The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  Suddenly the voyage ahead took on a new reality. “How many weeks will it take to get to Venice?” Danilo asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “Only six or eight. A couple of months if the winds go against you.” The slave was in charge once again as he inspected the cabin, shaking out the coverlet in search of insects and vermin. “Think of what’s in store for you,” he went on, oblivious to Danilo’s distress. “Cruising the Mediterranean in the owner’s cabin on a grand sailing ship.”

  Danilo shuddered at the thought. His mind leapt back to the voyage across the stormy Mediterranean a decade ago, when he and his mother took to the sea in flight from the sack of Rome. He shivered.

  Narcissus reached over to cover him with a shawl thrown over the bunk and continued. “You should be counting your blessings, with everything planned for your comfort and safety.” He reached into his carpet bag and held up a leather purse on a metal chain. “Spending money,” he explained as he wound the chain around Danilo’s neck. “The princess thinks of everything.”

  “God bless her,” muttered Danilo, half lost in memories of the savage Mediterranean storm.

  “You must never remove this wallet from your person.” Danilo heard a click at the back of his neck as the chain of the purse was fastened.

  “Not even when I sleep?”

  “Especially then. That is when the thieves come out. Many of the oarsmen on this vessel are slaves impressed into the Venetian naval service. They will not hesitate to rob you blind. Try to remember that you are no longer a penniless page. The purse is full of gold.”

  Now the slave held out the carpet bag itself. “Inside you will find a set of identity papers should you need them. You are described as Davide dei Rossi, a member of the dei Rossi family in the service of the Gonzaga dukes of Mantova. These papers should see you past the Venetian customs officers who will meet the ship at the dogana before it docks at San Marco. Speak Italian to them. And once you are in the city, my mistress says that you will easily find fellow Jews to help you settle.”

  He was interrupted by a loud clang of the ship’s bells.

  “That,” he informed Danilo, “is the warning bell. At the next bell this ship departs, and I do not intend to be on it. So listen carefully,” he said, wiggling his forefinger for emphasis. “Do not leave this cabin until you are out in open water. Rest, sleep, anything, but do not be seen. And when the captain addresses you as Signor dei Rossi do not look surprised. The princess picked that name to put on your forged documents because it is the name of your mother’s family. Remember you are no longer a page in the Sultan’s cul’. If anyone asks for your name . . . ?”

  “I say I am Davide dei Rossi.” Danilo repeated the name like a catechism. “My father is a merchant in Mantova.”

  The slave nodded approvingly and, without another word, waddled over to the ladder leading up to the deck. Then, teetering at the top of the stairs, he turned. “Think of it this way. You are a rich tourist cruising the Mediterranean in first-class style.”

  But, try as he did to feel rich and touristy, what dominated Danilo’s thoughts was his voyage long ago en route from Rome to Istanbul through these very same waterways. As he peered out through the porthole he could feel in his bones the icy waters of the Mediterranean sloshing over the deck and sliding in under their cabin door. He could almost hear his mother’s voice beseeching God not to let them drown and could feel the choke of terror at the thought of pirates in the nearby coves lying in wait for their ship.

  61

  THE JOURNEY BEGINS

  From the moment he had placed himself in Narcissus’s hands for the flight from the Sultan’s stables to the safety of the San Domenico, the sheer necessity to remain alive had left Danilo no time to think.

  Not until he was safely tucked into his bunk in the pizola did his heart stop pounding. Only then did his fevered mind begin to steady itself. Only then did his thoughts turn to the princess whose efforts had saved him from the Sultana’s men, who even now were combing the streets of Istanbul in search of him.

  He reached for the documents in the pocket of the carpet bag and began to examine the laissez passer identifying him as Davide dei Rossi. Such forgeries did not come cheap, especially when they were needed within a few hours. And the documents, plus the bribes that most certainly had been paid, were only a part of the large sum it must have taken to transform him overnight from Danilo del Medigo, a fugitive on the run from the Sultana’s Men in Black, into Davide dei Rossi, son of a Mantova merchant returning from his first business trip to the east.

  Where had the princess come by such a sum so quickly? But then she had never failed to rise to an occasion when the occasion demanded it. What a girl! The only girl in the world for him. Now he would never see her again. Long ago his mother had offered her life for his. And when this ship set sail he would be leaving behind two people who loved him in the same selfless way: the father who had nurtured him and the princess who had risked her life for him. He turned his head to the wall to ward off the thought.

  From the wheelhouse above him in the ship’s castle, the captain’s voice could be heard bellowing orders. All around, bells rang and winches squealed as the heavy anchor chain bounced against the side of the ship on its way to the surface — all of this unremarked by the occupant of the pizola, too deeply buried in the past to take notice.

  It took a sudden, violent lurch of the ship as it reversed direction to jolt him out of his bunk and dump him onto the floor of the cabin into the present. Was there still time to go back?

  As if they had a will of their own, his feet found their footing and carried him through the door of the pizola, up the ladder, and onto the poop deck. There he faced a long aisle with rows of oarsmen on either side, three to a bench. He stood there mesmerized by the rhythm of the oars as they plunged deep into the water and rose high in the air in perfect unison. The ship was underway. No chance now to leave the vessel.

  Unwilling to face the prospect of crawling back into the tight, cramped confines of the pizola, he began to move slowly and carefully past the oarsmen toward the prow of the ship. The six cannons arranged around the mast were a sharp reminder that, although the San Domenico was a merchant ship, any vessel sailing the eastern Mediterranean must be prepared for marauders — Turkish corsairs, if not Corsican pirates.

  But at this moment the perils lurking in the depths of the Mediterranean were in no way apparent. The San Domenico was cruising peacefully along the Bosphorus — a turbulent waterway but not a perilous one — and the passenger from the pizola managed to catch one last sight of the minarets of Istanbul as they faded from view. The sun was rising now, bathing the fabled domes of the capital in a pale pink light. Turning backward to face the city, he was able to pick out the familiar cupola of the Hagia Sophia in a corona of sunlight, its minarets waving like golden stalks in the breeze.

  He blinked and clenched his eyes shut in an effort to imprint the scene on his memory. But as distance blurred the details, he was left facing only emptiness.

  Now the Princes’ Islands loomed up ahead. The sight of the silvery shore brought with it a fresh flood of memories and with them came a surge of loneliness. As he sailed slowly past the familiar shore, images from the past begin to riffle through his mind. He saw his princess lying on her bed of leaves in the ruined mosque on Kinali Island — her laugh, her mischief, her long strong legs wound around him. He groaned. Not so long ago he had even imagined her as his wife. But as she knew from the beginning, it was never meant to be. With that certainty came a jarring sense of loss, as if a huge piece of his self had been washed away by the sea, leaving an empty place in his heart that would never be filled.

  From: Venetian Bailo at Istanbul

  To: The August Senators of Venice

  Date: February 7, 1536

  Most Honored Masters:

  When I last reported on the sudden and u
nexpected marriage of the Ottoman Sultan to his Russian concubine, I never imagined I would be repeating a request for your action on yet another sudden regal wedding. Today heralds emerged into the streets to announce that the Sultan’s victorious return from Mesopotamia would be followed within ten days by the marriage of his much loved daughter, the Princess Saida, to a certain admiral. And this afternoon I received an official invitation to the event.

  So once again a gift must be carefully chosen and dispatched with utmost haste. Allow me to bring it to your attention that this time the bride is not a jaded concubine who would be titillated by a novelty such as a jeweled clock. This bride is a young, innocent virgin — she had better be or heads will roll — raised by a strict grandmother and much loved by her father, the Sultan. That is to say, she is worthy of the finest of gifts, and delivered as close to the wedding date as possible.

  It is only one day since the nuptials have been announced, and already gifts have begun to pile up in Topkapi Palace. You can believe me that to miss this opportunity to show our love for the Sultan would undermine the new ties of amnesty and friendship that we now enjoy, largely due to the amazing jeweled cuckoo clock.

  Perhaps because of time constraints your eminences would prefer that I purchase the gift here in Istanbul. A set of signed tapestry bed curtains could be had. Or a blanket of sable fur with matching pillow covers. Or both.

  Take note: this celebration is not an engagement to be solemnized in the future. It is a formal wedding announcement that calls for speedy delivery of an appropriate wedding gift. I need not assure you that, being fully aware of the value that the Ottomans place on protocol, nothing short of death itself will prevent my being present at the celebration of these nuptials.

  I await your instructions.

  Your servant,

  Alvise Gritti

  62

  FORTES FORTUNA JUVAT

  Day three aboard the San Domenico. The Venetian galleon cleared the shores of the last of the Princes’ Islands — the little island of Kinali, so redolent with memories. Soon the sailors would yield to oarsmen the delicate task of navigating the narrows leading from the Sea of Marmara to the eastern tip of the Mediterranean.

  The passenger in the pizola had at last been given official permission to walk the decks, but only after the ship entered the Mediterranean. He had already been warned twice against attempting to go ashore at any of the ship’s Mediterranean ports of call.

  “The eastern Mediterranean is an Ottoman lake,” the captain informed his charge. “Every port from Istanbul to the Venetian dogana falls under the sovereignty of the Ottoman Empire. And you cannot afford the risk of being recognized by the port police. Too dangerous.”

  The sails were unfurled at sun-up the next day. Ahead lay Homer’s wine-dark sea. As he looked down from his perch at the prow, the passenger once known as Danilo del Medigo was reminded of an earlier Mediterranean voyage. He could almost see himself as a boy arriving at the Galata docks after a perilous crossing, walking down the gangway of the pirate ship with his mother’s book under his arm and her portrait by Andrea Mantegna plastered to his body like a shield. His only treasures then, his only treasures now. Except for a necklace of matched pearls, a purse full of gold, and a jeweled dagger. Not much to show for ten years of life in Istanbul.

  And now, having survived his escape, he faced the prospect of weeks alone cooped up in the close quarters of the pizola with no relief except for his sanctioned daily walks around the deck. What he did have to look forward to: more of the hostile stares of the oarsmen, the crude jests of the crew, and the occasional bark from the captain to get back to his quarters and stay out of sight.

  In search of solace, he looked to the heavens. But no helping hand reached down to lift him up and no sweet voice whispered courage into his ear. Even his mother had deserted him.

  As if to mirror his thoughts, the bright sky had turned into a heavy, grey miasma. He was sailing alone into an unchartered sea. He might never see his father again and his princess was lost to him forever. Then, like an explosion, a shower of sunbeams shattered the fog. And as the mist lifted, he began to feel himself slipping free of the yoke of the past.

  Now a voice spoke to him. Not the voice of his mother but his own voice muttering words his mother had taught him: Pliny the Elder’s credo, fortes fortuna juvat — fortune favors the bold.

  Like a cue, the sound of the phrase in his own tongue unleashed a fresh rush of thoughts. What if the princess was right? What if our whole life was written somewhere in a book? Or in the stars? What if fate and not chance had put him on board the San Domenico bound for the city of his birth? No matter that his fraudulent papers called him Davide dei Rossi, he was still Danilo del Medigo, the first child to be born in the Venetian ghetto. Could the hand of Fortuna be guiding him back to his homeland? To Italia? Was he, as his princess would have said, living out his destiny?

  Perhaps it was the comfortable rocking motion of the waves that washed up against the deck of the galley as it sailed past the Peloponnese toward the port of Venice. Perhaps it was simply the passage of the day. But, in the weeks that followed, Danilo found the strength to climb out of the swamp of disappointment and hopelessness that had threatened to overcome him as his ship threaded its way through the narrows. By the time the San Domenico veered north to enter the clear waters of the Adriatic, his vision was no longer menaced by the dark swirling depths of the Mediterranean. Bending over the rail to look down, what greeted his eyes was a vision of the sun’s rays dancing on the azure wavelets of the Adriatic heralding the dawn of a new day.

  CODA

  The passenger in the pizola was not permitted to go ashore at Ragusa.

  “Being a sailor myself, I know what it is to be young and looking for a spot of shore leave after a long stretch at sea,” Captain Loredano explained when he stepped forward to block Danilo’s descent down the gangway onto the Ragusa pier. “But you must understand that Ragusa is a nest of Ottoman spies, and your fine gold-threaded caftan would immediately single you out from the crowd as an object of curiosity and put you in danger. I cannot allow that to happen. I have given my word to deposit you safely at the San Marco dock. And I am a man of my word.”

  This was not the first time since the ship set sail from Istanbul that Captain Loredano had made reference to the debt of honor he had incurred when he took on the young passenger whose papers identified him as Davide dei Rossi, son of the merchant Isaac dei Rossi of Mantova. Nor was it the first time the passenger in question was moved to estimate the size of the bribe that had protected him from any Ottoman attempt to gain access to his cabin since the ship set sail and, if the captain was to be believed, would continue to shield him from any Ottoman agents that the ship might encounter at the many ports of call between the Galata docks at Istanbul and the dogana at Venice.

  His escape must have cost the princess hundreds of ducats. No doubt she had put herself in serious danger to buy his safety. Not since his mother had risked her life for him had anyone loved him that much. And very likely no one ever would again. It was a sad thought.

  But after several days of being tossed about on the wine-dark Mediterranean and now finding himself skimming along over the crystal wavelets of the Adriatic, the newly christened Davide dei Rossi began to feel the occasional surge of life. Not quite a stirring of hope but at least a flickering of curiosity about what lay in store for him.

  When the ship put in at the port of Ancona, the captain relented so far as to set up his passenger in the helmsman’s chair at the top of the ship’s castle, from where he was able to enjoy seeing ordinary people going about their everyday business on the pier below. The sight of their genial faces was a welcome change from the sullen, angry glares of the oarsmen of the San Domenico, not one of whom had so much as met his glance when he passed by them on his daily exercise — a run from the stern of the ship to the prow, weather permitting.
Even on board the vessel, as Captain Loredano made clear, the less visible this passenger was, the better for both of them.

  “Since I have neglected to include you on the passenger manifest, it would be awkward to explain your presence on my ship should anyone see you come ashore,” the captain explained.

  Nor did the captain’s efforts to conceal his charge diminish when they finally entered the Venetian lagoon. Quite the opposite. As soon as the ship’s sails gave way to oars, Danilo found himself bundled up in blankets and stuffed into the back of a closet in the pizola on the off chance that the customs officers at the Venetian dogana might take it into their heads to make a search of the ship’s castle before clearing the cargo to be unloaded at San Marco.

  As it happened, the custodians of Venetian security who met the ship at the dogana showed no interest whatsoever in the private cabin in the ship’s castle. Nevertheless, the passenger was not released from his hiding place until the ship had crossed the Grand Canal and dropped anchor under the watchful eyes concealed high in the Serenissima’s fabled clock tower. Only after the San Domenico was securely moored did the captain appear at the pizola to accompany its occupant ashore. But not before that man of honor had imparted one final, stern admonishment to his charge.

  “Remember to keep your papers close to your person at all times.” He wagged his fat finger under his passenger’s nose. “And for God’s sake try not to be noticed. If you take my advice, the first thing for you to do is to get rid of that outfit you are wearing and get yourself some new clothes. Those balloon pants and that gold-threaded jacket spell out the word ‘Ottoman’ to Venetians in capital letters. Remember, in Venice all Ottomans are spies. So, for your own sake, do not take it into your head to take a stroll into the Piazza San Marco dressed as you are. Your life may depend on it.”