by Dave Duncan
Like the senators, I could not see why Fulgentio should want such a tedious job, playing servant, showing visitors around the palace, and so on. He just said it would be less boring than banking and he would mingle with the great. Why should he want to do that, though? Most of them are too dull to be admirable and not evil enough to be interesting. I am convinced that Fulgentio is completely honest and honorable, but his brothers are quite rich enough to have won him the job by bribing even the doge. More likely the family has some sinister purpose in mind for him that he hasn’t realized yet.
So we walked along calli, over bridges, and across campi, grumbling about the endless summer overstaying its welcome. I admit I was glad of the company, although I never walk the streets at night without making sure I do not look worth robbing, which is not difficult for me. Suddenly my companion changed the subject.
“I hear you were displaying your pathetic swordsmanship on the Rio del Vin yesterday.”
I made some brief remarks.
“Well? Were you?”
“My lips are sealed. What else did you hear?”
He laughed because I had not denied the story. “That sier Zuanbattista’s daughter eloped with his wife’s gigolo. It’s all over the city, Alfeo! There wasn’t a single Contarini to be seen in the Great Council today and usually there’s at least a score of them clucking around there. Hilarious!”
I groaned. “I suppose this means the end of Sanudo’s ducal ambitions?”
“His what?” Fulgentio said sharply. “Him? Doge? He’s a fine man, one of the best, but he could never afford to be doge, my lad! Not before the Second Coming, anyway. Have you any idea of the gold it takes to buy the votes of the forty-one? Or the running expenses in office? Many a doge is worth millions of ducats when he is elected and dies bankrupt. That printing business of Sanudo’s earns him maybe one thousand ducats a year, and the rest of his interests have gone downhill while he’s been gone. He’s been neglecting them! The best fertilizer is the shadow of the farmer on the field, remember.”
“He may have made a lira or two on the side in Constantinople?”
“Not as I hear it. The Senate always expects a ducat’s worth of display for every soldo it votes for its ambassadors’ expenses. A diplomatic posting can bankrupt a man, no matter how rich he was beforehand, and the general view is that Sanudo was unusually honest while he was there.”
“He owns large estates on the mainland.”
Fulgentio snorted. “What if he does? Land is a safe investment but it doesn’t produce great revenues. The only way Sanudo could finance a run at the dogeship would be to sell everything he owns, and that would leave his son penniless. No Venetian patrician ever breaks up the family fortune. He hoards it to pass on to his sons. Nobles think in terms of centuries.”
This was a startling contradiction of what Violetta had told me. Her source must be mostly pillow talk, either direct or secondhand. Fulgentio was in a unique position, surrounded by money at home and political power at work. She knew what people wanted. He might be a better judge of what they could get.
Poor Eva! Her dreams had been vain even before Danese Dolfin sank her ship. And poor Danese, who would never be the doge’s son-in-law!
7
Life was strained around Ca’ Barbolano for the next few days. To be honest, Danese troubled no one but the servants. He rose early, ate breakfast, and disappeared until nightfall. Twice more he brought instalments of the Sanudo fee back with him, but he was curt with Mama and Giorgio, never tipped them, and snapped at their children. He cultivated old sier Alvise and his wife, even singing for them—a lute is fingered with the left hand, and he could still strum with the right. As long as he kept the Barbolanos happy, we dared not evict him.
The Maestro never saw him, but he resented the interloper’s presence unreasonably and considered the intrusion to be all my fault. Never easy to live with, he became steadily more pettifogging, punctilious, and persnickety than ever. I retaliated with an odious servility, creeping around on tiptoe and inserting “master” into every phrase. That made him even madder, as I intended.
Thursday evening brought unwelcome relief. He and I were supping in our usual silver and crystal splendor, seated under priceless Murano chandeliers at a damask-draped table that can hold fifty. I was savoring seconds of Mama’s exquisite Cape Longhe in Padella. He was picking at his plate with his fork as if looking for pearls; I did not have the heart to tell him that pearls come from oysters, not clams. I had arranged to go carousing with Fulgentio, just to get out of the house.
“You should eat more, master,” I said. “You have told me more than once, lustrissimo, that fasting is very bad for the brain, as evidenced, I believe you instanced, master, by the hallucinatory disquisitions of certain holy—”
“And you should eat more because it is the only useful purpose to which you put your mouth.”
Before I could frame a suitably unctuous apology, there was a rap on the door and Marco Martini strode in without waiting for a response. Martini is one of the fanti who guard the door when the Council of Ten meets and generally run its errands. They seem innocuous enough in their blue cloaks, but look at them closely enough and you will see that each one carries a rapier hidden in the folds, hanging vertically under his left arm. Martini is short and trim, aged around forty, with a no-nonsense expression stressed by a pointed beard that juts forward. He has the reputation of being handy with a sword, but I can’t vouch for that.
Giorgio hovered behind him, looking alarmed. I sprang up and bowed, prepared to leave if told to do so and hoping it was not me he wanted.
“Maestro Filippo Nostradamus?”
If the doge had been taken ill, one of his equerries would have come, and would have addressed Nostradamus as “Doctor.”
The Maestro snorted. “By the saints, Marco, if you’ve forgotten my name, it is time you retired.”
“The Most Excellent Council of Ten,” the fante continued without taking offense, “requests and requires that you attend Their Excellencies this evening at your imminent convenience.”
Some people would have fainted out cold on the floor. The Maestro calmly dabbed at his wizened lips with a finely starched napkin. “It is always an honor to wait upon the noble lords. I may follow you in my own boat?”
“That will be permitted. I shall report that you are on your way.” Marco nodded at me. “Don’t forget.” With a hint of a trace of a shadow of a bow, he departed.
We did not have to answer the summons. We could flee into exile.
“If Sanudo has let slip the fee you charged him,” I said, “you will surely find yourself jailed for extortion.”
The Maestro actually laughed…well, chortled. For the moment his ill humor was forgotten. “Rubbish! It was his wife who offered it. They would have sent Missier Grande and a squad of sbirri if they wanted me arrested. They probably seek my advice on the doge’s health. I have warned him he is overdoing it.”
I was less optimistic. As I told you, the Republic is ruled by a pyramid of interlocking committees, so that every man has another man looking over his shoulder. The system is deliberately inefficient, but that inefficiency has let the Republic retain its freedom for nine hundred years. Nevertheless, some matters must be handled swiftly and in secret, and this is where the Council of Ten comes in. It cuts all the knots. If dawn reveals conspirators dangling from gibbets in the Piazza or floating facedown in the Orfano Canal, then that is the Ten’s doing. Men drop dead in distant lands by the hand of the Ten. It runs the finest intelligence service in Europe, both inside the Republic and out, interprets its duties as widely as it pleases, and answers to no one. It handles all major crimes, such as rape, murder, and blasphemy, and there is no appeal against its decisions.
Nevertheless, I would assume I was included in the invitation until a door slammed in my face. “Do I have time to change?”
The Maestro was already wearing his physician’s black hat and gown and therefore had no such nee
d. “Certainly. They will keep us waiting for hours.”
Giorgio, having seen our visitor out, reappeared in the doorway.
“Bruno?” I said. “And a twin?”
I hastened to my room. Christoforo and Corrado, the dreaded Angeli twins, arrived there before I did and tried to wrestle each other out of the way. Chris won, being the larger, and I stepped between them before Corrado could charge back in and turn shove into mayhem. I flipped a soldo and told Chris to call it. He guessed “Doge!” which was wrong. I gave it to his brother and sent him to tell Fulgentio I had to break my date, forbidding him to say why. Chris went with him to make sure he did it right and in the hope of sharing in the reward Fulgentio would certainly supply. Arguing furiously, they disappeared down the stairs.
Armed or unarmed? I should not be allowed to wear a sword in the palace and we should be traveling by gondola all the way, so I decided to go unarmed.
Bruno always becomes excited when told that the Maestro needs him, and rushes away to find the carrying chair. By the time I had donned the better of my two cloaks, he was striding around with the chair on his back. Giorgio had appeared in his best gondolier’s garb of baggy trousers, short belted tunic, and feathered bonnet, and was giving Mama strict orders to admit nobody, other than the twins when they returned. Did that apply to sier Danese? Regretfully I decided that Danese would have to be let in, lest he complain to sier Alvise. Soon we set off down the great staircase, the Maestro riding high and smirking childishly, me at the rear carrying his long staff.
It was another hot night, with a full moon peering through the chimneypot forest to daub silver on the canals. There was singing in the distance, as there always is, and the warbles of gondoliers as they warn which side they intend to pass. And cat fights. I was not happy. Nothing frightens me more than the Council of Ten—except the Council of Three, of course.
Foreigners are always amazed at how easily anyone may enter the Doges’ Palace by day, but at night even Venice posts armed guards on the doors. We disembarked at the watergate on the Rio di Palazzo, where Martini was waiting for us among pikes, muskets, helmets, and pages holding lanterns. The door to the Wells, the worst of the dungeons, is right there, but no one rattled any keys at us. Giorgio rowed away to wait at the Molo; Bruno and I followed our guide along the passage to the central courtyard, and then up the great Censors’ staircase, with gold and tinctures flashing overhead in the lights borne by our link boys. It is spectacular in daylight, overwhelming by night.
The Doges’ Palace is where the reigning doge lives, where the criminal courts, Great Council, and all other councils meet, where records are kept, laws enforced, criminals imprisoned, tortured, and sometimes executed. It is the greatest treasure house of art in the Republic. Parts of it are centuries old. We came at last to the top floor and through into the magnificent Salle della Bussola with its Sansovino fireplace and stunning Veronese ceiling.
There it seemed that the Maestro’s prediction of having to wait for hours would be fulfilled. About two dozen men were standing around in small groups, most in the black robes of the nobility, several looking seriously worried. I saw no women, of course. The few benches in sight being occupied, the Maestro remained in his chair on Bruno’s back. The weight did not bother Bruno in the slightest; he was happy to be of use. He liked to visit the palace and look at the pictures. I usually like to look at the pictures, too, but didn’t just then.
Our fante went to report to another guarding the door to the Ten’s chamber. Near them stood two men I knew well. Gasparo Quazza, Missier Grande, has the impassive solidity of a Sansovino statue. He did not acknowledge me when we made eye contact, but that is just his way. Although I do not like him, I respect his honesty—he would arrest his own mother if the Ten ordered him to. A glimpse of his red and blue robe would strike terror into the hearts of the toughest gang of bravos.
Beside him was his assistant, Vizio Filiberto Vasco. Vasco and I have three things in common: we are about the same age, we both attend Captain Colleoni’s Monday fencing class, and we detest each other. I am a better swordsman than he is, but that is the only good thing I can tell you about him. He is too immature for his job, liking to pester women and bully men. He scowled in my direction. I licked my lips, although a careful observer might have thought I had stuck my tongue out at someone.
The Ten’s door opened and words were passed to and fro. Martini disengaged and strode through the crowd, every eye on him, coming straight to the Maestro.
“Their Excellencies summon you, lustrissimo.” The rest of the room rustled with outrage. Nobles do not willingly yield precedence to physicians or nostrum-peddling charlatans.
I took Bruno’s arm and we marched over to the door together. The giant knelt. I helped the Maestro dismount and gave him back his staff. His lameness varies depending on circumstances, usually being much worse in public. Wanting me with him, he leaned a hand on my shoulder.
“Is Zeno allowed in?” the vizio asked disbelievingly. His displeasure was encouraging, for if I were on my way to the galleys, he would be wearing a sneer wider than the Grand Canal.
Missier Grande shrugged. “For now.”
I said, “Of course,” and almost succeeded in treading on Vasco’s toe as I went by.
The chamber of the Council of Ten is large and very impressive, with paintings by Veronese and Zelloti adorning its walls and ceiling. A dais at one end bears a long bench curving across the full width of the hall, with the doge’s throne in the center. Despite its name, the Council comprises seventeen men, and when we entered they were quietly chatting among themselves, discussing their last item of business or the next, ignoring us.
The doge, Pietro Moro, wears robes of cloth-of-gold and white ermine, although that night the room still held the heat of the day and the many lamps did not help. His hat, of course, was the golden ducal corno with its distinctive peak at the back. It is a cause for ribaldry that the bulge bears no small resemblance to His Serenity’s most distinctive feature, because all his life he has been known as Nasone, “Big Nose.” Moro is a good man. He tips me generously whenever I deliver his medications, but I would approve of him even without that.
He was flanked by his six ducal counselors in scarlet, three on either side. I was impressed to see that the patriarchal Sanudo beard was borne by the man at the doge’s right hand, the place of honor. Flanking the counselors, in turn, sat the ten elected members in their black robes, seven to the left and three to the right. Of the seventeen, three were patients of the Maestro, and I counted five others who had consulted him on occult matters. Secretaries and clerks were clustered at desks at either side of the hall.
As we approached this sinister tribunal, a minion brought forward a chair and placed it alongside the lectern that stands before the doge’s throne. This was a remarkable tribute to Nostradamus, for Venice rarely makes concessions to age. Moro himself is in his late seventies and many men there were older.
I helped the Maestro to the chair, saw him settled, and then stepped behind it and waited to be ordered out. A secretary brought forward a jeweled crystal reliquary and guided the Maestro through an oath that he would speak the truth and not discuss the questions, his answers, or just about anything. Having done that, the flunky looked uncertainly at me. Before he could appeal for instructions, I laid my hand on the sacred vessel and rattled off the same oath, word for word, inserting for my own name and station. Much to my astonishment and his, no one objected.
The doge looked tired and displeased. This was probably his third or fourth meeting of the day, and all those other men still waited outside. He nodded to the Maestro—and even to me, which was a signal honor—and then glanced to his right and said, “Chiefs?”
That one word brought the meeting to order.
The doge serves for life, although most doges are very old men when they are elected. The Ten’s four secretaries are of the citizen-by-birth class and appointed for life. Everyone else is temporary. Members serve
for one year, counselors for eight months, and neither can be re-elected to the same position until they have sat out at least one term. There is nothing to prevent them from being elected to the other position, though, and many of the nobles on the dais would have served as both in the past. The three black robes to the doge’s right wore red tippets and were therefore the three “chiefs of the Ten,” that month’s steering committee. It would be they who had decided to summon the Maestro.
“Doctor Nostradamus,” said the middle chief. He was a gaunt, silvery man of considerable age, sier Tegaliano Trevisan, and the Maestro had cast his horoscope a few years earlier. Offhand I did not recall its predictions, although I knew I could if I had to. His elongated face reminded me of driftwood, eroded and bleached by long turmoil in the breakers. “The Council understands that you have many times displayed great skill at finding missing persons.”
I wished that I had left while I had the chance and kept on running. Trevisan might mean that the Council was seeking advice from the greatest clairvoyant in Europe, but he might equally mean that the Maestro had been accused of black magic. I would be interrogated as a witness, very likely tortured, and probably burned at the same stake. I glanced at Zuanbattista Sanudo in his huge black cloud of beard and wondered why he had reported the story, for it made him seem a fool who could not even control his own daughter. So far he had paid about a third of his fee. A heap of cinders cannot sue to collect a debt.
The doge pulled a face. His Serenity is a total skeptic where the supernatural is concerned. He is not alone in that folly, but most of those present probably knew better.