by Dave Duncan
“Donna Violetta Vitale, master.”
“I can see that. Send her home and you come right back here.”
It was my turn to sigh. I had never known him quite this bad.
“I trust I find you well, Doctor?” Violetta said, advancing toward him. But that silvery, flutelike voice belonged to Aspasia, her political and cultural mode, and if anyone could outmaneuver Nostradamus, it was she. She bobbed him a curtsey, then made herself comfortable on one of the two green chairs on the far side of the fireplace. I beat a strategic retreat to the desk in the window, where I was out of the Maestro’s sight and could adore Violetta at my leisure. Her eyes are the deep blue of the sea when she is Aspasia. I don’t know how she makes these transformations and neither does she; she claims it is not a conscious choice.
“I do not recall inviting you to be seated, woman. Who is this person you want me to find?”
The city regards Nostradamus as an oracle. All sorts of people come asking Who? Where? When? What? and sometimes even How? or Why? questions. Amazingly often, he can answer them, for a price.
“A murderer.”
His mouth shrank to a pinhole and his eyes to slits. “You think I’m a common sbirro? Any time I have exposed a murderer it has been because I needed to know his identity for some other, more worthy reason.” Not true at all, but he likes to think that unmasking criminals is beneath a philosopher’s dignity. “Talk to the Signori di Notte. Or go directly to the Ten.” He dropped his gaze to the book on his lap, believing that he had just ended the conversation.
Violette lobbed a sympathetic glance across at me, who must live with this. “You have a wonderful wit, lustrissimo, or do you really think that the Lords of the Night can catch anything more serious than head colds? This matter will not interest the Council of Ten.”
After a moment Nostradamus looked up, frowning. According to what it would have you believe, the Most Serene Republic is governed by the nobility of the Great Council, who elect one another to dozens of courts, councils, and committees, whose mandates overlap so much that every magistrate has some other magistrate watching over him. Our head of state, the doge, is a mere figurehead who can do nothing without the support of his six counselors. This grotesque muddle is justified as necessary for the preservation of freedom and prevention of tyranny.
In practice, the real government is the Council of Ten, whose official mandate is to guard the security of the state, but which meddles in anything it fancies—permissible wages and prices, what clothes may be worn, the way banks operate, so on and on. The Ten certainly include murder within their jurisdiction.
The Maestro eyed his visitor angrily. “The name of the victim?”
“Lucia da Bergamo.”
“Your relationship to the deceased?”
Violetta’s smiles normally brighten the room, but this one brought enough pathos to make a songbird weep. “She was my mentor.”
“She was a . . . courtesan?” That he did not choose one of the word’s many vulgar synonyms I found mildly encouraging.
“She was.”
“Dying is a hazard of your trade. Women who earn their bread in bed are always at risk. Why should this one be any different?”
I spread my hands and shrugged hugely to tell Violetta that the case was hopeless. In his present mood, the Maestro would not shift himself to investigate a murdered pope, let alone a courtesan.
She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “She still had all her clothes on, and also her jewels.”
That was certainly unusual, and the Maestro took a moment to respond.
“When and where did she die?”
“She was last seen three weeks ago, January fourteenth. Her body was found floating in the lagoon about a week later.”
“Bah! What the fish left of her body, you mean. It is impossible! No witnesses, of course? No clues or leads? Has her last customer been identified?”
Stony-faced, Violetta said, “I did not hear the news until three days ago, and some of it only this morning. No to all of your questions.”
“Impossible. Ask the recording angel on Judgment Day.” He bent to his book again.
“You are the greatest clairvoyant in Europe.”
He did not reply.
“Clairvoyance only reveals the future,” I said softly. “Not the past.”
Violetta ignored my remark. “Lucia left me everything she had, and I will gladly pay it as a reward for the capture and execution of her killer.”
The Maestro raised his head like a hound that has scented its quarry. “And how much is that?”
Violetta-Aspasia looked close to tears. “Depending on how much the house sells for, the notary told me he thought it would amount to about 1,470 ducats.”
Nostradamus painfully twisted around to stare at me, no doubt wondering if I had stage-managed this conversation. I had no difficulty in looking suitably startled. A courtesan with such a fortune was almost as amazing as another one offering to give it all away. Giorgio, our gondolier, would need a century to earn that much, because his wages are limited by law to his board and fifteen ducats a year.
Obviously Lucia had been a cortigiana onesta like Violetta, an honored courtesan, one who entertains men with her wit and culture. Sex is not the least of her attractions, but it is far from the only one and not necessarily the greatest. Men are drawn to Venice from all over Europe by the beauty and skill of our courtesans. The state permits them to ply their trade and then taxes them exorbitantly.
“Alfeo!” Nostradamus snapped.
“Master?”
“Warn Mama that we have a guest for dinner and tell Bruno I need him.” Although he rarely displays it, Nostradamus does have a sense of humor; sometimes he can even laugh at himself.
2
The dining room on the upper floor of Ca’ Barbolano can seat fifty. The Maestro and I dine there in splendor every day, with silver tableware on damask tablecloths under grandiose Burano chandeliers. I dine, he nibbles. The palace belongs to sier Alvise Barbolano, who is richer than Midas and a similar age. The old man lets the Maestro stay on the top floor rent free in return for some trifling services, including business astrological advice, trading clairvoyance, and effective roach poison. The Barbolanos live below us, on the piano nobile. Below that are two mezzanine apartments, occupied by the Marciana brothers and their respective families; they are of the citizen class, partners with sier Barbolano in an import-export business.
I once suggested to the Maestro that he obtain a chair on wheels, but he does not need it while he has Bruno, who is a mute, a little larger than Michelangelo’s David. He happily lifted Nostradamus, chair and all, and carried him through to the dining room. He loves to be useful.
And Mama Angeli loves to cook. St. Peter’s fish comes from the deep sea especially to bathe in her orange sauce and I marvel that the holy man himself does not descend to sample the result. Even the Maestro ate industriously for several minutes. Violetta has dined with royalty, but she raved about the food and discussed with me the two magnificent Paolo Veronese paintings on the wall. She was still Aspasia, her political mode.
I asked her about Carnival, which had been running since immediately after Christmas, and she began describing some of the better masques and banquets she had attended. Her escorts at such affairs would have paid many ducats for the privilege, whereas I can only take her to the free street shows, and rarely get the chance, because she is so much in demand. Her closets are packed with such a multitude of exotic Carnival costumes that I have never seen her in the same one twice.
Nostradamus quickly grew bored, laid down his fork, and leaned back.
“Tell us about the victim, madonna.”
It was criminal to spoil a good meal with such a topic, but Aspasia would never be so crude as to reject her host’s conversational lead.
“Lucia was about forty. She retired two years ago and turned her house into a home for street girls anxious to reform. Nuns from Santa Spirito supervised, so
that there could be no scandal. The last time she was seen was when she went off in a gondola with a masked man. She had said that they were going to the Piazza to dance.”
I decided that I agreed with my master; the case was impossible. It had probably been impossible right from the beginning and after three weeks the trail was ice-cold.
“How did she die?” he asked.
“The notary did not know. He hinted that she was probably a suicide but the sbirri were calling it murder so she could be buried in hallowed ground.”
Who could tell, after the body had spent a week in the lagoon?
“Who found the corpse?” Nostradamus snapped. “Who identified it after so long in the water? Are you completely certain that the dead woman is who you think she was? If she was dragged under by the weight of her clothes she would surface when distension of the corpse buoyed it up, but putrefaction would be well along by then.”
Violetta understandably laid down her fork. “I recognized the jewelry when it was shown to me.”
“That it was returned at all makes me highly suspicious,” the Maestro said angrily. “The first instinct of any Venetian recovering a body is to strip it of valuables. Fishermen, I assume? Bah! They’re all rogues. Even the sbirri would not pass up such an opportunity. Who found the body, and where? Who delivered it to the authorities? How did they locate you to identify the jewels?”
“I do not know, lustrissimo. These are things Alfeo could find out for you.”
“I have more important things for him to do. Your friend committed suicide. Or she was drunk and fell into a canal.”
“Not Lucia.”
Nostradamus snorted. “Alfeo, call Bruno. I am going to lie down. See your friend home and come right back. You have work to do.” He had been sleeping so badly the last few nights, that he had started taking to his bed in the middle of the day, not his normal practice.
Before I could rise, Violetta turned to look at me and I was startled to see a golden glint in her eyes.
“I become so nervous when I think of this terrible act,” she said. “Many ladies in my profession feel the need of a strong, full-time defender. I do believe I shall have to hire a reliable bodyguard.”
I said nothing. What she was hinting was the worst of nightmares for me, my greatest fear. I know how to use a sword and if my beloved ever decides that she needs a guardian, I shall be lost. Loving a courtesan is one thing, living off her earnings is another, but I can refuse Violetta nothing. If she wants me as her bravo, then her bravo I must become. Then the Grand Council will order my name struck from the Golden Book, a noble house that has endured for centuries will end, and scores of ancestral ghosts will wail in shame.
The Maestro knew exactly what she meant and scowled at her furiously. Those gold serpent eyes had warned me that he was now dealing with Delilah, who is as deadly as a spiderweb, but he does not know her as well as I do. Delilah can lie like sand on a beach.
“Rubbish. Alfeo, you can have the rest of the afternoon off. Investigate all you want, but be back by curfew.”
“I may borrow Giorgio?”
“Yes, yes. Now get me Bruno.”
A murder so old, with the corpse half rotted and already buried, with no known motive or witnesses, was a totally impossible assignment, and a wonderful excuse to spend some hours with Violetta. It wasn’t quite impossible enough for me to suggest that we just give up and go to her house for a glass or two of wine and a few cantos of the Divine Comedy.
Giorgio Angeli is Mama’s husband and our gondolier. Since the boat had not been used yet that day, we emerged from the apartment with Giorgio carrying his oar and Corrado, one of his sons, laden with the cushions. The surly boatman in the Gradenigo colors was plodding up the stairs toward us. The look he gave Violetta almost made me draw my rapier to start improving his face.
He handed me another letter, this time addressed to sier Alfeo Zeno. I broke the seal.
“Hey! That’s for messer Zeno!” Surly barked.
“That’s me,” I said, scanning the text. Normally I dress as an apprentice, which I am. I had changed into something a little fancier so I could wear my sword, but I was still leagues away from what a young noble should wear—a black, floor-length robe if he is already a member of the Grand Council. If he is not, then he is expected to deck himself out in illegal grandeur, far beyond what the sumptuary laws allow. Drab as I appear, I am of noble blood and born in wedlock, the equal of any nobleman in Venice. I just happen to be poor enough to beg alms off seagulls.
“Yes he is,” Corrado said, smirking.
The note was brief and written in a very precise and disciplined hand.
Sier Giovanni Gradenigo is not long for this world and urgently wishes to speak with you. Come at once to Palazzo Gradenigo.
Fr. Fedele
I do not swear in the presence of ladies, women, or even courtesans. I was tempted to. The first note had not meant what I thought.
“Go,” I told the boatman, “and tell Friar Fedele that I am on my way. Giorgio, please hurry.”
As men and boy ran off down the stairs, I followed, holding Violetta’s arm to steady her.
“Change of plan?” she inquired sweetly.
“Unless you believe in extraordinary coincidences it is,” I said. “This must take precedence.” I explained about the other note, giving her the wording verbatim.
“Then that wasn’t your fault!” she declared. “It was ambiguous and perhaps Battista himself did not understand that his master just wanted to tell Nostradamus something, not consult him as a doctor. The wonder is that a servant can write at all, not that he is unskilled at writing letters.”
We passed the great doors to the piano nobile and started down the next flight.
“It shouldn’t take long,” I said. “We can start work on the murder right after.”
She smiled—oh, how she can smile! “I must change, anyway. I can’t go exploring with you in these clothes. Drop me at my door and pick me up as soon as you have paid your respects to sier Giovanni.”
By the time we reached the watergate, Giorgio was ready for us and the Gradenigo boat had already gone. I handed Violetta out through the arches and then joined her aboard. It may seem strange to take a boat to go to the house next door, but there is no pedestrian fondamenta on our side of the Rio San Remo. There is a narrow ledge, though, along which an agile young man can work his way to the calle dividing the two buildings and then on to 96’s watergate. Corrado was already well on his way along it, so that he could hand Violetta ashore when she arrived. At his age even a touch of such a woman’s fingers is enough to remember, and in his case to brag about to his twin.
It took us only a few minutes to arrive at the Gradenigo palace, which is so large and sumptuous as to make even Ca’ Barbolano look so-so. There were at least a dozen gondolas outside the watergate, and about twice as many gondoliers waiting in the loggia, gossiping in threes and fours. Only the rich use two boatmen to a boat, so I did not need the livery and insignia to tell me that a widespread family was gathering for the deathwatch. I noted a couple of boats pulling away, though, and assumed that they were now carrying the news to more distant, or less wealthy, relations.
I was too late.
At the exact moment I stepped ashore, the bell of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari began to toll a few streets away. The bored boatmen made the sign of the cross and then carried on with their talk. They had already been informed of the death.
Had the dying man shared his urgent message with someone else? I had no need to knock, for the door stood open, and an elderly manservant waited there holding a piece of paper. I thought of San Pietro at the Gates greeting Giovanni Gradenigo.
“I am Alfeo Zeno. Friar Fedele sent for me. I have come too late?”
He bowed a smallish bow, frowning at my garb, then glanced down at his list. “Indeed you have, clarissimo.” He looked behind him, into the grandiose hall. “The friar is coming now.”
I walked into th
e great hall and wished I had time to admire the enormous splendor of marble, glass, and gilt—about a week would do. It all seemed like a monument to human folly in the presence of death, but Gradenigo would have seen it as evidence that he had preserved, and doubtless expanded, the family fortune. They would be reluctant to admit it, but the Venetian aristocracy admires rapacity above all.
Several people were standing around or moving about their business with suitable gravity, but I went straight for the priest, who was obviously leaving. We met halfway between door and staircase; I bowed.
Bareheaded and barefoot, Friar Fedele wore the gray habit of the Order of Friars Minor, with the belt cord dangling at his side tied in the required three knots, representing his vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity. Obedience is an old Venetian virtue that the Great Council enthusiastically preaches to the commonality, but poverty and chastity are rarely popular at any level.
The fringe around his tonsure was brown but his beard was closer to red. He seemed about thirty or so, with a weather-beaten ascetic face, humorless and arrogant, a face chiseled out of granite, more suited to a Dominican than a Franciscan. Personally I like my clergy to be New Testament, warm and forgiving. One glance at Friar Fedele told you right away that he was straight out of the Book of Judges, all blood, blame, and brimstone. He looked me over, his gaze lingering for a moment on my rapier and dagger.
I held up the letter with his name on it. “I am Zeno, Brother. I fear I have arrived too late.”
He nodded. “Do not grieve unduly, Alfeo. He was much confused at the end. I wrote that letter because he insisted and we must humor the dying, but I don’t think you would have heard anything of importance. He might not have known you.”
“I am sure he would not, because we never met. I assume that he wanted to confide something to my master, Doctor Nostradamus, and asked for me because I am the doctor’s aide?”
He gave me the same answer any other slab of granite would—silence.