‘I’m not sure you can trust him’ he said. Antonio almost frowned, and then seemed to ponder.
'You're judging him' said Antonio with hesitance as he considered the youth's observation, 'but it’s too early to tell.’
He sighed again and changed the topic, before he led the way through the busy labyrinthine streets towards San Marco’s square and the Doge’s Palace.
Chapter 6
The Arsenale
Padua, early afternoon, overlooking the lagoon, Monday 24th of October 1611
Within an orb of swirling mist, the figure of a tall man with silver hair could be seen walking through the Arsenale amongst the ships and warehouses.
'So, you seek the merchants’ Lucia said to herself as she gazed into her crystal ball - her dilated pupils aglow - with one eye socket blackened, and her cheek grazed. She took the ball out of her lap before she covered it again with its thick dark velvet after her seeing, and returned the orb to the new leather bag that she had bought at a small-town market after she had progressed north from Florence.
She took up a small hand mirror that lay next to her on the bed, another purchase among other items, and gazed again at her healing lip and bruised face. The Golem had given her a beating. 'That worthless...' Lucia gritted her teeth, 'worthless...' She could not find the words to express herself when she thought of the Golem: Stella. Although she had crushed her opponent, she could not help but resent her foe for the dent she gave to her looks. Lucia had purchased fabric to veil herself and avoid either the concerned or inquisitive looks that came her way. Even after eight days parts of her body still ached and hurt - but much less so than the betrayal of Celeste, and yet more of Arcangela.
‘Whores’ she said aloud, ‘CHEAP WHORES!' The words exploded from her mouth. She ran a delicate finger across the red and green bruise over her right cheekbone and winced. She looked awful but much better than the shocking state she was left in after Arcetri. Lucia had neither the will or the energy to gather healing herbs, and keeping up her pace while stalking the Professor until he reached Bologna had tested her battered state. She chose to let herself heal without herbal magic and almost laughed at the shabby image that stared back at her: ‘heal slowly, Lucia, as others do: this time’ she said to herself in the mirror,
‘you’ve survived worse. You’ll be alright.' She almost did not recognise her dim bloodshot eyes that stared back at her, and her lip trembled before she put the mirror down.
She took several deep breaths, with clenched brows, to halt the prickle of tears. She clenched her fists. ‘How could they?' she said shaking her head, 'what a pair of ungrateful, deceitful, and back-stabbing bitches... how could they?' She said again still in disbelief, 'I hope they rot in hell.' Lucia felt her insides stir again with indignation and rage, but what galled her most were her feelings of powerlessness, self-pity, and despair. Many years had passed since she had felt this way and during her years of strength, she had forgotten it. She stood up from her tavern room bed and clutched at her side, grimacing, before she rubbed her stiff shoulder. Lucia squirmed as she fondled the stubbly bald patch of scalp on her head, the fist-full of hair that Stella had torn out, and cursed the Golem under breath. She then covered the naked skin with the rest of her thick blond hair and braided it into a plait to keep things in place.
Lucia then limped two steps across her small room to pick up and hold the little box wrapped in velvet with stars. Her free hand trembled as she traced her fingers around the edge of the box. She clasped the box to her chest, casting her mind back over the years before she plunged into a well of buried emotions. This time, however, she could not hold back the tears, but managed to choke down a cry of anguish with the strength it takes to hold back a river - she bit her finger to stifle her sobs which left dents in the skin. Lucia had to return to the bed to sit down, her body shaking, as her tears rolled out of her cold and silent. She sat still and looked into the half distance for some time with her body on the mattress, and her heart in the past:
‘Make them pay, Lucia. Make them PAY’ she said before she put the wrapped box into the chest with iron trappings, and returned the ball to her leather bag. Lucia veiled herself once more and made ready to leave the tavern and catch a gondola to the Serene Republic.
◆◆◆
Professor Sloane walked among the docks of the Arsenale, after he had eaten a light meal from a Trattoria in haste, and marvelled at the industriousness of the Venetians: at how they had inspired Italy, and the wider world, into ever more complex and international trade. All around him he heard the cutting and creaking of wood as skilled craftsmen bent the material to their will like they had done, for centuries, with water to master the lagoon and seas beyond. Everywhere the Professor heard the hammering of nails, and the slosh of buckets and brushes as the workers waterproofed their vessels with pitch. Other workers wound rope, and yet more unloaded exotic goods from Arabia, Ottoman Turkey, India, and the Far East. From every arriving ship in port, the workers unloaded large wooden boxes, onto trestles, or rolled the barrels down gangways with their rough hands and shouted instructions with tougher voices. The activities filled the briny air with the noise of native and foreign traders, and the sights and smells of far-flung lands that the Venetians had no fear exploring for goods and trade.
He eyed the shipyards and storage houses in search of a sign that would display the name of the Venice East India Company. He spied men instead at work sawing or carving wood and saw others that were painting decorative embellishments on the sides of new ships. Two artisans bickered, stood next to a handsome vessel, jousting the finer points of design and what the outcome of their efforts should be.
The Professor had gained more detailed directions from the trattoria customers as to the location of the company. Winston ran them over in his mind again before turned off the central waterfront to walk between two shipbuilding yards, which gave off a resinous scent of wood and located the warehouses of the Arsenale. Looking at the signs painted in bright colours outside each warehouse the Professor could see, gathered in one place, the extent of Venice’s trade with the known world. He paused for a moment, his mind stepping into the future, as he stood on Oxford High Street and gazed at the shop fronts to compare memory with the Venetian efforts in front of him.
‘The High can’t compete with this’ he muttered to himself before he spied, further along, the warehouse he wanted to find.
The warehouse of the Venice East India Company, neat and tidy, had the cobbled stones outside swept free of straw and splinters and washed clean of grime and dirt. The sign outside the warehouse bore the name of the company in gold letters on a green framed background, with painted baroque style flowers and leaf patterns at the corners. As the Professor walked closer, he saw the front of the place was fitted out as a showroom, with large glass windows - displaying unusual goods that were better than many of the best items he had seen in London. The window display contained curiosities and rare treasures. Exotic stuffed Birds of Paradise seemed to call to one another, with wings spread, beaks agape, perched on sticks of cinnamon bark, dried liquorice roots and faux foliage; the bird's iridescent feathers adding garish flashes of colour in the bright sunshine.
Other stuffed animals adorned the display, and the Professor saw small carnivorous mammals with their jaws open as if poised for attack, posed next to frogs, toads, and reptiles of bewildering variety. It was as if Charles Darwin had scooped up half of the known world and deposited his findings in the window. Rare dried herbs and spices lay within colossal bell jars next to coloured illustrations of what they looked like fresh, in flower, and un-picked in their native countries. The Professor's eyes grew wide as he gawped at what he saw, shaking his head. 'Half these animals must have become extinct by my time' he whispered to himself. Winston stared into the distance for a moment and saw, in his mind's eye, a Zoologist friend of his stooped over an old illustrated book. He reached out to touch the cold glass: ‘Mary would wet herself if she saw this’ he m
used. ‘This place is a time capsule of wonders’ he said to himself before he entered the warehouse via its bright red door.
The heady scents of spices, woods, and resins engulfed the Professor in a bear hug when he entered the shop: ‘smells like Christmas in here’ he tittered to himself, and he could not repress an ironic smirk. Sitting at a desk behind the counter sat a brown-skinned man, very different to Raven, with various gold piercings along his ears, and one in his nose, who sat next to a man that immediately struck the Professor as English. Both men wore dark hats with colourful feather plumes in each: the two men were in the depths of a discussion, and they had not heard him enter. The men conversed in English and Italian when it suited them, and the brown-skinned man added some words in a language that the Professor did not recognise, but his colleague understood. The Professor had walked quite close to the pair before they had realised he stood there. Both men flinched:
‘How may we help you?’ said the brown-skinned man, surprised, in accented English before he corrected himself, and apologised in Italian.
‘It’s alright: I’m from England’ said the Professor much to the curiosity of both men, ‘I’m happy to use either language.'
The man who looked English eyed the Professor as if he were some extraordinary beast:
‘It’s not often I’ve heard English spoken by a native’ he said in his mother tongue, ‘but each year there are more. Where in England are you from?’ The Professor rattled through his mind to think of what Jacobean England would have been like in 1611, drew several blanks, and decided to wing it when it came to details.
‘I’m from Oxford’ he said with a raised chin even though he had not lived in Oxford since graduating in his twenties, but he knew the colleges were already famous enough to be referenced to this man without raising suspicion, and he hoped their reputation sufficient enough to intimidate awkward questions.
‘You don’t look like the Oxford sort to me: much too tall’, said the Englishman. He leaned over the counter to inspect the Professor. He cocked his brow and whistled: ‘how things have changed since I’ve been away’ said the Englishman with saucer eyes, looking at the Professor’s platinum hair, and flicking his eyes over the rest of him. ‘Was your mother an Amazon? Or have you been at sea? Because you’re almost as brown as him’, he said with a flick of his head as he elbowed his colleague, and both tradesmen cackled as they exchanged looks with each other.
Impertinent shit! The Professor thought to himself as he ruffled a hand through is shiny hair. The tittering men quietened down as the Professor glared at them.
‘I apologise for him' said the man with his gold piercings, who seemed to be the owner of the establishment, 'it’s a long time since he was home; we found him like this’ he said with a shrug.
'Maybe you should have left him where you found him?' The Professor gave a stiff smile, as the grin crashed from the Englishman's face. Winston was proud of his height and his tan, and he thought his new platinum hair suited him. He stood still without saying another word.
The two middle-aged men took on more serious expressions from behind their counter. The English one addressed him again:
‘So young man, how can we help you?’
Young man thought the Professor, forgetting his youthful appearance, I’ve got a few years on you... What a prat he carried on in his mind before he calmed himself to answer aloud:
‘I’m looking for something rare and unusual.' He said before making a point of strolling away from the men to gaze about and impose himself upon the space. He raised his chin in the air, 'and they say that this is the place where I can find such things.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place’ said the English man puffed up with a breezy delivery.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked the pierced man. The Professor scanned the warehouse for people, walked back to the pair, and then leaned forward across the counter, it creaked with his weight, before he lowered his voice to speak:
‘I’m looking for spiders’ he whispered,
‘What sort?’ interjected the loud Englishman, ‘we have bird eating spiders from the jungles of the New World, as big as a plate, blue tarantulas from Burma, and a few Black Widows from the new colonies in James Town.’ The Professor frowned.
‘Hush, John, let the man speak’ said his colleague with agitated waves of his hand, and both men waited for the Professor to start again. He closed his eyes and took in a deep whistling breath through his nostrils and let out a gust of air to compose himself. He scanned the showroom once more to be sure no one was among the goods and spices that abounded from every shelf and alcove.
‘I’m looking for Golden Orb Weavers’ said the Professor in low tones, ‘It's said that the spiders have golden silk.' The two merchants looked perturbed.
‘It's not often we're asked for those’ said John with a raised brow, ‘well, not by men in any case.’ The merchant slid a look to his colleague.
‘So, you have them then?’ added the Professor in haste. The merchants exchanged looks once more.
‘We do’ said the pierced man, ‘but they’re expensive and hard to get hold of: but we had some come in a few weeks ago.’
‘How many do you have left?’ The pierced man tilted his head to the left before he leaned back in his chair to call out behind him:
‘Gerben, can you come out here please?’ he said in a raised voice, ‘we have a man asking for Golden Orb Weavers.’ Heavy footsteps approached, from what the Professor gathered to be a side storage room, and some of the leaves of the potted plants trembled as Gerben drew closer. The Professor’s palms began to sweat, and he snatched a look at the door behind him. A wide heavy-set man of some height, even taller than the Professor, emerged through the side door of the storage area:
‘I missed what you said, Prince Fano’ answered the rugged man, in rumbling voice, with a broad white beard, wrinkled ruddy face, and a multitude of tattoos that stretched from his bald head, down to his exposed neck and arms. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up to the shoulders, his jerkin struggled to contain the barrel of his torso, and the Professor thought he saw a Unicorn tattooed among a tapestry of faded images and the bristling hairs of his burly arms. Gerben's brow glistened with sweat.
‘This gentleman would like to know if we have any Golden Orb Weavers left in stock’ said Prince Fano, fondling one of his gold piercings.
‘Does he now?’ said Gerben, who also spoke his Italian with an accent. The tattooed man, like the others, scrutinised their visitor as if he were a curiosity, and the Professor shifted on the spot as if he were reliving his first day at boarding school. ‘I thought I miss heard you; Prince Fano’ said Gerben scratching his ear,
‘His hearing's not what it was’ John interjected as he tapped his fingers on the desk.
‘I was moving the boxes of sugar loafs to the higher shelves: the rats can chew like bitches around here’ Gerben added before scratching at his chest.
Prince Fano's palm shot into the air:
‘We don’t have a problem here with rats’ he said to the Professor, ‘we keep the place spotless, but it’s a precaution when so near the docks.’ The Professor nodded, and Prince Fano gave a strained smile as he glanced at the other two men, ‘excuse our broad talk: we were all at sea together for many years, and men of the waves don’t hold back.' The other two grunted in recognition. The tattooed merchant fondled his beard:
‘What you want with Golden Weavers then?’ he said, before he cupped his hands under his chest to lift the flesh, ‘it’s normally women folk that ask for those to help with their charms’ he added. The man then massaged his thick hands over his large stomach, which strained at the fabric. Gerben then fluttered his eyes before he clapped his hands to his buttocks and ground his hips in undulating circles. All three merchants burst out laughing as Gerben imitated, with some skill, an Arabian belly dancer trying to seduce her audience. The Professor’s tan turned pink as the men of the sea chortled with one another.
> ‘This is not the service I would expect from... a Prince’ hissed the Professor through gritted teeth, eyeballing the pierced man before he clenched his fists, and he fought hard with himself not to stamp his foot, ‘and I suggest you take these two back to where you found them.' His words elicited a high whistle from John and Gerben who saw the Professor as no more than a young rake trying his luck. Prince Fano waved his hands again to quieten the men down before he replied:
‘Forgive our rudeness, Sir. We’ve seen all sorts, in our travels, but not quite the sorts of you, and it was he...’ said Prince Fano pointing to Gerben, ‘that saved ME, in a way, and so I’m forever in his debt.' Gerben acknowledged the statement with a silent nod, ‘as a man’ Prince Fano continued, ‘and a young one at that, what you ask for is most unusual. What you ask for is rare and expensive, and only women of the highest rank and wealth have ever asked for them.’
‘Why?’ said the Professor.
‘Why do we love?’ he said as if the answer should be self-evident.
‘A spider for a charm’ added John, but the Professor still looked confused. John sighed. Prince Fano spoke up before he thought his guest would explode with rage.
‘Love magic, Mr?’
‘Sloane’ said the Professor tight-lipped.
‘Is it not true that women, the world over, would bind a loved man to herself if she could?’ added Prince Fano with calming gestures.
'Depends on the woman' added the Professor, seeing Iona pack her bags and leave him in his mind's eye.
Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2) Page 7