The Spy of Venice

by Benet Brandreth

  Above, they found the Sala Scudo, the smaller hall in the Doge’s apartments beyond which lay his private offices. The hall was crowded. At the far end two gilded doors were guarded by the same liveried guildsmen of the Arsenale that had marked the procession’s path. At their command small groups were breathed in and out the doors to the chamber beyond. Each time the doors opened a glimpse of the room’s extravagant decoration was revealed. Each time some new guests were drawn in to this Scarlet Chamber, where the new doge sat enthroned. There, in the quiet of the smaller room, they approached to offer their congratulations and make their first petitions. Each time the doors opened the previous company, their obesiance made, were blown out to rejoin the crowd and the revels below. To encourage their return, servants passed among those in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio proffering wine to men and women desperate from long hours of dry ceremony.

  Their passage through the press of the Sala Scudo stretched an eternity. William found the steadiness with which Oldcastle marched a contrast with his own trembling gait. Oldcastle, who had seemed most aware of all the dangers that drew like black clouds over them, now seemed least heedful of that danger.

  Ahead, William saw Prospero waited by the doors to the Scarlet Chamber. The moment for action draws near, William thought. Unbidden, the lines he’d penned in San Rocco that week past sprang to his mind:

  There is a tide in the affairs of men, that taken at the flood leads on to glory. Omitted all the course of our lives is dwelt in shallows and in miseries.

  Needs work, he thought and wondered if he’d live to see it done.

  William and Oldcastle arrived at the gilded doors. The Count of Genoa turned.

  ‘The moment of truth approaches, Master Fallow,’ Prospero whispered.

  It does, thought William.

  Then came that honey breath of perfume that was her herald and Isabella Lisarro appeared among them, smiling.

  Prospero’s face turned to cloudy thunder.

  Your beauty was the cause

  William saw how Isabella’s arrival shook Prospero. There was some magic to her presence that worked on the Count. William had seen it clearly the night before, at the feast. He saw it again now. Prospero’s mind was full of scorpions.

  The Count recovered himself. He stepped to the liveried guardsmen.

  ‘The Ambassador of England is here to greet the Doge.’

  William looked on in unwilling admiration. Here was the Prospero who was deadly as the poisonous spider. Who cared not if his web was broke but calmly spun it new and snared you still. Whose unseemly pride was born from his ability to control himself and all. Such an ability, thought William, was often crafted from necessity. Only those who wrestle with a wild temper craft such strong chains to check it. Break those bonds and they would rage in self-destroying madness. One needed only to bring forth the key.

  Isabella Lisarro spoke. ‘Still going where you are not wanted, Giovanni?’

  ‘It is not my presence that is unwanted here,’ said Prospero.

  ‘So sure of the feelings of others, Giovanni?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure of my own,’ he said and leaned a little toward her. ‘You were warned.’

  He spoke more softly still; William scarcely heard it.

  ‘For that love we had for each other I forbore to strike at you. It did not need to be this way. It never did.’

  ‘Oh Giovanni, what love?’ Isabella’s reply came just as quiet. ‘Can you be so blind? You, who claim to see so clearly? How little there was of love. All that time you were making mooncalf eyes at me and dabbling palms under a gondola’s awning? All that time, I made report to the Signoria. I was paid twice for that work, by you and by those I betrayed you to.’

  She leaned back to gauge his face. Prospero’s eyes swelled.

  ‘I was little better than a child then,’ Isabella said. ‘I have learned what it truly means to have a lover since. Our affair is not to be compared with that, save as a shadow is to the thing itself.’

  Prospero stumbled to make reply but a great gout of emotions was knotting in his throat. Isabella laughed and spoke clearly for all to hear.

  ‘It is as well, then, that I was paid, for work it was. I know now your company was not to be endured except at twice the usual price.’

  With a speed faster than thought, Prospero’s hand swept out and lashed Isabella across the face. She cried out and faltered back. William snarled at Prospero and grappled him close till one of the guildsmen pulled him back while the other hauled off Prospero. Like leashed dogs they strained to be at each other. The gilded doors opened. A scarlet-robed secretary ushered out a group of nobles, then stood with them in amazement at the violent scene.

  Is there no man here?

  ‘What is this disturbance?’ the Doge’s Secretary hissed at the guildsmen by the door.

  ‘We were about to admit the Ambassador of England when this man and this woman, my lord, fell to argument. He struck her. Then this man,’ he gestured at William, ‘grappled with the first. The men wrestled and we parted them.’

  ‘Admit the Ambassador of England at once,’ the Secretary ordered to the guards.

  ‘These rest should leave,’ he spoke in a hissed whisper to Prospero and Isabella.

  Prospero’s fire, that had been tamped by force of will, blazed hot again. ‘Rascal, do not dismiss me at the shriek of a whore.’

  ‘Oh, your corrupted blood!’ cried Isabella.

  She turned to address the liveried guildsmen. ‘You hear him speak in such ungracious and ungentle terms of me,’ she cried. ‘One who has done nothing but be the butt for his show of arms. Why do you stand there mute witness to my shame?’

  The liveried guildsmen grew red as their tabards.

  ‘Is there no man among you that will defend me?’ demanded Isabella.

  One of the guildsmen went to speak in defence of his honour. The Secretary, desperate to end this unseemly brawl at the very door of the Doge, cut him off.

  ‘This is neither the place nor the time for such accusations or for such riots,’ he said. ‘Take yourselves from here at once.’

  Isabella ignored him. Such was the press of people that, as yet, only those that stood closest to the gilded doors perceived the drama. To these, who stood amazed, Isabella turned.

  ‘Will no one act?’ she demanded. ‘Prefer you your lives to honour? Not I. I would rather fall on the swords of these soldiers than turn my cheek at the provocation of this knave. Is there no man here will defend my honour?’

  She looked about. ‘Then will this woman do the duty of a man,’ she said.

  With these words she lunged at one of the guildsmen and made to draw his sword. The two struggled for the weapon.

  ‘For God’s sake, what mars the peace of my coronation day?’ The Doge himself had stepped from his throne to view the matter.

  ‘What brawl is this?’ the Doge demanded.

  His Secretary made to reply but Isabella cut him off with a cry. ‘Justice, Serene Lord. This man wrongs me.’

  A quivering finger pointed at Prospero. The Doge looked about him. Beyond the scene before him stood an attendant crowd, watching. They saw a Venetian woman, face still crimson from the blow, call to her ruler for justice against this Genoan count who struck at her. They saw England watch to see the mettle of Venice’s new doge in dealing with this dispute. He saw all this and made his first judgment as Doge. It fell as William had hoped.

  ‘Bring them all in here,’ he said, ‘and let us deal with this beyond the common view.’

  Now follow – if thou darest – to try whose right of thine or mine is most in Helena

  William and the others were ushered into the smaller room. William felt the press of the armed guildsmen behind him. Sweat prickled at his neck. Angry Venetian faces gazed on William, Oldcastle, Isabella and Prospero. William looked to his right. Through the window he saw the tops of the two statue-capped pillars that stood in the Piazetta di San Marco, between which they hanged the enemies of Ve
nice. William fought for calm. He needed it. The scene was not yet finished, the play not over and the game not won.

  The Doge resumed his seat on the throne of State. He picked up his cup and drank from it as he eyed the four before him.

  Prospero broke the silence. ‘Serene Lord, there has been –’

  ‘Quiet,’ the Doge ordered.

  He pointed to one of the guildsman. ‘What passed out there?’

  The liveried figure spoke hastily, anxious for his part in matters to be short. When he finished the Doge turned to Prospero.

  ‘Why did you strike this woman?’

  ‘I am most grievously abused,’ said Prospero. ‘I came to warn you, Serene Lord, of a great danger to your person and to the State. I fear it was to distract me from that charge that this woman spoke to me in such scurvy and provoking terms that I was forced, on my honour, to strike her. It was intemperate.’

  Prospero cursed himself for his own hot-headedness. Yet he saw how he might turn events to his advantage.

  He went on: ‘I apologise from my deepest heart for the discourtesy to you and your office that I should have upset the harmony of this day. Yet if you heard her speak, no man might do less with honour.’

  ‘Honour?’ Isabella looked sadly at Prospero. ‘What do you know of honour?’

  She turned to the Doge. ‘Serene Lord, look on the Count of Genoa and see a man whom envy has made mad. It is no insult of mine but the green-eyed monster of his jealousy has turned my face to crimson. Calumnious envy, that I prefer this witty youth to his choleric age.’

  The Doge was amused. He cast an admiring look over Isabella. He raised a hand and spoke behind it to the Secretary, who stood beside him, in a voice that carried clear enough. ‘There’s honey guarded by a sting? Eh?’

  The Secretary, fast adapting to his new lord’s ways, gave a polite laugh.

  ‘Serene Lord,’ Prospero said, ‘this is a distraction from a matter of far greater pith and moment.’

  ‘The danger to our person and State of which you spoke,’ replied the Doge.

  ‘The same. These men who claim to be the Ambassador of England and his man are no such thing,’ pronounced the Count.

  ‘Come, man, there’s a charge that’s scarce to be believed,’ said the Doge. ‘Far more credent ear I give the lady’s talk of envy. To be envious of this youth for having supplanted you with this rare pearl is a thing entirely understandable, forgiveable.’

  ‘Beware, Serene Lord, for this Isabella Lisarro is in league with your enemy, the enemy of Venice,’ insisted Prospero. ‘Serene Lord, these are no more the English Ambassador and his man than I am the Doge. They are English agents, spies, assassins. You have heard, Serene Lord, of the attempted murder of the Duchess of Bracciano? The blame lies with them.’

  ‘Another heavy charge,’ said the Doge.

  ‘I dare more, Serene Lord,’ Prospero replied. ‘The Duke of Bracciano is lately taken ill.’

  The Doge’s Secretary started at this news. He signalled to a clerk, who approached and whispered in his ear.

  Prospero continued: ‘A sickness that followed swiftly on a gift sent by the English embassy.’

  A clerk was sent scurrying to the door by the Doge’s Secretary.

  Meanwhile Prospero spoke on and in such terms that William began to doubt his own innocence.

  ‘It is true that this whore and I have known each other,’ said Prospero with a glance at Isabella. ‘What man has not?’

  ‘You are vile, Prospero,’ Isabella said.

  Prospero ignored her. ‘True also that our angry words were over this Englishman. Yet jealousy was not the cause of our argument. Her anger is because I had discovered their foul plots and would not spare them Venetian justice for all her pleading.’

  ‘Lies,’ Isabella said. ‘I have ever been loyal to Venice.’

  ‘They are not lies,’ said Prospero. He spoke as if sadly, but William could see the excitement in his eyes.

  ‘This is a scandal to my State and office,’ said Oldcastle. ‘Serene Lord, am I to stand and listen to these insults?’

  The Doge looked between Prospero and Oldcastle.

  ‘He says you are a spy and an assassin. You say that you are not. How am I to resolve this?’ the Doge asked.

  Prospero looked at William as he spoke. ‘No simpler matter, Serene Lord. If these be the English embassy, where are their papers, their letters of recommendation? They have none. For they are dissembling players both.’

  Prospero turned to face the Doge. ‘Serene Lord, let the English Ambassador produce his letters of recommendation or stand proved an enemy to Venice.’

  All eyes turned to Oldcastle save Prospero’s alone. His gaze was fixed on William.

  ‘Well?’ said the Doge to Oldcastle.

  ‘I do not have them,’ said Oldcastle.

  Prospero leaned close to William’s ear.

  ‘Checkmate,’ he whispered.

  The whirligig of time

  William looked into the face of Prospero and saw in it a vicious triumph. He witnessed that triumph change and fade when Prospero, in turn, did not find in William’s face any tremor of fear. Beyond them Oldcastle spoke.

  ‘I do not carry such things,’ he said. ‘My steward deals with such matters. Fallow?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Henry?’ said William.

  ‘The letters, and quickly,’ said Oldcastle.

  William shook off the restraining hand of the guildsman behind him and reached into his doublet. He took from it a packet of letters. He stepped forward past Prospero and placed it in the hand of the Doge’s Secretary. Prospero looked at the packet, uncomprehending. He could feel the weight of the letters in his own doublet still.

  ‘Forgeries,’ Prospero pronounced.

  ‘The seal is correct in every detail,’ replied the Secretary.

  ‘Must we endure this dishonour longer?’ demanded Oldcastle of the Doge. ‘I do not know this fellow but, sure, he is some kind of madman.’

  ‘I tell you this is no knight but an English spy, a player,’ insisted Prospero.

  William spoke, ‘Serene Lord, break open the seal, question us on the content. It speaks of an alliance between England and Venice to the benefit of both our merchants. It discusses our mutual support for Henry of Navarre against the Guise in the French succession. Would we know this if we were not the English embassy?’

  At the Doge’s nod the Secretary slit the seal and read. William prayed that he had understood Sir Henry’s lessons in France. There had been no moment between when he had taken the packet from Prospero’s doublet in the struggle and now to read the letters for himself. Nor would he have dared disturb the seal. He saw sweat beading on Oldcastle’s brow as they both waited for the Secretary to finish reading.

  ‘It is as he says, Serene Lord,’ the Secretary pronounced.

  All eyes were now on Prospero. The clockwork of his thoughts turned furiously but its balance was out and the gears no longer bit with each other.

  ‘I would say this talk of jealous madness has some truth in it,’ said the Doge. ‘It were best if you withdrew, Count, before your fancies cause you to repeat your slanders.’

  Isabella spoke, ‘There’s more than madness here, Serene Lord. Of all that this man has said only one part was true. There is a threat to your person and to Venice. This man is an agent of the Pope. The same crimes he accused the English of were all his working.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ scoffed Prospero.

  He looked at Isabella Lisarro and saw the hatred in her eyes. Prospero seethed. He still could not fathom what had passed. He reached into his doublet to check that the packet was still there. That, truly, he was not run mad.

  ‘A blade,’ cried Isabella, ‘he reaches for a blade!’

  The guildsmen threw themselves on Prospero and held him.

  ‘Get off me, fools!’ cried Prospero.

  ‘What do you reach for?’ demanded the Doge.

  ‘Nothing, Serene Lord,’ said Prospero.

>   ‘Search him,’ commanded the Secretary.

  One of the guildsmen reached into Prospero’s doublet. ‘No dagger, Serene Lord, only this letter.’ He passed it to the Secretary.

  ‘That is not for you!’ cried Prospero.

  The Doge looked up at him, his brows raised at the intemperate tone. Prospero struggled for calm, understanding flooding him. He saw now how William had wrestled with him. Felt again those quick, thin fingers grapple at his clothing. Knew then that substitution had been made.

  The Doge held out his hand. The Secretary placed the packet in it. The Doge examined it.

  Prospero felt the danger gathering about him. He saw it in the cold faces of William and Oldcastle, in the sorrowful anger of Isabella. He began to see that it was not he who had brought the English before the Doge to be exposed. It was they who had lured him to this place. He had put himself beyond escape. With all his might he raged against the arms that held him.

  ‘I am the Pope’s servant,’ he snarled. ‘You lay your hands on me at peril of his anger.’

  The Doge passed the letter to the Secretary. ‘It is the Pope that writes,’ he said.

  At Prospero’s look of confusion the Doge signalled to his Secretary, who approached and held the paper open before Prospero’s eyes.

  In the matter of Sir Henry Carr, Ambassador, and of the Duke and Duchess of Bracciano I charge you, Marcantonio Bon and Francesco Tiepolo, by the debt you owe me, to render Giovanni Prospero all assistance that he shall require and absolve you of all sin that may fall upon you in the course of his service, which is the service of the Holy See.

  At its base the seal bore the crossed keys of St Peter and the name of the Pope.

  ‘Forgery. This letter is forged,’ Prospero said.

  ‘The seal is the Pope’s. I know its look,’ said the Secretary.

  William gave a silent prayer of thanks to Tintoretto’s skill.

  ‘Besides, it was in your doublet,’ added the Doge.

  ‘Some sleight of hand,’ said Prospero, ‘some trick of the English.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Doge and shook his head. ‘The English Ambassador does not seem one for swift hands.’