‘When are they going to begin?’ Norma asked in a whisper. ‘If we’re made to stand here much longer, we’ll all be dead from asphyxiation.’
ABBA must have heard her prayers. Suddenly there was a fanfare of trumpets and a troop of heavily berobed dignitaries stepped onto the stage at the end of the hall. Thankfully, Vanka was tall and, by standing on his toes, he could see what was happening. This, he decided, must be the arrival of the Doge and her Council of Ten, the most important decision-makers in the whole of Venice, and there, at the back of this crowd of dignitaries, was Ella.
She looked marvellous. Encouraged by the sight of the girl he loved, Vanka determined to get closer to the stage. If he was to have any chance of speaking with her, he had to be able to catch her eye and with that in mind he began to lizard his way through the crowd, ignoring the protests of his fellow attendees.
The Lady IMmanual seemed almost abnormally calm, and this de Sade found really quite perplexing. Personal experience told him that those about to be put to the question by the Council of Ten tended to be very nervous: the threat of having their head chopped off, if they were judged to have violated Venetian protocol, had that effect on people. And, from the gossip and rumour circulating in the Palace, there was a bloody good chance that the Lady IMmanual – if she couldn’t convince them she was the Messiah – would be ending the day a head shorter than when she began it. Despite the support of the Doge, nobody seemed to think that a girl could ever be ordained Messiah. Demi-Mondian tradition had it that the Messiah would be a man and thinking otherwise was a step too far, even for broadminded Venetians.
And that was why the book some unfeeling bastard had opened was giving such long odds on the Lady being able to avoid the block, so long that de Sade hadn’t been able to resist a flutter. But as he trotted behind the Lady IMmanual en route to the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, de Sade judged it to have been a hundred francs well invested. The Lady IMmanual looked and acted like someone destined for the winner’s enclosure rather than the chopping block.
She had dressed carefully for the Audience, shunning all the bright fashions of the Quartier Chaud and choosing instead a gown of the purest white. Her dressers had been shocked: white was the colour of burial shrouds, which seemed in the circumstances to be a tad pessimistic. But the Lady had been adamant. What had she said in response? If she was to play the part of a saint then she would bloody well dress like one. Of course, this being the Quartier Chaud, the gown they had made for her was excessively tight and sported a dangerously low-cut neckline – her breasts unfortunately hidden beneath the shawl she wore about her shoulders – but all in all de Sade was pleased by how his protégée looked. And when it had come to selecting a suitable mask for the occasion, the Lady had been equally adamant that she would stand before the Grand Council unmasked, with her head freshly shaven.
The problem was that it would take more than a tight gown and a shaven head to impress the Council. As de Sade knew to his cost, they were a difficult bunch of bastards to convince, but nevertheless he was quietly confident, especially as the Lady seemed to have a strange certainty about her, and certainty was the one thing that people craved in their leaders and, presumably, in their Messiah.
His hundred francs was safe.
Ella, Vanka was pleased to see, was learning. When he had first met her, she had been a little naïve regarding the tricks of the theatrical profession, but now …
If he had been able to speak to her in advance, he would have advised her that in order to be seen as some ineffably spiritual being, she had to act and dress as one. And this was just what she had done. That she had entered the hall unmasked was a master stroke: it marked her out as someone different, whilst simultaneously signalling an innocence, a vulnerability which would make it difficult for anyone to condemn her to death. It also revealed just how astonishingly lovely she was. It would take a real bastard to vote to snuff out the life of such a beauty, but then Venice was stuffed to the gunwales with real bastards.
As he pushed and shoved his way through the crowd, he saw Ella being brought to a halt right in the middle of the stage, standing there flanked by the Council of Ten, by the Doge, and by a guard of honour which seemed to be made up of three Visual Virgins and a small, nervous-looking young man with curly hair.
A silence fell over the assembly as everyone waited with bated breath to hear what the Doge would pronounce in support of this putative Messiah.
Pushing her way through the crowd, Norma decided that as adventures went this was, in her judgement, about as madcap and dangerous as they got. Wandering into a place crawling with Signori di Notte when there were warrants out for their arrest was not a good move, but Vanka was so desperate to see Ella that nothing would dissuade him. And as Norma was finding out, friendship involved standing by your friend even when they did something that defied common sense.
As Norma sidled her way around a particularly fat patrician, she saw the Doge hold up her hands. ‘Lords unt Ladies of Venice, patricians: we meet today to make a momentous decision. Zhis girl, zhe vun known as zhe Lady IMmanual, has come amongst us hailed as zhe Messiah who vill lead us through Tribulation unt to Revelation mit ABBA. Zhat she has performed a miracle is not in doubt, since zhere are many reliable witnesses to attest zhat it was she who parted zhe Boundary Layer unt allowed zhose imprisoned in Warsaw to escape zhe vindictiveness of Reinhard Heydrich unt zhe ForthRight. Ve have alzo zhe testimony of Zizter Florence in vhich she confirms zhat zhis girl’s aura is more zhan human … it is zupernatural. But zhere is more: yesterday ve learnt zhat she fulfils zhe prophecies inscribed on Loci’s Column.’
There was a murmur around the Sala. That Ella was such a precise fit regarding the prophecies made on the Column was a very telling argument in her favour.
‘Zo today we must judge her: we must decide vhether she is indeed zhe Messiah zent to us by ABBA.’ The Doge fell silent for a moment. ‘Patricians, zhe choice is yours, unt may ABBA guide you in your deliberations.’
With that the Doge stepped back, to leave Ella standing alone at the front of the stage. And then occurred one of those unplanned, impossible, serendipitous coups de théâtre that turn the everyday into something astonishing. As Norma watched, a ray of sunshine broke through one of the windows ranged around the ceiling of the hall and speared down onto Ella, enveloping her in a halo of light. Her white gown, covered as it was with white crystals, flared in the sunlight, and for a moment she seemed to have been touched by ABBA.
As the sunlight flamed around her, Ella raised her arms, spreading them in benediction. ‘I am the Lady IMmanual,’ she announced in a voice loud enough to carry to the very rear of the crowded hall. ‘I have been sent by ABBA to give help and succour to the peoples of the Demi-Monde in their struggle against oppression and cruelty. At this very moment, the evil that is UnFunDaMentalism bestrides the Medi, and only the Grand Canal stands between Venice and destruction. I have been sent by ABBA to lead you to salvation.’
Bloody hell, she’s good.
‘I have been sent by ABBA and, as a sign of my coming, He/She has ordained this to be the Age of Miracles. You shall know me by my miracles. So hear me, people of Venice, and believe: I am the Messiah.’
As Vanka watched, a large and well-built man dressed in a suit of burgundy silk, and wearing a mask of uncompromising black leather, strode up the steps to stand on the edge of the stage.
‘I am Enrico Dandolo, Administrator of the Arsenal and First Captain of the East Wall.’
‘Now there’ll be trouble,’ Vanka heard one of his neighbours whisper to a colleague. ‘Dandolo’s a firebrand and he hasn’t got any time for messiahs. All this mysticism nonsense will have got right up his nose.’
‘Your Most Reverend Excellency, Honoured Members of the Council of Ten, patricians of Venice, I demand the right to speak and to challenge the right of this girl – this self-proclaimed Messiah – to command us, the free-Men and free-Women of Venice.’
There was a n
od from the Doge. She had no other option; as Vanka understood it, it was the right of every patrician to speak during a Great Audience, and Dandolo had obviously appointed himself as Ella’s chief prosecutor.
‘How can any take the claims of this Shade seriously?’ Dandolo began, ‘She comes citing some mumbo-jumbo about being sent by ABBA to lead us to victory over the Beast. But am I alone in thinking that if she has been sent by anyone, she has been sent by Reinhard Heydrich to confuse and perplex us? All this girl seeks to do, with her lies and falsehoods, is to strip Venice bare of its capacity to fight.’
Dandolo turned and looked towards the crowded ranks of patricians. ‘I am Captain of the East Wall. I have sworn an oath to defend Venice with my life, and I will not yield that sacred duty to such a pair of untried, untested and unsafe hands.’
There was a grumble of agreement throughout the hall.
‘What this girl is rumoured to have done in Warsaw is of no import here in Venice. It is impossible that soldiers in Venice will accept the leadership of a Shade girl in this matter, especially one tainted with the stench of WhoDoo witchcraft. I and my men have thought to make Venice the richest city in the Demi-Monde, and I will not see this legacy betrayed by one such as her. I was told that today I would see a girl blessed with divinity but all I see is a girl blessed with duplicity. Believe me, she is no messiah.’ The disdain in Dandolo’s voice was palpable.
With the slightest of smiles, Ella replied. ‘Patrician Dandolo seems to doubt me on two grounds: that I am a Shade girl and that I am being untruthful when I say I have been sent to the Demi-Monde by ABBA. The first I cannot correct’ – she paused and then hitched her hip coquettishly – ‘nor do I suspect many men here would wish me to.’ This raised a laugh, and Vanka sensed the crowd warming to her. ‘But I resent Patrician Dandolo’s implication that women are somehow inferior to men in their ability to fight evil.’
‘I do not “imply”: I state it,’ retorted Dandolo. ‘It is recognised that in war it is men who must bear the brunt of the fighting.’
‘You are in error, sir. It is not that women are inferior to men in martial matters; it is that they are not inflamed by the curse of MALEvolence. Should they be inclined to fight, you would find women to be more than a match for the likes of you.’
Vanka frowned as he tried to work out just what Ella was about. She seemed to be deliberately trying to provoke Dandolo. And if this was her intention, then she succeeded.
‘You insult me and every man who has fought for Venice,’ replied Dandolo in an ominously quiet tone.
‘Not at all,’ answered Ella blithely. ‘No more than you insult every woman who has ever had to sacrifice a lover, a son, a brother or a Current to a war prosecuted by incompetent and headstrong captains such as you.’
The gibe struck home, and Dandolo flinched as though he had been physically struck. ‘Be careful, witch. If you were a man I would now demand satisfaction.’
Ella’s voice took on a more threatening aspect. ‘Patrician Dandolo should be more circumspect regarding the challenges he throws down. I fancy, sir, you are as inept in duelling as you are in denying my right to call myself the Messiah.’
For long seconds Dandolo glowered at her. ‘I warn you most earnestly, witch, not to talk so imprudently! You are a disgrace to your fair sex. You impugn my reputation as a gentleman and as a patrician. I say again: if you were a man I would cut you down.’
‘No, sir: you would try to cut me down,’ Ella snarled back. ‘But you would fail, and I would have you leave here with a scar to remind you that you slander me, my honour and my sex at your peril!’
The fury in Ella’s eyes obviously unsettled Dandolo, but such was the man’s pride that he refused to be cowed. ‘It is all very well for you to hurl these insults at me, confident that you can hide behind your gender. But be in no doubt, ABBA has granted men superiority over women in all matters relating to strength and endurance.’
‘Then if I was to best you, would that not be a sign that I am blessed by ABBA? Would you not then be obliged to acknowledge my divinity?’
Vanka couldn’t help but smile. It had been so beautifully done. Ella had led Dandolo into a trap, and Dandolo didn’t look terribly happy with the situation his own arrogance had put him in.
‘You are as conniving as you are beautiful, witch, but your guile will gain you nothing. Honour does not permit me to fight a woman, but if I did, it is impossible that a girl such as you would be able to defeat me.’
Suddenly Ella turned and walked over to the wall behind the stage, every eye in the room following her progress. Two crossed cavalry sabres hung there, doubtless souvenirs of some battle fought in Venice’s dim and distant past. She pulled one free, then shucked off her shawl and flexed the blade between her two hands, this making her full and delightfully presented bosom heave. Ella, Vanka decided, could teach even Visual Virgins a few tricks of her own regarding fiduciary sex.
‘Perhaps, sir, as your sensitivities do not permit you to fight me, we can establish our relative abilities with the sword by proxy … by a trial of skill?’ She tossed the second sword to Dandolo, who caught it awkwardly. ‘I trust that this, at least, will not impinge too much on your honour as a Venetian gentleman?’
Dandolo tested the blade and then gave a careless shrug. ‘I am not averse to demonstrating to you the superiority of the male of the species in matters martial but I am uncertain how this trial of skill is to be conducted.’
‘I am informed that how skilled someone is with a sword depends upon the speed of their reflexes. Therefore I propose a contest where my reflexes are pitted against yours, Patrician Dandolo.’
As he removed his jacket, Dandolo sneered. ‘I am indifferent to the style of the contest. My sword masters believe that the worth of a swordsman is judged by the strength of his wrist. That is why a woman will never be able to match a man with a blade.’ He gave Ella a dismissive smile. ‘So, witch, what exactly is this contest you propose?’
She turned to de Sade. ‘Monsieur le Marquis, I would be obliged if you would take two apples from the bowl, one in each hand, and then climb up onto the table.’
De Sade was so lost in admiration of the Lady IMmanual’s delightful bottom that for a moment he didn’t realise she was addressing him. When he pulled himself together he frowned – it was a very peculiar request – and he had to receive a nod of assent from the Doge before he befouled the gorgeously embroidered tablecloth with his velvet pumps. He took the apples and clambered up onto the table, to stand towering over the patricians crowded into the hall below him. It was a somewhat embarrassing position to be in but there were compensations, the chief being that he now had an unsurpassed view of the Lady IMmanual’s heaving breasts as she stood beneath him. With great reluctance he tore his eyes away from that succulent flesh. It would not do to risk tumescence in front of all these important people.
‘What I propose, Patrician Dandolo,’ explained the Lady, ‘is that the Marquis de Sade will drop one of those apples, and we each, in turn, will demonstrate our skill by skewering it as it falls. This, I believe, will be a telling test of both our skill and our speed of reflex.’
Dandolo shrugged. ‘The sabre, as you obviously fail to understand, is a weapon designed to cut rather than thrust.’
‘But as we are similarly armed, Patrician Dandolo, then we are both equally disadvantaged. So, do you agree to my proposal or not?’
Another careless shrug from Dandolo, and a supercilious glance towards the other patricians gathered around the hall. ‘This is a game for children, but if it amuses you, why not? Shall I go first, to demonstrate the correct technique?’
Ella gave a small bow and backed away to make room for her opponent. Dandolo shuffled his feet until they were about shoulder-width apart, and he was standing square-on to the anticipated descent of the apple. Slowly he drew the sabre back until it was horizontal to his right shoulder, his arm cocked ready to lunge forward.
‘I will drop the appl
e on the count of three,’ said de Sade quietly. ‘One. Two. Three!’
He let the apple go, and almost instantaneously Dandolo’s sabre jabbed forward, sending it spinning across the room. It was retrieved by a young man standing at the very front of the crowd. ‘A hit!’ he shouted.
There was a round of applause from those in the room and, with a bow of gratitude and an immodest little swagger, Dandolo ceded his place to the Lady IMmanual. He was right to be cocky, decided de Sade: just to hit the apple in flight showed a level of skill he, for one, had never seen equalled.
The Lady IMmanual took Dandolo’s position at the end of the table. As she adjusted her stance and brought her sword up ready, de Sade could sense the excited crowd pressing closer to the stage.
‘One. Two. Three!’
The apple dropped. The girl struck, her arm moving so quickly that if de Sade had blinked, he was certain he would have missed the pistoning of the blade.
But the apple didn’t fly.
There was a gasp of disappointment from the crowd, a gasp tinged, de Sade decided, with just a soupçon of relief. Obviously none of the men gathered in the hall wanted to see Dandolo bested by a girl.
‘A miss!’ exclaimed Dandolo.
‘I think not,’ observed the Lady IMmanual, as she brought her sabre back to the en garde position. There, some six inches along the blade, sat the apple, skewered dead centre. The Lady turned to Dandolo. ‘It would appear that I am the victor, Patrician Dandolo.’
Dandolo scowled and then shook his head. ‘Not so, witch. If you were aware of the laws of chance, you would realise that all your success has demonstrated is beginner’s luck. It was luck rather than skill that enabled you to pierce the apple.’
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 30