The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  With shoving and pushing the squat legs were forced into the barrel to join the rest of the little man. The lid was hammered shut.

  ‘Drowned in Venice. How common a fate,’ said Prospero over the rim of his cup of wine.

  One deed done, Prospero thought, as he drained his cup. The dangerous turn of events with the Duchess of Bracciano would be put back on its proper course that very night. Then, there was only the question of the English Ambassador, or whoever he truly was. Disasters are opportunities, he thought, if only one thinks them so. Prospero turned to the two men, once Borachio’s, now his, for the moment. They too would have to be wiped up in their turn.

  ‘I go to a feast,’ he said. ‘When I return we will address the question of the Ambassador. Be ready.’

  ‘My lord?’ The other man held out his hand.

  Prospero looked at it.

  ‘You gave only one dose of antidote, my lord,’ Borachio’s man spoke in a tone that said he should not need to make explanation.

  Prospero made a show of patting his clothing.

  ‘Alas, I have only the one vial on me,’ he smiled. ‘I suggest you share. That should stay the poison’s march till the morning when I can speak to the apothecary about more.’

  His eyes glittered beneath the enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Or, fight it out, let the stronger man claim his freedom now,’ he said.

  He closed the door on the storeroom to the sound of argument.

  Prospero, his appetite sharpened by the first events of the evening, made his way to the gondola that would pole him to the feast. As he stepped into the boat he noted his shoe was stained red at the toe with spilled wine. Irritation flashed across his face, to be replaced with a smile. One of the few that had crossed his face since he came to Venice.

  Never before had he met such obstruction to his schemes. Not all the failures could be laid at the feet of that fool, Borachio. The hand of Isabella could be seen in Vittoria’s guarded state. With her too must lie the explanation for the English Ambassador’s disappearance. Was her regard for him so scanting that she opposed him? Did she hold his warning at so little that she opposed him from the start, flaunted the boy Fallow in his face?

  ‘Ho, there, gentle,’ cried Prospero’s gondolier as Prospero struck the side of the boat in sudden anger.

  He closed his mind to thoughts of Isabella. Before that pleasure he would deal with Vittoria Accoramboni and her husband. They thought themselves safe. Fled to their estates in Salo. How innocent they are, thought Prospero, they think the murderer must stand in the same room as the one murdered. I will kill them both, though I never see them.

  The gondola took Prospero to the Ca’ Venier and the means to their destruction.

  Act Five

  Venice, August 1585

  The strict court of Venice

  The three days since Hemminges pulled William from the Canal Grande had passed in a roar. William’s rebirth had come at the same moment that the electors, after their nineteenth day of deliberation and fifty-two inconclusive votes, had united on a name for the new doge, Pasquale Cicogna.

  As a dam bursting, news of the election of the next doge had flooded Venice with festival. All ordinary traffic ceased. The days became filled instead with processions of decorated barges along the canals, parades of the guilds in their finery by land and water, contests in the squares, jousting by boat in the lagoon and the general halloo of a citizenry easily inclined to celebration.

  William thanked Heaven for it. Amid the feasting he and his companions had been able to slip about unhindered. Twice Borachio and his men had passed within the breath of grace of William as he left Tintoretto’s studio. They would have had him but that he was disguised in the fantastical masks and visors all Venice now seemed to wear. Such risk had been a necessity if all was to be in readiness.

  A council of war had been held the very hour that William and Isabella had been reconciled. Isabella, William and Tintoretto had gone straight to join Hemminges and Oldcastle. They were hidden in a building that Salarino owned, near to the House of the White Lion. Once the value of good relations with Hemminges was made clear, Salarino had shown them how it could be reached through the cellars that connected several of the houses. They were not comfortable lodgings but they were secret and had the benefit, to Oldcastle’s mind, of being the storehouse for Salarino’s wine. He took from that store in liberal measure in fine for Salarino’s betrayal.

  ‘They’re gone,’ Hemminges explained once all had been introduced to all.

  ‘The letters from England to the Doge,’ William clarified for Isabella and Tintoretto’s benefit. ‘We must assume Borachio’s men found them and took them when they searched the House of the White Lion for Nick.’

  Tintoretto simply nodded and drained his glass. Oldcastle, full of fellow feeling for another old man battered by fortune, had pressed some of Salarino’s good wine into Tintoretto’s hand the moment he had arrived. Isabella paced the room with Tintoretto’s sword still scabbarded in her skirts. Tintoretto had protested when she took it from him, but she reminded him that he had made no good use of the weapon and informed him she had plans of her own for it.

  ‘They are the least of our concerns while Prospero lives.’ Isabella was in no mood to be distracted. ‘He will have the letters still if he has them at all. Most likely on him. He is not so foolish as to leave things of such value where anyone might find them.’

  She raised an eyebrow at William, who acknowledged her criticism with a good grace. He knew the charge well founded and thought it, of all her cuts, the kindest. And, of all his foolishness in Venice, he felt the shame of this failing least.

  ‘Then there is the question of the names of the papal agents in Venice,’ William added.

  With haste he unfolded the story of his meeting with Iseppo da Nicosia.

  ‘The Signoria will not let that matter rest. They will look to see England’s bargain met along with the delivery of the letters.’

  ‘Another charge to lay at Prospero’s door,’ Isabella said. ‘Surely he or his men overheard your commerce and struck poor Iseppo down before the Pope’s creatures in Venice could be exposed.’

  She slapped her hand to the hilt of Tintoretto’s sword.

  ‘Find him. Kill him. That is all to achieve all.’

  ‘To find him is easy enough.’ Hemminges scratched at his scarred head. ‘To kill him is not. He’ll stay hidden behind the walls of his palazzo with his guards about him. All the while Borachio will search us out and dispatch us all as he finds us. Let none of us be fooled we are a match in strength for men whose seasoned meat is murder.’

  ‘Not to mention that Prospero need but whisper the word to the Signoria and we are exposed as false embassy,’ Oldcastle added. ‘Without the letters and the seal of England on them our standing is as nothing. We have nothing to set against these threats.’

  Isabella turned to face them. ‘You are right and you are wrong,’ she said.

  Hemminges’ brow furrowed. ‘My Latin has a little rust on it, lady,’ he said. ‘Did you just speak of paradoxes?’

  Isabella stepped back, the better to address the gathered men. ‘You speak of absolutes when perspective is all. Where there is strength there’s also weakness. Pit yourself against another’s point of strength and you go a sure way to swift defeat. It’s only men engage in such foolish bouts.’

  Isabella saw puzzled faces. She fought her frustration. She tried again. ‘A feat of strength goes always to the young, the swift and the strong.’ She beat her argument home by pointing to the elderly Tintoretto, the lumbering Oldcastle and the wounded William in turn.

  ‘We are not of that mettle,’ she said. ‘We should not match their points of strength. We women know better, than to do so, of necessity. We should use what we have to our best advantage.’

  ‘Think. Think.’ She knocked at her head. ‘It is a question of seeing the matter aright. He has the letters, but what else? The Duchess of Bracciano is not d
ead but fled. The English are lost to him and he must fear that they will reveal his part in matters. Behind Prospero lies the Pope. These blows are at his command. Whatever else, Prospero must fear to fail such a man. If the Pope wants Vittoria Accoramboni dead then Prospero stands on a spear point until he knows it done and no finger of suspicion to fall on him. He must fear that you possess the means to expose all the Pope’s agents in Venice. He cannot let that happen.’

  Hemminges finished off his glass of wine. ‘This reasoning brings us back full circle,’ he said. ‘We want the man dead. He in turn desires our end. He has all the means. We none.’

  William smiled and looked up. ‘I have an idea,’ he said.

  Oldcastle refilled Hemminges’ glass and his own. He smiled up at William in turn.

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘You hesitate, Nick?’ William asked.

  ‘You are not known for your plots, William,’ said Oldcastle. ‘As I recall it, each one of them has done little but gather enemies to you. Hunt, Greene, this Prospero . . .’

  Oldcastle drained his glass and filled it again, prompting Hemminges to move the jug out of his reach.

  ‘Well I know it, Nick,’ said William. ‘Rest assured, this plan’s to the ending of an enemy, not the making of a new.’

  He turned to address the company. ‘Why trouble with invention when we may use another’s plot? Prospero’s. Isabella has the right of it: in drama it’s not the scenes’ events that matter but their meaning. We’ll play the parts we’ve been given but the lines will be our own and we shall write, for Prospero, a tragedy.’

  Isabella spoke. ‘What’s my role?’

  ‘A man’s part,’ answered William.

  Oldcastle snorted. The little sword flashed out to sit beneath his nose. His scoffing smile vanished.

  ‘It’s a piece I know how to play well,’ she said.

  Isabella let the point of the sword droop as she tilted her head mournfully at Oldcastle. ‘When I can find it,’ she said.

  Isabella sheathed her sword again to the sound of William’s and Hemminges’ laughter and Oldcastle’s bluster that he meant no offence and she’d no cause to give any.

  ‘I shall need something from all of you,’ William said. ‘Yet only one piece of cleverness is needed, and for that we have all the tools we require.’

  He nodded at Tintoretto, who looked back at him bereft of understanding. William proceeded to lay out his plan. Then he turned to meet the objections of Hemminges and Isabella as best he could.

  ‘It’s admirably simple,’ was Hemminges’ conclusion.

  ‘Yet more complex than the orbit of the spheres,’ was Isabella’s comment, given with a shaking head.

  ‘I would object but have found my objections only worsen my eventual suffering,’ said Oldcastle, reaching for the wine.

  The final word was left to Tintoretto.

  ‘It’s madness and will most likely end with us all hanged between the columns in San Marco.’

  On that, at least, all had been agreed.

  Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath

  Now, as night fell after three days of action, William was poled on a gondola through the canals. Tomorrow the Doge would be crowned. His new status blessed at a ceremony at the Basilica di San Marco. Tomorrow William would see his vengeance come. So he hoped.

  Tonight he went to a feast.

  So many things are left in Fortune’s hands, William reflected. A minute here, an inch there, and all is changed. Fortune plays her part in every game, yet not all is chance in the result. There remains the imprint of our effort in the pattern of events.

  William’s plan turned on many things. He went to be certain of one of them.

  The Ca’ Bracciano was dark. It alone of the palaces on the Canal Grande was not lit with revelry. As he was rowed past it William looked up at the fateful balcony.

  The gondola passed the bend of the Canal Grande and drew to its destination. Ca’ Venier was a riot of light and colour. As he approached a roar of fireworks came from the roof. They burst and lit the air. The gondola pulled in to the water entrance. William stepped out. There was scarcely space for him to stand, so crowded was the palace with guests. He pushed in and began to hunt for his quarry.

  The walls of the palace surrounded a courtyard. On the first floor a colonnaded walkway looked down on the courtyard. It was there William found Prospero. He was visored as many of the guests were; as William was. A plain black mask hid the Count’s face. What drew William’s eye to him out of all those at the feast was his manner.

  Prospero was talking with another man. That man turned to leave; Prospero reached out and held his arm. He pulled him back. He whispered words urgently to him and pressed something into his hand. The man pulled his arm back. He strode away. The Count was left alone among the revellers. He turned to look on the throng in the courtyard below. William approached.

  ‘I thought you dead,’ Prospero said without looking up.

  ‘If thinking were enough, Count, I were killed some twenty times by now. And you, I guess, some twenty times twenty more,’ said William.

  The Count’s visored face turned from the crowd below. ‘You’re bold. Had you stayed dead I might have overlooked you. As it is, you live again only to be killed again.’

  ‘So swiftly reduced to threats,’ William admonished. ‘I thought your manners better.’

  ‘I need no lesson in manners from you, boy.’

  ‘I shall school you nonetheless,’ said William.

  The Count straightened and turned to face him. ‘Against my better judgment,’ he said, ‘I find I like you, Master Fallow.’

  ‘The admiration is not mutual,’ said William.

  ‘Humours so rarely are,’ the Count replied.

  He gestured to the feast. ‘Why are you here? Not to exchange protestations of affection.’

  ‘Give me the letters you have taken,’ said William. ‘Do that and I will leave you alone. Lay no report against you with the Signoria. Seek no vengeance.’

  The Count looked out again at the feast.

  ‘Do you play chess?’ he said.

  ‘The letters, Count,’ insisted William.

  ‘Come,’ said Prospero. ‘I believe I saw a quiet room where we might play.’

  He set off. Seeing William did not move he turned back.

  ‘Play and talk, Master Fallow. Play and talk.’

  Thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack

  The two men sat alone on the balcony. Two floors below in the courtyard the feast carried on. The sound of music and laughter rose up to them like smoke from a fire. Between them lay a chess set, the game half played.

  ‘Concede, Count,’ said William.

  ‘Why? I am ahead in material and position,’ said Prospero. He looked over the board as if William spoke about their game.

  ‘You are played out, Count,’ William said.

  ‘Early losses do not portend defeat,’ the Count replied.

  ‘I would spare more lives, if I might.’

  ‘Your wishes will have little to do with it.’

  The Count’s smile was wicked as a sinning priest. It angered William.

  ‘I do not doubt that you could do more harm. It would be a valueless thing,’ William urged. ‘The squalling rage of an unhappy child. Nothing to your purpose. All to your vanity.’

  The Count’s smile did not alter. ‘You are mistaken, Master Fallow, if you think that I ever acted to any purpose but my own vanity.’

  William, looking at that smiling face, came to an understanding. As a boy he had fought with another child at his school. The other child had struck the first blow. William had been so amazed by the sudden turn from argument to violence that he had been struck three more times before it came to him that he ought to defend himself. So it was here. William had come to parlay thinking Prospero was a man as he was, amenable to reason. Now he saw into the man’s soul. William spoke in wonder at what he saw.

 
‘Your lusts pollute you, Prospero.’

  ‘Shush, Master Fallow,’ the Count tutted. ‘You are not a child to think in such terms.’

  ‘No,’ said William. ‘No, I am not.’

  He took from his doublet a small packet. He pushed it across the table to Prospero. The Count did not touch it.

  ‘There are three names writ there,’ said William nodding at the packet. ‘Those of the Pope’s agents in Venice.’

  ‘A brave pretence.’

  ‘Each name is proved.’

  ‘By magic or prayer?’

  ‘By your own hand,’ said William, ‘for which I thank you.’

  ‘Tell on.’

  ‘At first I struggled to the answer but then I recalled that most men are not villains without reason. For most the reason is simple greed. In your special villainy you are unique, Prospero,’ said William.

  ‘Now you seek to flatter.’

  ‘Not so. I simply observe. You are sick of self-love, Count. That sin of pride is writ across your clothing in little pearls. Such sins are costly. So my first question: who pays you? Answer: the Pope, the Cardinal Montalto as was. Little difficulty then to discover who was his banker here in Venice. You led us to him. Your tailor must be paid. You must send for funds and so, so often. Far greater difficulty to see the books of that banker. For that I must thank others. You frown at me, Count. Do you think I have made no friends in Venice in all the days I have been here?’

  William enjoyed Prospero’s sudden doubting look. Truly it had been no easy matter to persuade Marco Venier to help them gain access to the bank through his friend, the fat Andrea. Nor to have Isabella distract the clerk long enough for William, all unnoticed, to look through the ledgers and find the information needed. Harder still to repeat the process the following day so that he might have the time to copy out the entries that he needed from the ledger while others set their watch over the names he had discovered.

  ‘The greatest challenge of all – to trace out the accounts and ascribe to the Cardinal Montalto certain payments and all to certain persons. Then to set a watch upon them. One by one your man Borachio has visited them these three days past at hours ungodly and dark. Tell me,’ asked William, ‘what had so unnerved him that he should make so bold a show?’