Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase

by Debbie Rix

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in a gruff voice.

  Peter rushed over to her and said quickly, ‘Be quiet, old woman.’ And removing a dagger from beneath his cape, he held it to her throat.

  She made as if to scream, but he pressed the blade against her crepey flesh and held her gaze.

  Niccolò, meanwhile, crept down the ward until he found his children. He woke Maria with a kiss on her forehead. She gasped as she saw him, and shook Daniele awake. He broke into a broad grin when he saw his father. But Niccolò held his fingers to his mouth and whispered, ‘We must hurry.’

  Maria grabbed their bags and was about to run down the ward when she remembered something. She rushed back to the bed, moved the chair away from the wall and eased out one of the stones, followed by another. At last, she removed the vase and the leather pouch of money and placed them carefully in the bag.

  Giovanni had stayed on the landing keeping watch and now the five rushed down the stairs towards the door. As they reached the bottom flight of stairs, they crashed headlong into the old grave-digger who had just come upstairs from his bed in the cellar.

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘What goes on here?’

  Giovanni held his sword against the man’s chest. ‘You say another word and you will be joining those poor bastards you bury out there.’

  Peter and Niccolò ushered Maria and Daniele outside and into the gondola. Then Peter came back for his friend.

  ‘Come Giovanni. We are done here.’

  ‘You say a word, old man, and I will come back for you – understand?’ shouted Giovanni as he and Peter ran out of the hospital, along the harbour wall, leaping aboard the gondola as Daniele expertly pushed off from the jetty and steered it out into the lagoon.

  Maria sat in the prow of the boat, laughing and crying, with tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Papa, I cannot believe what you have just done!’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without Peter here, or Giovanni.’

  Giovanni and Daniele steered the boat out into the choppy waters. It would be hard work getting the boat back to the city.

  Suddenly, Maria called out. ‘Oh no! What about Andrea? He was taken to the Lazaretto Nuovo. It’s over there, I think. We cannot leave him there.’

  ‘No,’ said Niccolò. ‘Maria is right. We must find a way of rescuing him too.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Peter. ‘It is already daylight. We cannot risk it now.’

  ‘No, you are right,’ said Niccolò. ‘We will have to go back for him tonight.’

  Peter’s heart sank. ‘Niccolò – they will have raised the alarm by then and be looking for Maria and Daniele all over the city. I need to get them out of Venice as soon as possible.’

  As the impossibility of the situation began to dawn on them, Daniele called out. ‘Over there – a boat.’

  Peter drew his dagger and Giovanni handed him his sword.

  ‘It might be someone coming after us,’ he said to his friend.

  They watched as the boat drew closer.

  ‘It’s Andrea!’ said Maria. ‘Andrea, over here!’

  Andrea turned around and stood up as his name was called. When he saw Maria surrounded by her family in the gondola, he dropped his oars in surprise and one floated off into the sea, before sinking into the depths.

  Daniele and Giovanni steered the gondola towards him and Peter leant over grabbing hold of the boat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked Andrea.

  ‘I was coming to rescue you,’ Andrea said to Maria.

  ‘Thank you Andrea, but as you see, I have already been rescued.’

  With Andrea safely on board, they abandoned the small boat in the lagoon, and rowed back towards the city. To avoid suspicion, they split the party up, dropping Andrea and Giovanni at the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore from where they would pick up a gondola back to the main island.

  Meanwhile, Peter, Niccolò, Maria and Daniele rowed back to the pier at San Zaccaria. The sun was quite high in the sky as they arrived, and the Riva degli Schiavoni was filling up with stalls, merchants and customers. As they fought their way between the rough tables laid out with fish and meat, one of the stallholders recognised Niccolò. ‘Hey, Signor dei Conti! How are you? It’s been a while since we last saw you.’

  Niccolò raised his hand to acknowledge the man before shepherding his family hurriedly towards the Piazza. Within minutes they arrived at Niccolò’s lodgings; desperate not to be spotted, they crept up the back stairs to his room. Word had already spread of the plague that had affected the house of dei Conti, and they could not take the risk of being found now.

  ‘Damn,’ said Niccolò, shutting the door. His children, exhausted and exhilarated to have been liberated, threw themselves on their father’s bed and laughed.

  ‘You must keep your voices down. It is unfortunate that we were seen down in the market. Word will soon be out that I am back and someone is bound to remember that I had you two with me.’

  ‘What are we to do?’ asked Maria anxiously.

  ‘Peter and I have a plan.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Niccolò.

  ‘Giovanni and Andrea.’

  Niccolò opened the door and pulled the two men inside.

  ‘We must act fast. I have been seen at the market. First, let me say this to Andrea. Thank you, for attempting to rescue Maria.’

  Andrea blushed and looked down at his feet.

  ‘I understand that you tried to persuade Maria to go with you to the quarantine island. You should have known her better than that. She would never have deserted her brother.’

  Niccolò s dark eyes bored into Andrea, unsmiling. Andrea began to feel discomforted.

  ‘You are a runaway, like my children,’ Niccolò continued. ‘But you were not suspected of having the illness, or so I understand; the authorities will be content if you simply disappear. They want anyone who has been in touch with a possible case just to get out of the city.’

  ‘I have nowhere to go,’ said Andrea, beginning to understand the full import of Niccolò’s words.

  ‘I realise that. I have friends in Chioggia where I grew up. I shall write to them and ask them to they take you in. You must be inconspicuous for a long time.’

  ‘But Master, I do not wish to leave you… Or Maria, or Daniele, of course.’ Andrea said.

  ‘I’m afraid it is the only solution,’ said Niccolò firmly.

  ‘And what of Maria?’ asked Andrea.

  ‘She is no longer your concern. Now, I suggest that you leave us straight away. Here is the address of my friends. I have written a letter for you to give to them on your arrival. I wish you luck, Andrea, and Godspeed.’ Niccolò shook the young man’s hand. ‘Just one more thing – I do this as a favour to you – do you understand?’

  Andrea nodded uncertainly.

  ‘If any word should reach the authorities,’ continued Niccolò sternly, ‘of what happened to Maria or Daniele, of how they were rescued, I shall ensure that your part in this is known.’ And with that, he opened the door and ushered Andrea down the stairs of the taverna and out onto the Piazza.

  ‘Papa,’ said Maria, ‘there is something curious about Andrea’s part in all this.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Niccolò.

  ‘What do you know?’ asked Maria.

  ‘Only that someone in our house told the authorities that Daniele was ill. I cannot think of anyone who would do such a thing; certainly not Alfreda or Bella, except…’

  ‘But why would he do that?’

  ‘I think he is a very confused young man,’ said Niccolò.

  ‘I did feel, as we were rowed over to Poveglia, there was something he wasn’t telling me. He was very upset that I wouldn’t go with him to the Lazaretto Nuovo. It was almost as if he had decided what was going to happen and was cross with me when I didn’t go along with it…’Niccolò said nothing, but gazed out of the small window that overlooked the Piazza. He watched a
s Andrea walked unsteadily away, looking back just once towards the taverna. He held Niccolò’s letter in his hand. Tears streamed down his narrow face.

  ‘I don’t think we shall see him again. Now Maria, we have more important things to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, Papa?’

  ‘Yes, such as your wedding to young Peter here, and the fact that he is going to take you and Daniele out of Venice and back to his family in the north.’

  The two young people looked at one another in amazement. Then Maria burst into tears. ‘But Papa, I cannot leave you. I have just got you back after all these weeks.’

  ‘I know, my darling, but you and Daniele are in a serious situation. I couldn’t leave you on that island and risk you catching that terrible illness. We had to rescue you; but having done so, you must now get out of Venice. You must see that?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Daniele. ‘But Peter, do you really want me with you? I could go off on my own,’ he said bravely.

  ‘No!’ said Maria. ‘If I am going, you are going with me, little brother. We cannot be parted. But what about you, Papa, and Giovanni?’ asked Maria. ‘Will you be punished? What will happen to you?’

  ‘To me? Nothing,’ said Niccolò. ‘The authorities will ask me if I know what happened to you both, and I shall deny all knowledge. Then I shall go back to Florence and finish my work there. It is important work, I believe.’

  ‘And I shall marry Polisena,’ said Giovanni cheerfully, ‘and we will go abroad.’

  ‘But can we marry, so quickly?’ asked Maria anxiously. ‘What of my dowry?’

  ‘That is all arranged,’ said Niccolò, smiling at Peter.

  ‘Really?’ said Maria.

  ‘Peter and I have drawn up the contract already. You will take the vase as your dowry. It is worth a great deal of money.’

  ‘But you are supposed to give it to the Doge.’

  ‘I do not think the Doge will miss it. I have many other pieces of porcelain that he can have. Take the vase, daughter. It will bring you luck all your life. Look! It has already rescued you from Poveglia and provided you with a husband.’

  Maria and Peter were married later that evening in the garden of the convent of San Zaccaria. Their witnesses were Giovanni and Polisena, who stood with her hand resting happily on her swollen belly. Maria and Peter then stood witness for their friends, as they too were married. Peter gave his wife a gold ring, set with a diamond. It glinted in the moonlight.

  ‘Where did you get such a thing?’ she asked as he slipped it onto her finger.

  ‘I bought it from a merchant I know… The day I first saw you. I knew then, that one day we would be married.’

  There was no time for a feast. No opportunity for the bride to wear her finery. Instead, Maria, Peter and Daniele rode out of Venice, their way lit only by a waxing moon, heading for Bruges and a new life in the north – three young people with a sense of adventure, and a Ming vase for company.

  * * *

  The mountains are blessed with streams that flow from the summits down onto the plains below. The water is of particular clarity and it is this which helps to create the pure white porcelain that is the feature of this region. At the base of the mountain, large wooden water wheels are erected to take advantage of the fast flowing stream. The kaolin stones are tipped into bowls and pounded into a fine powder by a simple mechanical crusher, powered by the water wheels. This powder is then washed clean and reshaped into clay bricks called pai-tun. The job is overseen by a high official, who observes the activity of the workers from horseback. The horse’s harness is of great beauty. His stirrups are made of silver, and the saddle of a beautiful silken fabric. He is accompanied by coolies; one holds an umbrella over the overseer’s head to protect him from the sun, while the other carries his luggage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christmas is Coming

  Sheen, London, October 2015

  Miranda loved Christmas. She knew that it was a tawdry, commercial waste of time, but nevertheless she began to get excited at the prospect as soon as Georgie broke up for half-term in October.

  Of course, Christmas involved a huge amount of work and potentially a lot of expense, but Miranda took huge delight in making cards and creating gifts – some food-related, but also knitted or sewn. Her necessary frugality was the mother of invention as far as Christmas was concerned, and as soon as her daughter broke up from school she would sit with Georgie at the kitchen table and make a list of all the people who needed gifts. She would then create a second list of all the items they could produce between them.

  It was a far cry from her time with Guy. He had always been so keen to appear extravagant at Christmas, a characteristic at odds with his parsimony towards his ex-wife and daughter since the divorce. It was all about ‘show’ for him, she supposed. His parents and sisters were all quite wealthy, and she always had the impression that he struggled to keep up with them all financially. But although most of the presents were for his family, he’d made it clear from the start that the responsibility for buying them was hers. ‘I’m far too busy with work to flog round the shops. You do it. Girls love shopping.’

  And so, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, Miranda rushed out each lunchtime, from the art gallery in Mayfair, to do battle with the crowds in Selfridges or Liberty to buy a cashmere scarf or an expensive pair of leather gloves for his mother. It had been a source of friction, even in the early days of their marriage.

  ‘Couldn’t we just give them a nice bottle of wine?’ she’d argued one year. ‘I could pick something up at Fortnum’s – so it would look smart. Or I could make them something?’

  ‘Make something? What are you thinking of? My mother doesn’t want some god-awful knitted scarf. Your friends might think your homemade accessories are in some way chic or right-on, but my mother has slightly better taste. God, Miranda,’ he’d said with irritation. ‘What on earth will they think if we turn up with a cheap bottle of plonk or pair of knitted mittens? You know how generous they are with us.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure we’re very grateful, but they aren’t behind on the mortgage payments, are they?’

  He had glared at her and left the room.

  The mortgage payments had become something of a running sore in their relationship. When they first married, Guy had a small flat off the Fulham Road. It was charming, if a little cramped. But Guy was determined that they should move to something more substantial. The chosen house was a villa nearby with five bedrooms. It was far too large, and certainly more than they could afford. But Guy convinced Miranda that a promotion was just around the corner.

  Two years later, with Miranda now six months pregnant, the promotion had failed to materialise, whilst the mortgage payments had increased with the interest rates.

  Any hopes Miranda might have entertained of taking a few years off to look after her first child had to be shelved. It had been a double blow, because Miranda had hoped to take advantage of the time caring for her new baby to explore other work opportunities. Working in the art gallery had been a temporary job that had become permanent. It was not something she loved. It had not even been particularly well paid. She had fantasised that while her new baby lay sleeping peacefully in her cot in the pretty Fulham house she might develop a plan for a business or kick-start some kind of creative career. She was in the habit of knitting Fair Isle scarves and hats as presents for friends, and had built up quite a following. Guy had hated it; he would scowl when he came in from work and found her sitting at the kitchen table in the large house, surrounded by the builders’ detritus and 'clattering those needles.'

  'God! Have they still not finished the kitchen? How long is this going to take? Do you have any idea Miranda what these pirates are costing us? Knitting again, I see; is there nothing for supper?' He had looked around the dust-covered kitchen despairingly.

  'Yes, Guy, I do know what it's costing, although I hate to point out that it was you who wanted a new ‘top of the range’ kitchen. I'd have
been quite happy with something from IKEA. And yes, there is supper – it's in the oven.'

  In fact, her food was one of the few things that Guy had not complained about. But he had refused to contemplate her starting up a ‘knitting’ business.

  ‘Miranda, you don’t seem to understand. We are on the edge financially – until my promotion, of course. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you forgot these ridiculous fantasies of starting up a business. Your job at the gallery may not be brilliantly well paid, but it covers quite a lot of our expenditure, and we need it. We’ll have to get a nanny and you’ll have to go back to work as soon as you can.’

  ‘But by the time we’ve paid a nanny, I might as well have stayed at home,’ argued Miranda.

  ‘Nonsense. I’ve done the sums and you really have to go back. I’m sorry, but it’s the way it is.’

  The end of their marriage had come almost as a relief. The expensive house was sold and she and Georgie had moved to a much smaller house in Sheen, with a deposit provided by her parents and a lump sum from Guy – a final payment on their marriage together. He had agreed to pay some child maintenance, but nothing else. She accepted the ‘deal’ with alacrity, so grateful was she to be finished with the relationship and to have a roof, however tiny, over her head. A chance meeting with her old friend Jeremy as she wheeled Georgie in her pushchair down Barnes High Street had resulted in her job at the bookshop. And she was slowly building up her network of customers for the knitting business. The problem was, Guy had been right. It didn’t really bring in a huge amount of income. She covered her costs, but barely made a profit.

  Miranda and Georgie sat at the kitchen table making their Christmas lists.

  ‘Blackberry jam I think, for my godmother,’ said Miranda, ‘or maybe some marmalade? She loves marmalade. As long as the Seville oranges get into the shops in time. Or do I have some left from the last batch; can you look for me, G?’

  Georgie rummaged in her mother’s ‘larder’; in reality it was just a big pine cupboard that had been built in with the Victorian house. The glazed top cupboards held Miranda’s hotchpotch of china. The solid cupboards beneath were filled to bursting with jam jars of all shapes and sizes.