by Dave Duncan
Danese I have already described. Normally he always seemed a little too conscious of his good looks, but just then he was more like a lemon, pale and bitter.
“Damn you, Alfeo Zeno!” he whimpered. “Why are you meddling in my life? And how did you find us?”
The first answer was, “One thousand ducats,” and better not said.
“You have heard of the celebrated Maestro Nostradamus? Grazia’s parents hired him to find her. I am his apprentice. I will take you to his home so he can treat your hand. And maybe we can talk this out. You do have a piece of paper with a priest’s signature on it?”
“Of course we do!” the girl shouted at me, although we were side by side. “What sort of a woman do you think I am?”
Young and incredibly gullible to fall for a fast-talking snake like Danese Dolfin, despite his luminous sapphire eyes and subterranean voice. “But you did not have your father’s permission to marry, so you are married only in the eyes of the church, not under the laws of Venice.”
Danese said, “But we are married.” His sneer implied that he had made sure the Church would allow no annulment.
“Do you have the Great Council’s approval?”
He went back to sulking without answering my question. His name would be struck from the Golden Book, but that would be the least of his worries if Zuanbattista Sanudo chose to lay charges. Then he would face exile, or three years in the galleys, or worse. The galleys are a slow death sentence, each year counted equal to two years in jail. Grazia would still be married and likely doomed to end her days in a convent.
Grazia sobbed at my side, her hands covering her face. She was hoping, no doubt that a lovable, romantic young man like me could never resist such an appeal, but she was miscalculating. I felt no impulse to clasp her in my arms and beg forgiveness. She was too young to light my touch-paper, and her fake tears merely made her seem more childish.
“Madonna,” I said, “now that you are married, will not your family accept your husband and forgive? Your father did tell me that he loves you.”
She muffled a couple of quite realistic gasps. “He should have thought of that before he ordered me to marry Zaccaria Contarini.”
“What is wrong with Zaccaria Contarini?”
“He’s old and ugly.”
Now I knew the name of the king of coins. The Contarini clan is one of the largest in the Republic, with scores of votes on the Great Council. That might account for Zuanbattista Sanudo’s election to ducal counselor. With his own Sanudo clan, and marriage connections to the Marcellos, the Morosinis, and potentially the Contarinis, Zuanbattista would have about a hundred votes for the asking.
Grazia lowered her hands and fixed me with her lustrous eyes. They did not look as if they had been weeping much lately. “Who are you? I mean really?”
“I told you.”
“An apprentice?” She glanced over my apparel and it did not impress her. “Look!” She pulled back a sleeve to reveal a bracelet of gold and amber. “This is very old. Byzantine work, from Constantinople. My grandmother left it to me. I’ll let you have it if you’ll let us go. It’s worth two hundred ducats.”
I thought maybe thirty or forty. They make them by the score on Murano. “It looks much prettier on you than it would on me, madonna. It probably wouldn’t close around my wrist.”
“You could sell it, you stupid boy!”
Danese curled his lip at me. “Don’t try to bribe him, Grazia. You’re wasting your breath. He’s an idiot and always was.”
Whereas Danese had always had an aye for a good offer.
Whether or not Grazia had been foolish to turn down a Contarini, I thought she had been utterly daft in her choice of alternative. A week before, at the theater, Danese had been dressed like a wealthy young patrician. That had not been a one-time extravagance or rags borrowed for the occasion, because his present outfit was even grander. Somehow he had come into real money. Not by marriage, unless he was a secret bigamist, and not from his sisters if they had all married artisans or laborers, as he had told me. Looks, birth, and money together work miracles for a man’s eligibility. Just because I had always found him insufferable did not mean that Grazia Sanudo was not entitled to worship his footprints. Nor did it mean that I wanted to see him chained to an oar for years on end.
My head and my heart were locked in battle. We could still report that the fugitives had escaped and hope that no details of the fight ever got back to the Council of Ten. The decision would be up to Maestro Nostradamus, but I could not imagine him passing up a thousand ducats.
5
As we disembarked, I signed Bruno, Go quick—tell—Mama—lady—here. He grinned and went charging up the stairs as if shot from a bombard. Grazia and Danese were entangled again and she was sobbing on his chest. I carried the bag and his sword.
The androne, where the business is done, was silent that holy day. We started up the stairs, passing the mezzanine apartments where the Marciana families live—Jacopo and Angelo are citizen-class partners of sier Alvise Barbolano. He contributes housing and certain trading rights restricted to the nobility; they and their sons do the work. We carried on up.
As we passed the piano nobile, where Barbolano himself dwells, Danese muttered, “You live here, Zeno?”
“I do.” I did not mention cuisine or silk sheets.
He said, “Oh!” His eyes and mouth were round.
As we reached the top floor, Mama Angeli came scurrying along the great salone to meet us. I presented Grazia formally as “madonna Gracia Sanudo Dolfin,” which produced a gasp of joy from her, followed instantly by a wail of despair. But Mama is not mother of half the world for nothing, and easily whisked her away for some feminine consolation.
I directed our other visitor to the left and marched him into the atelier. The Maestro was perched on his high stool at the alchemy bench, heating a brown fluid in an alembic over a brazier. He looked around in annoyance at the interruption. I closed the door behind us.
“Doctor Filippo Nostradamus,” I said. “Nobile homo Danese Dolfin. Sier Danese and I used to fight over crusts from the garbage when we were cutie putti together in San Barnaba. Recently he has risen in the world, talked a priest into marrying him to madonna Grazia, and probably fractured his radial styloid process.”
The Maestro said, “Tut! Careless of him. Show me your hand, clarissimo.”
“I was trying to break your bravo’s sword,” Danese said as we approached the alchemy bench. “And how can a man be apprenticed to a doctor?”
“He can’t,” I said. “I am apprenticed to a sage, clairvoyant, alchemist, astrologer, and all-round philosopher, who also happens to be personal physician to the doge. If I ever need a degree in medicine, I shall go over to Padua and foresee all the answers in the finals before the professors have thought of the questions.” I stalked across to the medical cupboard. “Plaster, master?”
“Just a bandage and a sling,” the Maestro said. “At worst he has cracked the radius. It may need a cast in a day or two, when the swelling has gone down. You will live to fight again, sier Danese.”
“He had better take more lessons first,” I said. “Start talking, messer. How did you get rich?”
Danese glared stubbornly, but he was tense with fear. “What business is that of yours?”
“None. It is the Maestro’s business, for he must decide what to do with you. We were not told your name, so our plan was to return Grazia to her parents and let you slither back into your hole, whoever you were. Now we have the alternative of sending them word that they can come and get her and you, too. Even if you still had your sword, which you don’t, I could lock you up until Sanudo arrived with the sbirri. Yet another possibility, although a highly unlikely one, would be for the Maestro to let the two of you go free and lose his fee. So be persuasive.”
The Maestro stared at me in outrage, wondering what I was dreaming of. Danese tried to fold his arms in defiance and yelped when he jostled his hand. I returned
with the bandages.
“I’m not rich,” he said sulkily. “If you’re hoping to extort money from me, you’re on the rocks. I had a well-paying job, is all. I gave it up for Grazia. We are madly in love. I love her more than life itself. We were heading over to, ah, a place on the mainland where I have friends.”
“To starve?” I persisted.
“I can read and write. I’ll find a job as a teacher, or a musician.” He winced again as the Maestro started wrapping his wrist.
“What sort of job did you give up?” I demanded. “Teaching and writing didn’t pay for those drapes.”
“Mind your own…” He gave me a baleful look and the Maestro another, then remembered the power we had over him and shrank into a pathetic sulk. “I was a cavaliere servente.”
I said, “Oh, my god! For her mother?” Even Nostradamus looked startled.
Danese flushed crimson. “No! Well, yes. But it wasn’t like that! I fetched her fan and brushed her hair and fed her canary. I played the lute and sang to her, read her poetry, told her how beautiful she looked, squired her to recitals and viewings because her husband was away, and told her how beautiful she looked. That night you and I met at the theater I was hunting for her to tell her where her gondola was tied up. A lapdog, that’s all—not what you’re thinking.”
Half the wealthy women of Venice employ handsome young men to dance attendance on them, but the duties normally extend to more intimate matters than any so far mentioned. Their husbands hire courtesans; why should they not employ gigolos? This is Venice. I could imagine Danese singing very well, with that deep rich voice of his. He would be very effective at whispering endearments into shell-like ears.
As he adjusted his patient’s sling, the Maestro said softly, “I am somewhat amazed to hear that madonna Eva was stupid enough to keep her innocent, unmarried daughter sequestered in the same house as an exceptionally good-looking young man. That she would do so and also expect both of them to remain chaste I find incredible.”
Danese grimaced. “Well, what if I was her mother’s paid lover? Does it make you happy to hear me admit that, Alfeo? Most of the last three years she’s been living at Celeseo and there’s totally nothing else to do there except count ducks. A common gigolo, tumbling a fat old woman on demand? I worked hard for my pay, but I swear I did not prey on Grazia. I did not sink to that. We spoke of love, but we never as much as touched fingertips. Not until I found her weeping in a corner a week ago and she told me of the wedding plans. I kissed her—that’s all, I swear! One kiss and I told her I loved her. Our first kiss. And right then her mother came around the corner and caught us.”
I sighed at this romantic cliché. “Paolo and Francesca?”
“Who?”
“A literary allusion,” I muttered, exchanging meaningful looks with the Maestro. The Sanudos had assured us that no household members were missing, but had not mentioned that one had been thrown out on his ear a few days earlier. Now we knew why the Sanudos were so insistent that there be no scandal. Grazia running off with a gardener would be a trivial misdemeanor compared to eloping with her mother’s pretty boy. If Sanudo had promised his daughter to a Contarini and the daughter had preferred the gigolo, then the Great Council would roll in the aisles for weeks. It would be the scandal of the decade.
“What do you want me to do, master?” I asked.
The alembic had begun to bubble. Nostradamus’s attention was wandering. He sighed angrily. “Is that the whole truth, messer? Did you purloin the lady’s jewels when you left? Help yourself to silverware?”
“Nothing,” Danese muttered, squirming in the nethermost pit of humiliation. “I give you my solemn oath. Grazia brought some jewels, but they’re her own. I have a few trinkets Eva gave me. She let me take them and my clothes. That was good of her, but I had done my best for her until then. Gesù, had I ever! Grazia was a virgin until last night—after the wedding! She isn’t now. What other prurient details entice you?”
I said, “The question is whether the Sanudos will accept you as her husband. Is that what you want? Or would you rather they just paid you to disappear?”
He flushed even redder. “If I had my sword—”
“You don’t. I do. You got yourself into this,” I said. “But I promise we won’t turn you in. For old times’ sake, I will not send you to the galleys.”
He muttered, “Thank you, Alfeo,” as if the words hurt. “I want Grazia to be happy. I love her, damn you! Have you never been in love? I want whatever she wants.”
The Maestro was peering into the alembic. “Alfeo, take her home. I want my fee. I earned it.”
Funny that I hadn’t noticed him rushing to my defense on the Riva del Vin. “Yes, master.”
“Negotiate anything else you like as long as it’s legal. And hurry back because I have notes for you to transcribe.”
That was ominous news. He probably meant he couldn’t read his own scrawl and wanted the rest of my Sunday. I led the way out into the salone and closed the atelier door.
“Well, clarissimo?” I said. “Sier Zuanbattista really did tell me he wants his daughter to be happy. I don’t know if that means he will accept her choice of sleeping partner, but it’s up to you. You can trust him and come to Ca’ Sanudo with us. Or you can head for the Mestre ferry and vanish into the sunset. You decide.”
Danese dithered, looking everywhere but at me. “I want whatever Grazia wants,” he muttered to the floor.
Looking tiny as a doll beside the great statues, Grazia was running toward us from the kitchen.
“You wait here,” I told her husband. “I want to hear it from her own lips.”
I strode forward to intercept her; she tried to dodge; I sidestepped to block her. We studied each other appraisingly. I had not veered from my first impression, that Grazia Sanudo was cast from the same hard metal as her mother. She was wondering how to play me, which should not be a difficult decision, given our respective ages and genders.
“Madonna, I must take you home. My master’s orders. Do you want Danese to accompany us?”
She blinked several times, but no tears welled up in her magnificent eyes. “Sier Alfeo, how could you? You think I would marry a man yesterday and cast him off today?” She dropped her gaze and smothered a dramatic sob. Better, but she needed practice. She had never learned how to speak to men other than relatives or servants.
“No. But he may be taken from you. I told you the message your father sent. Do you trust his word? Will your parents accept Danese now?”
Another dry little sob…“You realize what they may do to him? You condemn me to a life sentence in a convent? You will send your childhood friend to jail or exile?”
“No. If you think that, he is free to go.” Good riddance, mustn’t say so.
She hesitated, chewing her lip. The tragic heroine role is hard for fifteen-year-olds. We both knew that if Danese walked out of her life now she would never see him again.
I was confident that whatever choice she made would be the wrong one. The previous day, just for my own amusement, I had cast Grazia’s horoscope, using the date and time her parents had given the Maestro. The stars were very bad for her at the moment and had been for several days, with Mercury in the house of Virgo. Next weekend her fortunes should improve dramatically. Curiously, my own horoscope showed the reverse—good now, bad later.
“Your father said—”
“Yes, I know!” she snapped furiously. “I heard you. I always knew he would say that. Of course he will take me back! I never doubted it. But did my mother say the same? She’s mad because Danese loves me and she thought he loved her!”
Both ladies had relied on information from the same source. Love makes fools of us all.
“Won’t your father have final say? Why do you doubt?” I asked patiently.
“Because it’s too soon!”
Ah! The Sanudos were supposed to suffer. “Would it help if I asked them for you?”
She melted. “Oh, would you?
Please, sier Alfeo?”
Back down to the gondola we went. Grazia naturally took the place of honor, the left side of the felze, and this time I did not stop Danese from joining her. He wrapped his good arm around her and the two of them sat there like birds in a cage, scowling at me. Giorgio pushed off. Nobody said a word until we emerged from the narrow ways onto the Grand Canal.
Grazia had not given up on me yet. “How did you find us?”
“The Maestro foresaw you.”
“That’s witchcraft!” She appealed to her husband. “Isn’t it, dearest?”
“Probably.”
She tried her best tigress stare on me. “We shall report you to the Council of Ten!”
“Don’t waste ink,” I said. “Every year Nostradamus publishes his almanac and includes a dozen or so prophecies. Every year I deliver a copy for the doge and another for the cardinal-patriarch.” I did not suggest that those esteemed gentlemen ever actually read the books, but they did not lay charges either.
“And can you foresee what my parents are going to decide about Danese?”
“The Maestro probably could, but he charges a lot of money for private predictions. I don’t have the knack. I can cast horoscopes, though, and I drew yours.”
She hesitated, but a desire to know the future stands very high in human wants. “And what did you foresee?”
“I saw your present trouble—which wasn’t difficult, of course,” I added quickly, foreseeing her sneer from the way her lip had started to curl. “But I also predict a dramatic improvement in your affairs about a week from now.”
She turned and beamed at Danese. Danese was quick; he saw the ambiguity right away, but he turned his snarl at me into a smile at his wife.