to pieces. Since the storm began, no boats had crossed the lagoon from the mainland, and in many households, food not secured from the sea was running low; roofs were studded with barrels to catch the precious fresh water even while the rain was decried.
“I have authorized the cooks to take the smoked geese from the larder; there were complaints about the crab in cream that was served today—not enough herbs or onions to make it taste right,” Ruggier informed di Santo-Germano as he entered his study, his entry bringing with it gelid tendrils of air that riffled the pages of the open books spread out on the trestle-table.
“Until the green-grocers have new stock, and the spice-merchants, all Venezia may have to settle for blander dishes,” said di Santo-Germano with a sympathetic ducking of his head.
“There are a few tinctures of herbs in your laboratory that could be used. It wouldn’t require much, but it could mean better tastes. I have already sent to your emporium to secure a box of pepper, and to the apothecary for a jar of garlic preserved in oil.” Ruggier made no apology for this extravagance, knowing di Santo-Germano would not object to it.
“Excellent; the staff will have a fine prandium tomorrow.”
“They would not eat so well in many another house,” Ruggier said. “Being closely confined makes food a strong point of interest.”
“So it does. It is a fussiness we may have to deal with for another day or so—by then we may hope the storm blows itself out; once the weather clears, everyone will be less cantankerous about everything; it’s being forced to remain indoors that exacerbates their states of mind,” di Santo-Germano approved, looking up from the square of paper he had been examining by the flickering light of the oil-lamps. “From the court: another postponement.”
“In this weather, I am not surprised,” said Ruggier. He had donned his Dutch huque; its lining of marten-fur made it the warmest garment he possessed, so that his appearance was in keeping with the heavy clothing all the household wore during this first tempest of winter. “How many times has the hearing been postponed now?”
“This makes the sixth time,” di Santo-Germano said.
Ruggier frowned. “What are they waiting for?”
“I have no notion, and my guesses are only that: guesses,” said di Santo-Germano as he put the card down and set an alabaster jar on it to keep it in place. “Still, I guess that they are waiting for a witness or intelligence crucial to the matter.”
“Or they are looking for ways to discredit your claim,” Ruggier warned.
“That is always possible,” di Santo-Germano said with nettling urbanity.
“Does none of this bother you?” Ruggier asked, more sharply than usual.
“Of c
ourse it does,” said di Santo-Germano. “It is supposed to vex me into doing something foolish.”
“But who is doing it?” Ruggier pursued.
“Ah—that is the sticking point, is it not,” said di Santo-Germano ironically.
Ruggier abandoned this fruitless line of inquiry, asking instead, “Has there been any more information on Leoncio Sen? Or Emerenzio, for that matter? Have either of them been found?”
“Neither, so far as I know,” said di Santo-Germano. He, too, was wearing Lowlands clothing: a long doublet of French velvet in silvershot black, with a chamarre of black wool lined in wolf-fur, knee-length barrel-hose, and tall, thick-soled boots of English leather, for although he, like Ruggier, did not feel the cold, he also knew that it was prudent to give the appearance of warding off chill. “I trust I present a creditable appearance, even in these northern clothes.”
“Are you expecting anyone?” Ruggier asked, indicating the garments di Santo-Germano wore.
“No; I am going out; this storm has brought an early winter, but that does not alter my appointments,” said di Santo-Germano, and shook his head as he saw the dubiety in Ruggier’s countenance. “Do not be dismayed, old friend. I am going to Pier-Ariana’s house; I can reach it along the walkways and bridges—I need not take to the water, except that falling from the sky.”
“Fortunately you have a new lining of your native earth in your soles, or this storm would vitiate you.” Ruggier’s face revealed very little of his thoughts. “Rain in Venezia must be a double tribulation.”
“That they are,” di Santo-Germano agreed.
“I don’t suppose you would consider postponing your visit? Tomorrow the rain should slack off, and the winds drop.” Ruggier gave di Santo-Germano a respectful scrutiny.
Di Santo-Germano made a gesture of polite resignation. “She is expecting me. She has set up her music room and would like me to see it.”
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 33