Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

  Jacques’ knees buckled. He summoned his strength to speak, but it was the rais who spoke first.

  “Either fighter may withdraw from this combat, and Allah will place no shame on either. I await your choice.”

  Dominique was the first to step forward. “I fight.”

  “No!” Jacques screamed. “No!”

  The cries that arose from corsairs and prisoners alike drowned his further screams.

  Jacques’ back grew taut as a tree.

  The lieutenant—opposite Dominique—advanced. In his native tongue—most likely Berber—he turned and shouted to the crew. He was met with jeers.

  He addressed his captain, who then wheeled and faced Dominique and the prisoners.

  “The corsair offers you the choice of weapons: knife, pistol, sword”—the captain turned to the crew—“or belaying pin.” He was favored with hoots from his men.

  Dominique did not flinch. “Smallsword,” she said. “You will kindly retrieve my belongings and the belongings of your prisoner, where you will find a case of smallswords. Two smallswords.” She thrust her manacled hands toward the lieutenant. “That ship swine shall have one of them.”

  “Stop,” cried Jacques. “Wait. I have treasure. I have a map to treasure.”

  “No, Jacques, no,” Dominique cried.

  “Here. Here in the back of my shirt. Piccinio Rais, look for yourself.”

  The rais advanced toward Jacques. “Treasure?” he said. He promptly ripped Jacques’ ragged shirt from his body, and out fell Fragonard’s scroll. A corsair fetched the furled parchment and handed it to Piccinio Rais, who unrolled it and studied it momentarily. He sidled next to Jacques and spoke coolly. “These Algerines must search you better next time, fellow.” He threw a glance to the primo lieutenant and gave a yelping laugh.

  A thousand fears tumbled in Jacques’ heart, but he could find no words for them; the best he could do was keep from squirming before the captain.

  Piccinio Rais tucked the scroll in his breeches and marched to the center of the deck, where he motioned to Dominique, then the lieutenant.

  “Smallsword,” he commanded. “To the death.”

  “No,” Jacques cried as several corsairs grabbed him by the shoulders. His struggle was of no use, and he knew the outcome inevitable. She’ll die. And I’ll be a minion of the Turk.

  - 29 -

  WHEN PICCINIO RAIS LOWERED HIS HAND to his side, Jacques was quickly carted to the ship’s mast, hoisted up, and lashed to the spar several meters above the deck. The spar rope tightly squeezed his arms and upper body, leaving his feet to dangle loosely. He felt as if a vulture prodded his insides. His whole lifetime he’d practiced a chivalry that demanded he defend the damsel. Dominique now defended him. He stared down at the adventuress. After she’s gone, I’ll find a way to kill the primo lieutenant.

  A contingent of Barbary corsairs ran below decks and minutes later crowded topside, attired in fine garments.

  Salt to the wound! Jacques struggled against his rope bindings. Do these cutthroats think they attend a wedding? Dressed in their dandified, plundered clothes. A killing should not be a cause for such celebration.

  Blazing sun now washed the ship’s deck. When the breeze stilled, the rais ordered sentinels posted on the mast high above Jacques. He knew no rescue would come. The Muslim captain was too shrewd to be taken at sea like a floating turtle.

  To further the bizarre atmosphere, Piccinio Rais gave orders to a host of Turks, who soon came back with kettledrums, oboes, bugles, and cymbals. These heathens play for sieges, battles, boardings, but why would … Sweat rolled from Jacques’ forehead as he realized the answer. None of us has ever seen a woman—Muslim, Christian, or pagan—fight a duel. To bloody death.

  As soon as the Turkish band raised a strange and heinous overture, Jacques wanted to stop his ears. The rais was doing everything in his power to make the odious contest a memorable affair and thus promote his fame.

  While the tumult continued, Dominique and the primo lieutenant were conducted to positions opposite one another on deck. The frenzied mob, bundling into a human ring around the duelists, matched the tempestuous martial music.

  Jacques studied Dominique’s face below. Her assurance was still present. She stood bravely, keenly sighting her enemy. As for the lieutenant—he held a very small sword in his huge hand. It feels too light to him, Jacques thought. He’s used to a far bigger weapon.

  While Jacques’ eyes ranged, his heart ached at the spectacle below him.

  Among the onlookers, he spied Carlo Brose propped weakly against a barrel, knotting his stringy hair. A painful, poxy death will be too good for him.

  All hushed. The circle of corsairs spread wide as Piccinio Rais stepped to center deck. His eyes gleaming, he cried out a short speech before situating himself prominently on deck stairs above the scene, then with a grandiloquent gesture, initiated the duel to the death.

  The rope hugged Jacques’ ribs hard when the ship slowly listed back and forth; he sucked in shallow breaths—all that his constraints allowed.

  The Turk slashed the air with his blade, the menacing hiss severing the silence. He slashed again. To gauge his new weapon. To unnerve Dominique.

  “Stay brave, Dominique!”

  She had time for one doleful glance at Jacques before the hulking Turk advanced, slicing. At his back, stuffed into a wide belt, bobbed a sack with his cat-o’-nine-tails. It swung wildly until the Turk stopped at the middle of the deck and opened wide his arms, a taunting invitation for Dominique to attack him.

  Her sword point shook uncontrollably, but as quick as a hare, she charged the Turk. Instantly, he cut at her head. She ducked as she passed and deftly sunk the point of her sword into the Turk’s bare foot. The man shrieked in agony as his blood showered onto the deck.

  The captives and corsairs who encircled the fighters howled. The martial band doubled the tempo of its freakish tune, the kettledrums generating wailing bloodlust from the mob.

  “Finish it, Dominique,” Jacques cried. “Finish him.”

  The Turk clapped a hand on his spurting wound, then calmly wiped blood across his face. His eyes protruded through the crimson smear, revealing a heart of butchery. A new spray of blood gushed from his foot as he lurched at Dominique.

  She evaded the vicious hack, but the Turk’s cuts came faster and fiercer until she was in full retreat. Barely sidestepping another killing blow, Dominique edged away from the blood-smeared Turk to the railing of the ship.

  Writhing against his bonds, Jacques watched the incensed lieutenant forge his way across deck. There was no place for Dominique to go but the sea.

  Dominique held her en garde while the Turk advanced. Suddenly his feet flew skyward in a stream of slippery blood. He thudded to the deck, flailing on his back. Dominique rushed forward.

  The mob’s roar erupted when the Turk managed to beat away Dominique’s attacking sword point. She turned and redoubled her effort, but her second assault, another thrust, missed the Turk completely when she lost her footing in the gore. The Turk leapt to his feet, his cat-o’-nine-tails banging to-and-fro behind him.

  He picked his way to the drier perimeter of the deck, the crowd creeping back as he drew near Dominique. With features black, the Turk began a grim stalk. Around and around.

  He’ll wear down her nerve, expects her to falter. Jacques’ throat felt raw. His nose drew in the sweet smell of blood. How long could Dominique prevail against the behemoth?

  Jacques saw it. Swinging loosely at the Turk’s back, the cat-o’-nine-tails roped itself around an object—a belaying pin on the railing—braking his advance. The Turk glanced over his shoulder.

  At once, Dominique executed a jump-lunge—her sword in full extension—and hurtled toward her opponent.

  Spinning, the Turk parried too early, missing her blade entirely. Dominique’s sword point shot through bone and brain and out the back of the Turk’s head, splashing flesh, blood, and bits of skull skyward. The man top
pled to the deck. The martial music waned and died.

  Dominique twisted away from the sight, then collapsed.

  From the crowd, Carlo Brose reeled forward, coughing. A moment later, Piccinio Rais stepped to the main deck.

  Blistering sweat raced down Jacques’ face as he joined the explosion of shouts.

  Within moments, he was unlashed from the spar, and his manacles were removed. He was positioned near Dominique, who now was propped upright, flanked by a pair of corsairs. Jacques watched while the remaining prisoners were shuffled down into the hold. Dominique is well enough. She breathes.

  Piccinio Rais marched forward through the blood, parading round about the dead lieutenant. “I salute our valiant mate, who forfeits his earthly life. May he consort in heaven with seventy-two virgins.”

  Raucous shouts split the morning air, and many of the corsairs raised a fist toward the clear blue sky.

  Jacques recalled what Brose had first confided, that the primo lieutenant was out of favor with the Algerine crew.

  “It seems, prisoner,” Piccinio Rais said, strutting toward Jacques, “that at present, you belong to this woman. Praise be to Allah, who inspired her with the courage to win you.” The rais stretched his arms tall and wide. “As all Muslims know, however, a woman must not own a man. Therefore, as rais of this ship, I declare you to be free. You’ll be placed on the next passing ship—bound for your home.”

  Jacques bit his cheek hard and, as best as he could, made a sweeping bow. This cannot be. I must act.

  Piccinio Rais motioned at Dominique, who stood in shock. “It seems also,” he said, “that Allah has determined a favorable fate for you. A private ransom will be paid for your person by this gentleman.” The Muslim ship captain brandished his fist to his left and watched Carlo Brose stagger to his side.

  What? Brose ransoms her? Jacques thought. Why? To gain revenge against me. With his ransom, the man snatches Dominique from me! Retaliates for all the indignities I’ve ever heaped on him.

  Jacques stared at Dominique, who, panting like a dog, seemed unable to comprehend what had transpired.

  Carlo Brose veered toward the rais and managed a shake of his head. He turned back to Jacques.

  “O abominable rival, compound of the base and the noble,” proclaimed Brose, “you and I have pointed the dagger at each other’s hearts for years.” He stabbed roughly with his fingers toward Jacques.

  When the corsairs hooted out their approval, Carlo Brose spun, faced the bulk of them, and flicked his other hand toward Jacques. “Now it seems chance has favored me to be the instrument of this man’s fate.”

  Jacques felt the breath burn out of him.

  Brose tapped the patch on his face. “Great Piccinio Rais, my nose is not so far decayed that I do not sniff a good thing. Jacques Casanova is a free man, and I will presently have ownership of this woman.”

  Jacques seemed to sag with every word Brose spoke.

  Carlo Brose pointed toward Dominique, then took from his pockets two small objects that glinted in the sunshine. He held them, one in each hand, high overhead before presenting them to the Rais. “I now purpose, with these two diamonds,” Brose said, “to ransom this woman. I then purpose to furnish Jacques Casanova this woman as a means to make amends for the wrongs I’ve done him.”

  Jacques gawked at the man who marked the speech.

  “Allah has granted this wisdom,” cried Brose, “and I pray He shall look favorably upon my deed.”

  Loud acclamations rang from the corsairs.

  Dare I believe my ears, thought Jacques? If captain and crew allow Brose’s proposition, Dominique and I will be freed—to be reunited.

  He turned toward Dominique. Her gleaming green eyes told him his hearing was true. He swallowed hard on the lump in his throat.

  Piccinio Rais slapped his hand against the back of Carlo Brose, who nearly collapsed from the blow. Brose then moved unsteadily toward Jacques and, for a long moment, managed a salutation, his fingers against his forehead. “Tired, so tired,” were his drawn-out words as he shambled past toward the ship’s hold.

  ***

  By early afternoon, Piccinio Rais had fed Jacques and Dominique with the best food aboard and allowed them to choose garments from the pile in his cabin. Surrounded by nautical instruments and a number of sea charts, the three relaxed around the captain’s table over their fourth glass of Scopolo wine.

  “So you now know from my own mouth,” Piccinio Rais said, “I was once a citizen of Venice.”

  “And a Christian, n’est-ce pas? Is that so?” Dominique said, her face red with the flush of alcohol.

  “Yes, a Christian,” nodded the rais. “Before Allah lightened my spirit.” Piccionio Rais fixed his bloodshot eyes on Jacques. “But to put a finer point on our previous conversation, I, a son of Venice, heard of a dazzling feat carried out by a certain citizen of that republic. Are you the one, the only man, ever to escape from that infamy called I Piombi, the Leads?”

  Dominique swung her face toward Jacques.

  Elbow on table, chin in hand, Jacques lifted his head and lazily bowed it. “I am he, the one who had the grand misfortune to be out of favor with the Inquisitori de Stato.”

  “You are? You are he?” Piccinio Rais smacked his lips. “Had you confirmed your famous name this morning when I first addressed you, you’d have been paladin of this vessel.”

  “What’s the time?” Jacques asked. “Am I too late for renown?”

  Dominique and the rais laughed.

  The rais pushed a dish of kavurma past Dominique toward Jacques. “I wish you to tell me of your exploit,” he slurred.

  “It’s a long tale,” Dominique warned, “but a worthy adventure. I’ve heard this man’s story, and I wager he has the memory and the wit to do it justice.”

  “This woman is emboldened by the excellent wine, Piccinio Rais. But she’s correct. It’s a lengthy and improbable tale.”

  “But genuine?”

  “Yes.”

  The rais spoke. “I spent, it seems, several hundred years in that prison, Signor Casanova. I ask you—I insist—you share your escape.” He opened both hands in a friendly gesture. “If you recount your deeds, you may expect bounty in return. What is it you desire?”

  “The freedom of all captives aboard this ship.”

  The rais spoke, situating both palms flat on the table. “These hands do not possess that power. Nor would I ask the crew to relinquish the prisoners and the ransom those prisoners will undoubtedly bring. It cannot and will not be done.”

  Jacques waited some time before he again responded.

  “Then find and release my Spanish valet, Petrine. If he still lives. And return my scroll.”

  “The return of your valet,” the rais laughed, “and your scroll piece, both of these are within my power.”

  Dominique pointed at Jacques. “It goes without saying that this man will need his two pistols, his smallswords, and his dagger.”

  “It goes without saying.”

  Dominique smiled.

  “One added thing …” she said as she tipped her chair toward the short man, scooped her hand around her mouth, and leaned to whisper in his ear.

  “Lisbon?” bawled the Captain. “Lisbon!”

  Dominique shook her blonde locks. “Lisbon,” she said. “To further expand the deeds of this adventurer seated next to me. Jacques Casanova, more than other men, requires a life filled with exploits, with secrets, with swordplay, with—”

  “With a French lioness who shares in the same?”

  Jacques caught Dominique’s fine glance.

  “Well, I suppose”—the rais languished on the word suppose—“I suppose I could sail past the coast of Algarve where I first initiated my holy war for Allah.” After the ship swelled up and down, the rais put his hands in his lap. “So if I’m to hear the full tale of I Piombi, we’d better begin, Signor Casanova. We have only till nightfall before we must alter course toward the lovely port of Lisbon. Oh. And y
es, here.” He reached into a small drawer behind him, then handed something to Jacques. “This scroll may lead someone to treasure, but I find the thing taxing. My treasure, I find it on the seas. You understand?”

  Dominique applauded, then looked to Jacques. Her eyes sparkled brightly as she planted her lips on his.

  It was not long before the rais, although clearly enjoying Jacques’ daring story, stopped the teller. “Cavaliere Grimani? You’re sure it was he who sent you to the Leads?”

  “Yes, a Venetian patron of mine confirmed it on his deathbed. Grimani has been a member of the Inquisitori de Stato for many years. His power is immense.”

  The rais fell thoughtful. “So he’s the man who I’ll someday thank in person for a most unforgiving prison experience.” He looked up. “I’m grateful, Signor Casanova. Now please resume your story.”

  ***

  Late that night below decks, Petrine was released to his master. The folds under his eyes hung in dark creases, and stringy hair matted his head.

  “Yes, filthy where they worked me, sir. But I’m little worse the wear for my labors.” Petrine beat lightly upon his chest. “And I have you to thank for my liberty.”

  “You may thank Dominique I’m alive to free you,” Jacques said. “She is, for the moment, safe with the captain. If you’re permitted to move aboveboard, Petrine, find her and offer her your compliments.” Jacques reached for his lantern.

  “You’re staying here below, sir?”

  “Yes, for a time. One of the Turks told me that Carlo Brose holed himself up down here.” Jacques pointed into the darkness of the below deck. “I intend to discover what Brose, weak or not, has in store.” Jacques tapped his dagger, took up his lantern, bent low, and stared into the bowels of the ship. “I’ll find you and Dominique later.”

  “I must go with you.”

  “No, I can manage.”

  “It would be wise if—ˮ

  “I can manage him.”

  “All right, master. But have a care. I still desire to hunt treasure with you.”