The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  Prospero glanced down at the packet. ‘Throw your guesses in the Devil’s teeth.’

  ‘Guesses? No, Count, no. I know a book of accounts. In that packet, each name, each time, each payment, a record of treachery to sate the strictest court in Venice.’

  ‘I thought you too much a poet for such auditor’s labour.’

  ‘May I not be both?’ answered William. ‘I offer, Prospero. I shall not do so again. Leave off your vile intent, return to me the letters you have taken, flee Venice and no word of these names shall reach the Signoria.’

  ‘What do these names matter to me? I shall not hang for them. If you seek extorted treasure there lie three names will make for more profitable labour.’

  ‘If I cannot buy them, still I will have the letters,’ said William. He held out his palm. ‘Give them to me.’

  Prospero looked at the open hand. He did not hide his scorn. ‘I do not know which amazes me more, Master Fallow,’ he said, ‘that you think I should keep such valuables on my person at a feast. Or that you think I would hand them to you if I had.’

  ‘I think you do. I think also I shall take them.’ William stood quickly.

  Before he had fully risen Prospero’s knife was out. William’s own appeared in mirror to it.

  ‘Sit down, Master Fallow,’ Prospero said. He pointed with the knife. ‘This is too public a place for me to murder in.’

  As William slowly sat back the Count slipped his knife away.

  ‘Besides, you would brawl with me for nothing. I do not have the letters. They’re safely sent from Venice. You’re too late. Trust me on this.’

  ‘Trust, my lord, is something I have in short supply,’ William said.

  Prospero shrugged. ‘The game is not yet over.’

  William gathered up the packet from the table.

  Prospero gestured to the board. ‘Your move I believe.’

  William cast a glance at his pieces. ‘I see that there is to be no reasoned peace,’ he said.

  ‘That was always and ever the most likely way of things,’ said Prospero. ‘However, I will make you an offer as you have me.’

  ‘Well then,’ said William.

  ‘Leave Venice now, tonight, and live,’ said Prospero.

  ‘What of Isabella Lisarro?’ asked William.

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘What do you offer in exchange for her?’

  ‘There is no price will save her,’ said Prospero. ‘There is no place where she will be safe. Though you hide her in your heart, there will I rake for her.’

  William heard the anger in Prospero’s voice as he spoke. He understood Isabella’s anger at Prospero. Prospero’s at Isabella was a mystery still.

  William took his eyes from Prospero to the board. He moved.

  The Count of Genoa looked at William’s move. His brow furrowed. He shrugged and moved his piece in turn.

  ‘It does not concern you that after your next move I shall take your queen?’ Prospero asked.

  William reached out his left hand and moved his knight. The gold ring Isabella had given him, with its sigil deep cut in the red stone, gleamed in the light of the candles. He leaned back and looked at Prospero, whose eyes were on William’s hand.

  ‘Why should it?’ William asked. ‘When I have already taken yours.’

  When, after a minute or more of silence, Prospero’s eyes lifted to William’s they were grey with rage.

  ‘You think yourself very clever, Master Fallow.’

  ‘I tell you truly I do not.’ William shook his head. ‘I have learned many things since I left England. About others, about myself. Chief among them, that I am clever only in knowing that I am indifferent clever and that I have much more to learn. I hope to learn from her. She is wondrous, is she not?’

  Prospero made no answer to William’s question.

  William watched the Count carefully. His right hand, hid below the table, was on his dagger. He had taunted the Count to a purpose, to test his will, to see the discipline of his intent and what might shake it. He did not know if he had tried him to the point of action. The Count, however, seemed to return to calm with each word he spoke.

  ‘If you are in a learning mood, let me teach you one more thing, Master Fallow.’

  Prospero leaned forward. ‘Have you ever killed a man?’

  ‘Thanks to you I have now killed more than one,’ William said.

  ‘Then you have the advantage of me,’ Prospero said. He waved a hand at William’s look of incredulity. ‘Oh, do not misunderstand me. Many men, more than I can count, have died at my behest. Only one has died by my hand. A Spaniard.’

  Prospero took his glass and held it to the light.

  ‘We fought over a dog, of all things,’ he said.

  He looked at William.

  ‘A very fine one, I grant you. But when account is made, only a dog. Mine by virtue of a wager won. The Spaniard disagreed. I stabbed him for it, in the heart.’

  ‘Your lesson is that I should not wager with you, Count?’ William asked. ‘Or that you are overfond of dogs?’

  The Count ignored him. His eyes saw to another time. ‘My blade went into him in an instant. It struck him in his most vital part.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘Still, he lived a whole minute.’

  Prospero pointed to his scarred brow. ‘Gave me this and more in that minute. That long minute between the fatal blow and his death.’

  ‘Your point, Count?’ said William.

  The Count of Genoa beckoned William close and hissed, ‘My point, little man, is that even the dead may wound. Think then what I, who am but discomforted, shall do to you.’

  William only smiled, for he saw the Count’s calm was a player’s thing. The crack was opened. Now William need only strike at the wedge.

  Your jest is earnest

  The two men stood at the water gate of the Ca’ Venier. The press of guests brought them close.

  ‘Farewell, Master Fallow,’ said the Count. ‘I do not look to see you again in this life.’

  ‘Nor I you in the next,’ replied William.

  The Count’s gondola approached. He turned and walked to the water’s edge. A woman’s loud cry broke over the laughter and the music.

  ‘Thief. Thief. I am robbed. My purse picked.’

  All turned at the shout save one. William stayed watching Prospero. At the cry of pick-purse Prospero’s hand had risen to his breast. It returned beneath his cloak in an instant. It was enough. He stepped to his gondola and was gone.

  A tall woman came up behind William.

  ‘Well, Sir William,’ said Faustina, ‘did your jest fall as you planned?’

  ‘No jest but earnest, lady,’ William smiled. ‘I shall be eternally thankful to you for your part in it. Without you I fear the evening would have been quite wasted. All my attempts at the object of the jest had failed till then. Instead I have learned two things of great importance.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I am one who loves a prank,’ Faustina said. She put a proprietorial hand on William’s shoulder. ‘There is, of course, a price for my service.’

  William took her hand from his shoulder and kissed it. ‘I give you this kiss for it.’

  Faustina sighed. ‘’Twill have to do. Now come, drink.’

  ‘Just the one glass, lady,’ said William as Faustina poured wine.

  ‘Oh, I only ever have the one glass,’ said Faustina. ‘I need my other hand free for . . . other things.’

  ‘True,’ said fat Andrea, joining them and relieving Faustina of the bottle. ‘It’s not the number of glasses that matters, but the number of bottles one pours into them.’

  ‘Your visor is quite grotesque, Andrea,’ said Faustina. ‘Oh, forgive me. I see you are no longer wearing one.’

  ‘Whereas you have put yours back on, I see,’ replied Andrea. ‘Oh, forgive me, I see I am as mistaken as you are.’

  William left them to their banter. He had business of more serious intent. Now that he was certain of all
.

  Much more monstrous matter of feast

  The preparations made, the day had come; the readiness was all.

  The morning of the coronation ceremony, William, Hemminges, Oldcastle and Isabella stood among the crowd in the Piazza San Marco. They swayed in the tide of people pushing to find a vantage from which to view events. They looked across the square to the great facade of the Basilica di San Marco. In a moment William and Oldcastle would make their way there to see the Doge enthroned. From there to the Ducal Palace for the coronation feast. William looked down. His hand trembled at the excitement of the day and the risks of the night to come.

  They watched the dignities making their way into the basilica. After anxious moments they saw Prospero enter. Hemminges turned, nodded to the other three and slipped away into the crowd towards Rialto.

  ‘Jesu, we shall all be hanged,’ Oldcastle muttered as he too pushed out into the crowd.

  Oldcastle’s vigour had been reborn with his friend Hemminges, though from the beating he’d received he walked limpingly still.

  Behind him William turned to Isabella. The eddy of the mob pushed him and they were pressed close, body to body.

  Isabella pressed his hand, fingers twining for an instant.

  ‘You need not do this, William,’ Isabella said.

  ‘I know,’ he answered.

  ‘Then go. Go now, with your friends,’ Isabella urged. ‘Flee Venice. This scheme of ours, the dangers are too great. Prospero has but to draw the attention of the Signoria to you and all is done.’

  ‘You’ll come with me?’ William asked.

  Isabella shook her head.

  ‘Together, then,’ he said. ‘Besides, I can no more leave Prospero free than I can leave you.’

  The crowd surged about them. He held her hand tightly.

  After a moment she nodded.

  He whispered to her, ‘You are ready?’

  She leaned in to his ear. ‘All things are ready if our minds be so.’

  Then they pushed apart, William to his place of battle and Isabella to hers.

  The hope and expectation of thy time

  The doors of the Basilica di San Marco were flung open. A silence rippled out across the square in anticipation. A cry rang out from the darkness of the doorway.

  ‘Your Doge.’

  A great answering shout came from the gathered crowd as the golden figure of the new doge emerged.

  The coronation Mass was complete. William and Oldcastle, present as Ambassador of England and his man, were among the last to leave the church. The ducal train and the nobility of Venice stretched in a column in front of them. White- and red-robed priests mingled with the black-garbed senators. The gold- and ermine-robed figure of the new doge, now stamped with the authority of the Church, was at the front. Held aloft in a great chair, the Doge travelled the circumference of the piazza. As he passed his hand dipped into a basket of coins and flung them high and wide. Hands snatched and bodies leaped for the largesse like gulls snapping after bread.

  ‘Well, that’s one way to ensure one’s elevation is well received,’ Oldcastle commented as he walked stiffly down the steps of the basilica.

  William was not so sure. It was an observation of his mother’s that expected reward received no thanks. Yet, if the reward fell one whit below the expectation, no matter its size and generosity, only resentment came in return. It was now a tradition of long-standing that the new doge would throw coins to the people at his coronation. William had already heard mutterings that this Pasquale Cicogna’s failed rival, Vicenzo Morosini, would have thrown gold where now flashed only silver.

  The expectations of the world. William counted on them. That England should send embassy to see the new doge throned was expected. Thus, their presence went unquestioned. That he and Oldcastle should cower and hide before Prospero was expected. Thus, to stand boldly forth would buy them opportunity.

  The Doge completed his orbit of the piazza. Men in the livery of the guild of the Arsenale, where Venice built its great fleet and whose men served the Doge as his guard, held back the crowd with barge poles as the great ones passed through the square. William and Oldcastle fell in behind as the entire train moved towards the Ducal Palace.

  William had spotted Prospero only briefly in the church. His clothes were so dark that he had seemed at times more shadow than man. There was no mistaking the arched eyebrow. His head was bent low in whispered conversation with a nobleman of Venice. The same that William had seen Prospero speak to at the Ca’ Venier. Prospero scarcely looked up throughout the ceremony. Only once and then it seemed his eyes fell straight on William’s.

  Now William searched for him in the procession ahead. He felt a hand at his elbow and turned.

  ‘Well played, Master Fallow,’ Prospero said. ‘I did not think you would so dare as continue your play-acting at the coronation of the Doge himself. Of course, I see now, you must make a show lest the absence of the English Ambassador be cause for greater remark than his quiet presence.’

  Prospero walked beside him, matching pace. He raised his hands and gave a little clap.

  ‘Sir Henry,’ Prospero bowed to Oldcastle. ‘If that is your name.’

  Oldcastle mustered all his dignity in a sneered reply, only to see Prospero laugh.

  Prospero gestured to the procession. ‘I feared I would have to bring the Signoria to your door and, look, you have brought yourselves to theirs. Truly, there is much to be seen in Venice that defies reason and imagination.’

  ‘I am surprised to hear you say so, Count,’ said William. ‘You seemed to spend little of your attention on the ceremony and much on your companion.’

  Prospero tilted his head. ‘Ever observant, Master Fallow. You saw me speak to Lodovico Orsini? You know him? Cousin to the Duke of Bracciano? We whiled away the idle hour with speculations on matters philosophical. Possible worlds wherein much might occur if only the opportunity presented itself.’

  Prospero smiled. ‘He tells me his cousin the Duke is not well. Some sickness of the stomach. He and his beauteous wife are gone to Salo in hope the air there will present itself more pleasant to his disposition.’

  ‘I am certain that the air smells sweeter where you are not,’ said William.

  ‘Now, now,’ admonished the Count. ‘We play a game, you and I. It is not becoming to lose with ill grace.’

  ‘You call this a game?’ said William.

  ‘I do,’ replied Prospero. ‘With men for pieces. The best kind. One where the stakes are at their highest.’

  A smile briefly flashed across his face before turning to a look of sadness.

  ‘This sudden sickness of the Duke,’ Prospero went on, ‘so unexpected. Lodovico had been to see the Duke only the day before, he tells me. The Duke had seemed in good health. Well enough to receive a gift, a dish of preserved figs, for which he has a fondness. Lodovico assures me that he consumed them with relish and great appetite.’

  ‘You poisoned him?’ asked William.

  ‘Of course,’ said Prospero, smiling again. ‘I expect him dead by now. As you will shortly be.’

  Prospero patted William on the arm and looked at him and Oldcastle both. ‘Though your deaths, I promise, will not be one half so merciful.’

  He bowed to them both again and walked ahead.

  ‘Truly, he’s the Devil incarnate,’ Oldcastle said.

  William heard his name shouted. He turned and saw beyond the fence of liveried guildsmen the face of Hemminges. William walked quickly over to where the crowd was held back. Hemminges leaned in.

  ‘My part is played,’ he said. ‘I searched Prospero’s house well.’

  ‘The letters?’ asked William.

  ‘As you thought, not there. The house is empty. Well, save for three bodies in the storeroom.’

  ‘Three?’ said William.

  ‘Two men I did not recognise and a third, who by your description is Borachio. The two are dead by each other’s hand. Borachio was drowned in a butt of
wine.’

  ‘Prospero’s work,’ said William.

  ‘As I read it,’ said Hemminges.

  ‘He saves us so much labour.’

  ‘Such work is no labour but a pleasure.’

  Even William, who knew him well, blanched to see the anger writ on Hemminges’ face.

  ‘See to him, William,’ Hemminges said. ‘Such a man should not walk this clean earth. He makes sweet things foul.’

  ‘It is done. I swear it,’ said William.

  Hemminges vanished into the crowd. William turned and hurried to catch up with Oldcastle. If the Count wished to game, then William meant to play such a set as would bring his head from his shoulders.

  With Ate by his side

  William and Oldcastle passed through the Porta della Carta that led into the courtyard of the Ducal Palace. William looked up at the statue of blind Justice under which they passed and hoped it an omen.

  Many of the guests were gathered in the great hall that was the Sala del Maggior Consiglio. The Doge was not there. He waited on the floor above to greet the select.

  ‘There you are, Sir Henry.’

  William turned at the sound of Prospero’s voice. He was accompanied by two of the liveried guildsmen of the Arsenale. Prospero gestured to them.

  ‘I feared you had become lost amidst the crowd. I told these men that the new doge would certainly wish to see the English Ambassador. Allow us to be your escort to his presence.’

  He pointed the way to the stairs leading up to the Doge’s apartments. William glanced at Oldcastle and from him to the doors leading out of the Ducal Palace. Prospero saw his look and stepped between the Englishmen and any thought of escape.

  ‘Come, Sir Henry, we must not keep the Serene Lord waiting.’

  He strode ahead. William and Oldcastle fell in behind, the guildsman following after.