Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

  'But we have another son of some skill that works near the Arsenale’ said Levin, ‘if we ask him to help that could save some time.’

  ‘I need the work to be the finest you can manage’ he said.

  ‘He has made compasses and other excellent equipment for the great Galileo, Mr Sloane - who was a loyal client. I think he can help me with your lanterns.’

  The Professor smiled,

  ‘That’s good to know. In that case, I’m sure then that Galileo will appreciate his craftsmanship’ said the Professor.

  The mistress of the store gave an odd expression:

  ‘The great Galileo left for Florence last year Mr Sloane’ she said, ‘if you mean the lanterns to be a gift for him we have another son with a workshop in Florence on the Ponte Vecchio.' The Professor almost laughed when he realised he would have galloped past the jeweller's studio when he fled the Medici gathering weeks ago. The Professor smirked.

  ‘It’s not a gift as such, but I’ll hope Galileo will like it all the same.' Husband and wife glanced at one another again.

  'It seems the air of Venice does not quite agree with you' said Giaconda, 'we've seen this with many foreigners' she added in a grave tone. The Professor took his chance to laugh at the pair.

  ‘Forgive me’ he said, ‘but the English humour is fond of irony.'

  The couple puzzled at their new client, but they smiled and settled on a cash advance for the work to be done. The Professor finished his lemonade, amongst small talk, and when finished he allowed Giaconda to escort him from the room after he said his thanks and goodbyes to Levin.

  ‘May I ask?’ the Professor said to Giaconda as she led him back to the main door, where it seemed, judging by the body language of Giacomo and the waves of the leaving couple that the sale had been a success. ‘Where does a man go in Venice if he wants to find things of great variety, curiosity and rarity?’

  She took less than a moment to respond:

  ‘As a Gentlewoman of taste, I know where the quality is, Mr Sloane.’ She flicked her eyes over him and let her words hang in the air, ‘and as for variety, curiosity, and rarity few can match the goods of the men that own the Venice East India company.' Giaconda took in a deep breath that lifted her bosom, ‘if they don’t have it, Mr Sloane, then it doesn’t exist.' The Professor’s eyes flashed,

  ‘And where are these men located, Donna Glanz?’

  ‘In the Arsenale, close to the shipyards and docks near to where their supplies come in. Our older son often buys things for me there when I’m too busy with business.' The Professor let his mind wander as to what other business the woman had before she stepped with the Professor outside the shop, and he again noticed the reflections the gems cast upon her creamy bust. He averted his eyes once more, but she caught him looking: her lips curled again at the edges.

  ‘I’m not surprised a woman of your quality should know of such a place’ said Winston as he ran his hand through his platinum locks. He propped his elbow against the wall which flexed his bicep. She saw the muscle move under the fabric of his clothes.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sloane’ said Giaconda, who then raised her scented hand in the air - the Professor kissed it, ‘it’s been a pleasure.' They locked eyes with one another. The Professor inhaled a scent of rose water and allowed his lips to linger on her soft skin before he released her hand to attempt a move down the side street. He let his eyes hover upon Giaconda, and turned to walk away before turning back again to find she had stood still to watch him off. He smiled before he leant against the wall again:

  ‘A question’ he said, running a broad hand through his locks once more, so they shone in the light, ‘what does Niello mean?’

  Giaconda smiled, and looked across at him through her eyelashes.

  ‘It’s a decorative technique of engraved metal, usually silver, with black inlay’ she said, ‘It’s beautiful. My youngest son, Giacomo, has become a master of the technique.'

  'Has he now?' said the Professor.

  'Yes, he has, he's the most talented of our sons. I've collected some of his best work: and I promise to show you some of my finest pieces when you come back.’ Her eyes that said more than her lips, before she gave a slow turn back into the premises.

  The Professor smirked to himself and almost whistled after the woman had turned away, he then he shook his head to examine his silver fringe and grinned in understanding the Gondoliers joke. A raven is black, and his hair is silver: just like a Niello. The Professor then turned back down the side street and onto Salizzada Pio X to find himself a bite to eat, before making his way to the Arsenale in search of the Venice East India Company.

  Chapter 5

  The Golden Phoenix

  Venice, Midday, Monday, 24th of October 1611

  Antonio and Hermes stood speculating outside of the Golden Phoenix Inn: a squat establishment just off the main street of Rio Terra Farsetti, and on the shaded side street Calle Farnese. Even with the help of a neat map drawn in the letter it had taken them a while to find the place. Above the door, flat to the wall, lay a small wooden panel painted with a golden firebird on a red background, which was all to define the place. The pair stood back, as they talked, to pause and look at the people that frequented the premises. To Antonio, it seemed busy for a Monday as the influx of people increased. They hung back further to discuss possible scenarios. The pair spent some time chatting as Antonio paced from side to side.

  ‘What do you think of this place?’ said Hermes.

  ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been inside before’ said Antonio. Hermes eyed up the Inn as if extra information should come to him out of the ether.

  ‘Does it have a good reputation?’

  ‘Urrh?’ said Antonio, squinting, before he waggled his hand from side to side, ‘but we can’t be sure unless we go in.' Hermes scanned the clientele: a collection of merchants and other tradesmen, at ease, meeting and greeting each other - it seemed an average place. Hermes assumed that it could not be worse than the Blue Madonna back in Florence.

  ‘Where did he say he would meet you?’

  Antonio consulted the letter.

  ‘He wrote table nine near the back.' He turned his head to listen to a church clock nearby as it struck twelve chimes, ‘he should be here now’ he said. He seemed nervous, ‘time to go in.'

  Antonio led the way as they both entered the Golden Phoenix Inn. The place continued to fill with people, Italians and foreigners alike, as local clocks chimed the hour. Mercantile men drank wine and beer at the wooden tables, the noise of their broad voices increasing, while men and women of different nationalities served food or took orders. Hermes thought he identified people from the Dalmatian coast, wanting to escape the influence of the Ottoman Turks, others he recognised as North Africans or Greeks, faces that seemed unchanged, despite their clothes, which transported him back to his ancient past at the temple so long ago. Hermes shook off the unexpected memories as Antonio scanned the busy room. He froze when he spied a man sitting in a far corner of the Inn who beckoned him to come over.

  Antonio turned to speak to Hermes, his eyes full: ‘I think I know that person - I think I know who he is’ he said, and Hermes peered past Antonio’s frame to snatch a look at an enigmatic mature man that sat at the far table in dark clothing.

  He seized Hermes' hand and took a deep breath before he advanced across the room with him to the far corner table. The man stood up as they approached, Antonio hesitated: he had some height. The man although broader and more mature, stood almost like a mirror, a dark reflection, of Antonio. His hand began to shake as Hermes held it, and his lips trembled. The dark clothed man beckoned again to encourage him, and Antonio released Hermes hand to walk the last steps across the tavern, and into the outspread arms of the dark clothed stranger who embraced him:

  ‘My son’ he said in a deep voice, ‘my son.'

  Hermes looked on in awe at Antonio, a person unaccustomed to tears, who broke down in his father’s arms and stared at his face
in disbelief. Antonio’s father cried too while hugging him, and his eyes glistened with evident pride as he slapped and prodded at his son to take account of his sturdy frame, and admire what a forbidden relationship could create.

  He wiped his son’s tears before his own, and bid the pair to sit down as Antonio was beyond speech: ‘too many years’ the man said with a faltering voice as he reached up to stroke Antonio’s face, ‘you still know me, then?' He said, searching his son's eyes, 'can you forgive me for waiting so long?’ With his shoulders heaving, Antonio spluttered, in vain, as he tried to control himself, but nodded although his aqueous eyes had clouded to pink. The man waved at Hermes to sit down as he approached the table with trepidation. He looked at Antonio’s father, and he imagined how Antonio would look if he used the Hermeporta to fast forward twenty years in time. The man had a dark, thick, and tapered beard with a rugged jaw, bushy salt-pepper brows, and crow’s feet crowned amber-green eyes that complimented his weathered skin: ‘you got your mother’s looks, but my body’ said Antonio’s father as his son sat down.

  He has, Hermes thought to himself, and the man’s statement managed to raise a stifled laugh from Antonio who nodded as he wiped at his eyes.

  ‘Is she well? The Lady, your mother?’

  ‘Yes’ Antonio managed between heaves, ‘yes, she is, father, my mother’s well.’

  ‘Still a pain in the ass?’

  ‘Yes!’ Hermes half blurted out before he restrained himself, but Antonio answered his father with a full belly laugh, which raised him high enough to free him, for a moment, from the sea of emotion that had engulfed him.

  ‘Yes, yes’ said Antonio, ‘she is well and still a pain, and as dear to me as ever.' The man nodded at the news with a wry smile and seemed satisfied. A silence fell between the men, and Antonio and his father just looked at each other before the older man spoke again:

  ‘I think we all need food and drink’ he said, slapping the table after Hermes had sat down before he beckoned over one of the tavern’s Greek waiters and ordered two bottles of Barolo wine, Tuscan olives, bread, and Monte Veronese cheese. The Greek seemed familiar with the request. Hermes read a love for wine in the broken veins of the mature man’s cheeks and nose, but the redness added cheer to his strong face, and offset the uneasy impression of his cunning eyes.

  ‘So, who’s this?’ said the man as he gestured his hairy hand in the youth’s direction.

  ‘Forgive me, father, I forgot to introduce you both, this is Hermes’ said Antonio, looking at him, ‘he’s become a good friend of mine’ and he gave Hermes’ shoulder a gentle squeeze. The youth beamed, and smiled with a warmth that looked like sunshine, and glowed with pride to be considered a good friend of Antonio’s. The older man saw the effect his son’s words had on the youth and gave a slow blink and a fraction of a nod.

  ‘What’s your name?’ said Hermes emboldened, to be sure the author of the letter and the man were the same. The man paused with the question before he answered:

  ‘Giovanni, young man, Giovanni’ said Antonio’s father with a broad grin.

  'But in the letter, you wrote Giuseppe, and Bianca, I'm told, calls you Rodolfo' he said, his eyes probing the stranger. He waited for Giovanni to say more. The man remained grinning but silent. Hermes furrowed his brow: ‘and your last name is?’ He enquired. Giovanni’s grin began to falter, and Antonio’s face stiffened as he flashed Hermes a look. The man gave a sheepish laugh, leaned closer to the young men, and hushed his already low voice to purr like a tiger before he spoke across the table. ‘Rodolfo is my middle name, and last names are not for here, young man’ he said with his head still, but eyes shifting about the room, ‘in Venice the walls have ears and the water sees everything. It’s hard to utter something without anyone hearing it’ said Giovanni with a sly grin.

  But the younger men gave sickly smiles.

  'So, your last name is a secret?' Added the youth, taking it upon himself to question Antonio's father. A silence fell between them. Giovanni fondled his beard as a sinew raised in his jaw. ‘Some call me “Don I”, or “Don R” depending who you speak to, but most people just call me Gino, and that is all.' The man grinned again, and Hermes caught the whiff of a night of drinking on the man’s breath when he had drawn closer to speak. Hermes frowned before the man pulled himself back somewhat and stroked his beard again. Antonio moved forward to stretch a hand toward his father.

  'Never mind’ he said holding his father’s wrist with a brief look to Hermes, ‘you’re here now, and I’m glad of it, we can discuss details later.' Giovanni cleared his throat gave a quick nod to his son. Antonio released him. Hermes sat back and crossed his arms, as sat and listened to the banter on the other tables, but the mood changed when the food and wine arrived.

  Antonio clapped and rubbed his hands together, smiling, when the platters were laid down on the table with the food, three glasses, and the two bottles of Barolo wine. Giovanni sat up and sniffed at the bottle like a bloodhound when the tavern worker uncorked the wine before he nodded his approval. The server attempted to fill the glasses, but Giovanni raised his hand to halt him before he snatched up the bottle and sloshed the dark red Barolo into the glasses himself. He nodded his thanks to the server to let him go, before raising a toast,

  ‘To new beginnings’ he said before all three clinked their glasses together. Father and son smiled, and then Hermes joined them after thinking as to where the new beginnings would lead. Hermes sniffed the berry scented wine, and nodded with approval, before he sampled the full-bodied liquid, and enjoyed the delicious burn down the inside of his throat that warmed his chest.

  ‘So, the letter, Father’ said Antonio between mouthfuls of food and slurps of his wine, ‘what is it you know of my uncle's state?’

  The man grimaced, sucked in air between his teeth, leaned forward over the table once more while cradling his glass.

  ‘My son, it’s grim’ he said with a grave tone and restless eyes. ‘Your uncle is shut up with the rats, whores, and debtors at the Doge’s pleasure.' Antonio nodded, 'they say his creditors denounced him, and that the authorities dragged him out of bed, with barely enough time to dress, before the bailiffs took everything of value they could lay their hands on.' Antonio’s hand covered his mouth as his father carried on: ‘oh dear boy, he’s in a bad way, with such a fall for a man of the cloth as he once was - which makes the shame all the worse.’

  ‘He was a priest?’ said Hermes unable to edit his surprise,

  ‘He went to the Americas to do missionary work’ Antonio interjected, ‘but Mother said he came back wretched, had broken his vows, and that he questioned his faith in God.’

  ‘What vow did he break?’ said Hermes wide-eyed: his curiosity piqued. Antonio shrugged and struggled to answer, so his father replied for him. Giovanni restrained a smirk that threatened to streak across his face.

  ‘The women of the Americas are wild and shameless, boy.' He then leaned in closer to whisper, 'a man need only glimpse one of their bare-breasted dances by the firesides to find his desire towered, and his will in ruins’ he said with mirth. Hermes' eyes became saucers. ‘Or so I’m told’ he added, with a cough, trying to caveat his knowledge and not delight too much in the youth's response. Hermes and Antonio looked at each other. Giovanni then wagged his finger in the air: ‘but don’t judge an ordained man for common passions’ he said with a waft of his glass. 'And I know, my son, your mother is a God-fearing woman. But we're all susceptible to catch fire when blown by the winds of desire.' The man caressed the air with his fingers, cocked his brow and let his eyes linger on the pair as he took a long sip of his wine. Antonio had turned quite pink at the look his father gave him, and that his father had revealed in one sentence what his mother had tried to conceal from him for ten years.

  ‘Father, he sounds in a bad way indeed. We must go to him’ said Antonio as he wiped his palm across his brow, and glanced again at Hermes.

  ‘Yes, you must, my son, because he’s got important
news to share with you.’

  ‘What news?’ said Hermes before Antonio can answer.

  ‘News that must only be heard by my son’ said Giovanni with a curled brow and a narrow look. The youth’s lips clenched into a thin line.

  ‘Who do we speak with at the prison to get to see my uncle?’ said Antonio, 'I wish to see him immediately.' Giovanni nodded and then gave detailed instructions as to how the pair were to proceed and to whom should be spoken to, and the proper things to be said.

  Antonio and Hermes drank in the information with more thirst than their wine, and after the food lay eaten, they made ready to get up and leave for the dungeons of the Doge before it became too late in the day to visit. Father and son stood to embrace:

  ‘Soon you must give up frivolous things’ whispered Giovanni in his son’s ear as they hugged. Mild confusion flashed over Antonio’s face. He then said, with a cupped hand next to his mouth, for both to hear: ‘return this evening, and I’ll tell you stories about your mother.’ The man winked before he stood back, ‘and you' said Giovanni addressing the youth, 'keep an eye on my son - I’m sure you’re good enough at that.'

  ‘I will’ said Hermes with a hard swallow before he averted his eyes.

  The men exchanged goodbyes, and the pair left the tavern after Antonio stated that he expected to return with Hermes later that evening. Giovanni waved them off, went back to his table and ordered more food when the Greek server returned to open the second bottle of wine.

  'Thank you, Krystos' he said, as the man topped up his wine glass, 'did you see him?' Krystos nodded, as if impressed 'to my regret he's not seen me since he was a boy, but that young man is my son.'

  ◆◆◆

  Hermes and Antonio had walked a short distance down the Rio Tera Farsetti before Hermes asked a question:

  ‘What do you think of him - your father?’ Antonio sighed.

  ‘I don't know. It’s difficult to say’ he said with a shrug, before chewing his lip. ‘I remember that he used to visit me sometimes, when I was younger, or talk with me when I played with friends. But he would never come into the house. I missed him. I didn’t see him often. It's been years since I last saw him. I've always felt like I've done something wrong.' He trailed off. Hermes looked at the conflicted expression on Antonio's face.