A Death in the Venetian Quarter

by Alan Gordon

  “Begging your pardon, good Fool,” he gasped. “The excitement and all.”

  “Take your time, good fellow,” I said. “Which room was his?”

  “The middle one in the back,” he said as his breath caught up with him. “We have six rooms on each floor, three in front, three in back. He preferred his privacy, so he chose the one with no view.”

  “What was he so private about, do you think?”

  Vitale shrugged. “It was no business of mine, as long as he paid the rent regular, which he did. Last night, he came home as usual, said good night as he passed me, and turned in. I serve a morning meal here. When he didn’t come down, I went up to get him. I knocked, no answer, knocked louder, still no answer. I thought maybe he went out during the night, but when I tried to push the door open, I found it was still barred from the inside.”

  “Which concerned you.”

  “Of course. I dashed down to the first floor, got a couple of the other tenants, and we ran back up and broke the door in.”

  He pushed it open to reveal a small room, sparsely furnished. A bed was in one corner, the bedclothes scattered. A cedar trunk was in the opposite corner, and a chamberpot was upended nearby. No bottles, plates, cups, any indication of food or drink. There were no windows, and the room stank.

  “I’ll clean the pot up and throw some rushes in before your patron uses it,” Vitale assured me hastily.

  “I should think so,” I huffed. I scanned the room, looking for anything that might be of use. “Where did you find him?”

  “He was in bed, lying on his back, his eyes closed. I wasn’t the first one in the room, one of the others was, but I could see him through the door. I nearly dropped dead myself, had one of my coughing fits with all the excitement and galloping up and down the stairs so many times. I would have said it was a natural death, except when I looked at his face, I saw the pink in it. Never seen anything like it.”

  “Do you think it was murder?” I asked.

  “I think it was witchcraft, to tell you the God’s truth,” he said, his eyes wide.

  I gave the room one more glance, then stepped out. He closed the door behind him, and a thought struck me.

  “You said you broke the door in,” I remarked.

  “Yes, sir. The boys knocked it right off its hinges.”

  I pointed to the hinges, which were whole.

  “What say you to that? And where are the broken pieces of the wooden bar?”

  He looked at me oddly. “Well, sir, since one of my tenants is a carpenter, I had him fix it up as quickly as possible. I want to let the room out by week’s end. And as for the broken pieces, they went into the fire already.”

  “A pity,” I said. “The scene may be too disturbed now for my patron to derive the true sense of mayhem that he requires. Let me ask you this: Did Bastiani receive any visitors here?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you mean, Fool,” he said. “I run a respectable establishment here.”

  “To be sure,” I said. “Perhaps you could direct me to some of the others who saw him? And let me pay you for your pains.” I tossed him a couple of bronze coins which he pocketed quickly.

  “Let’s see, the only one who would be here right now is John Aprenos,” he said. “He rooms with the carpenter on the second floor. He was one of the ones who helped me break the door in.”

  I suspected that Vitale’s shoulder never touched wood during that incident, but I was content to let him make himself part of the story.

  Aprenos was lounging on a pallet, one of two in the middle room facing the front of the building, with a window over the front door. He was drinking and blinked a bit uncertainly when he saw me. Mounted on the wall by him were three spears and a shield.

  “What’s this creature?” he growled.

  “Feste the Fool,” I said.

  “Well, I’m John, the Huntsman,” he replied. “I’ve no need for fooling.”

  “He wants to hear about Bastiani,” Vitale informed him.

  “What for? He’s dead,” said Aprenos, rising unsteadily to his feet. He was a lanky fellow with powerful arms.

  “I’ll leave you with him,” whispered Vitale. “More cleaning to do. Let me know what arrangements need to be made for your patron.”

  “Thank you,” I said. He lumbered down the steps.

  “What’s this to you?” asked Aprenos.

  “Curiosity,” I said. “I search out curious incidents, then recount them to others.”

  “It’s a curious way to make a living,” he said.

  “Precisely,” I replied. “What can you tell me about your late neighbor?”

  “Not much,” he said, scratching his neck. “Kept to himself, didn’t say much, died alone.”

  “Did he ever have any visitors here?”

  “Well,” he said, chuckling. “There was some woman who came by. He would sneak her in, but Tullio and me saw her a few times. That’s the fellow who sleeps in the other pallet. He’s a carpenter. He’s at work.”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “The gates are closed,” he said. “They’re not letting people out until they know what’s happening with that fleet. So much for my living. I’ll have to find some day work until things settle down.”

  “About this woman—would you recognize her if you saw her?”

  “Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “Just some drab from the street as far as I know, never paid her much attention. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “Any idea how he died?”

  “We all thought poison, from the face,” he said. “That color pink’s not a usual color for a man. But neither is white, and here you are.”

  “Here I am,” I agreed. “Any idea who might want him dead?”

  “I didn’t know him that well. I only saw him when we came home at night. You’d be better off asking the other silk merchants.”

  “Fair enough. Would you know where I could find your friend Tullio?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Down at the embolum, finishing up the coffin. Funeral’s tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, friend John. I hope that you hunt again shortly.”

  He waved and returned to his bottle.

  As I came out of the house, I saw a woman, cloaked and veiled, standing at the far end of the alleyway. She started when I came out, and then she vanished off to the right. I ran to the main street and looked for her, but she was gone.

  Probably worth checking out, I thought. A man will tell his mistress many things, even when he’s awake. And if she was a common prostitute, all the better. I know quite a few men who will pay such a woman just to pretend to listen while he talks about himself. But first I would have to find her. I had a few ideas on how to tackle that particular problem.

  In the meantime, there was the embolum. It was a large rectangular building just inside the Porta Viglae, with several silk and leather shops clustered inside the columns of the loggia running along the outside. Inside were storerooms and a large central trading area. On the upper floor were dormitories for visiting sailors and traders.

  Bastiani was laid out in a corner of the central trading area. Business continued as usual in the rest of the room as bolts of silk were passed under the eyes of the traders for inspection, then assigned to different storerooms. The traders were making neat little entries in large leather-bound ledgers, so that the room was filled with tiny scratching noises.

  The coffin was resting atop a pair of sawhorses, and the body was in full view, not so much for the viewing but because the coffin lid had not been prepared yet. Tacked to the wall behind him was a banner depicting the Lion of Saint Mark, made of silk, of course. Next to the coffin, a young, fair-haired man was busy cooking something in a small pot suspended from a tripod over a small brazier. He dipped into the pot a wooden spoon, held it up, and watched a yellowish concoction drip from it. He shook his head irritably and picked up a handful of stale cheese from a nearby table. He sniffed it, grimaced, and tossed it into t
he pot, stirring rapidly.

  “Is it ready to eat yet?” I inquired.

  He glanced at me, noted my makeup.

  “A proper question from a fool,” he replied. “It will never be ready to eat. I’m making glue. Nothing like cheese for glue, you know.”

  “I have had cheese that tasted like glue, so I’m not surprised,” I said. “Are you Tullio?”

  “I am he,” replied the carpenter, turning to a group of pine boards on the ground. “Looking for some juggling clubs? I could turn out as many as you like once I’m done making the lid.”

  “Actually, I was looking for this fellow in the box.”

  “There he is. Friend of yours?”

  “Not really. I was wondering if there was going to be a wake. Perhaps I could provide a little entertainment.”

  “Ah. The fool makes money off the dead.”

  “As does the carpenter,” I replied. “I heard you even fixed a door as part of the deal.”

  “You’ve been to Vitale’s?” he exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

  “Curiosity,” I said. “Bastiani was a neighbor of yours. Did you know him well? I’m looking for some personal information I can work into my tribute.”

  “Not well,” replied Tullio. “He lived upstairs. We said hello in the morning. Sometimes we would walk this way together.”

  He picked up a few boards and laid them lengthwise on the coffin, lining them up until the body was covered. He notched the wood at the point where it hung over the end, then picked up a saw.

  “What do you think killed him?” I asked as he trimmed the edges.

  “No idea,” he said. “There’s murmuring about murder, but I think that’s mostly to save face. If he’s a suicide, he can’t be buried in consecrated ground.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “He’s a merchant,” said Tullio. “If a merchant is murdered, it’s probably over money. If he kills himself, it’s probably for the same reason.”

  “Logical thinking for logical times. But these are strange days at the moment.”

  “True enough,” he agreed, trimming a second board.

  “I heard he had a woman,” I said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your roommate.”

  He laughed. “Was he sober?”

  “Not very.”

  “Poor John. He needs to be galloping through the forest, impaling the poor woodland creatures. He hates being cooped up like this. I’ll have to bring him along with me, get him some work.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “When he drinks only water, he can knock a squirrel off a branch from fifty paces. He’s been called by the Emperor himself, at least when his legs were still good enough to hunt regularly.”

  “Was he right about the woman?”

  “Yes,” said Tullio. “The only one ever to go into Bastiani’s room that I know of. Don’t know her name, but I think she plies her trade by the Forum of Theodosios. Looking for a little female company, Fool?”

  “One can never have enough, friend Carpenter. Now, if you will point me toward the man in charge of the funeral, I will leave you to your labors. I’ll come by about the clubs some happier time.”

  “It may be a while for that to come about,” he said. “The man you want is Andrea Ruzzini. He’s the older man standing by that oaken table.”

  I thanked him and sought out Ruzzini. He was a hale fellow in his fifties, with a good deal of brown left in his beard and hair and with arms and chest powerful enough to suggest he still pitched in with the loading of the bales on occasion. At the moment, he was counting a stack of silver.

  “Begging your pardon, noble sir,” I said when he had finished and made an entry in his ledger.

  “Yes?” he said in a gruff voice.

  “I have come to offer my condolences over the death of your colleague, and my services as well.”

  He looked at me sourly. “We have no need of jesting at a funeral, Fool.”

  “But I am a singer, too. If there is a wake, then I could provide you with the appropriate music for the occasion. I know your city, your language, and your songs quite well.”

  “Our city is here,” he said. “Most of us were born here and grew up speaking Greek before we spoke Venetian.”

  “As you can hear, I speak that language, too. Sir, a proper wake needs music to send the departed to Heaven in the spirit of joy.”

  He looked across the room at the coffin.

  “All right, we might as well,” he said. “He had little joy in his life. Let him at least have some now. Come back later tonight. We’ll be maintaining the vigil here.”

  “And the funeral?”

  He grimaced. “We’re negotiating terms with our protectors. Our cemetery is outside the city walls. They won’t let us bury him unless they have an armed escort to keep us from joining our compatriots on the ships. I think we’ll be able to bury him tomorrow.”

  “Very good, sir. I—”

  But I was interrupted by a boy rushing in yelling, “Come quickly! They’re tearing everything down!”

  People rushed from the room. I followed, curious to see what was happening. The commotion was coming from the other side of the gate.

  A Vigla squadron was pulling down a house by the seawall. The former occupants were standing by piles of furniture and other belongings, watching the activity with forlorn expressions. A captain was standing in front of them, reading from a scroll.

  “All buildings against the outside of the seawall in this quarter are to be torn down,” he proclaimed. “You have one hour to remove all your possessions. After that, we take no responsibility. This is by order of the Emperor Alexios Angelos.”

  The house came crashing down with a splintering of timbers and an eruption of dust. The guards stood back, some of them coughing, then started loading the wreckage onto wagons to cart away.

  Ruzzini stormed up to the captain, his face ruddy. Two of the Vigla drew their swords as a precaution.

  “Captain, this is an outrage!” shouted the merchant. “We are your friends and neighbors. Have we no rights at all?”

  “You shouldn’t have been allowed to build against the walls, anyway,” said the captain. “We have to clear them to defend the city.”

  “But Captain—”

  “Look, Ruzzini, you have no say in this!” shouted the captain. “If you have a problem, take it up with them!”

  He pointed with his sword and the crowd turned and then collectively gasped.

  A ship, a merchantman larger than any floating against the three wharves, had come around the tip of the seawall. Dozens of shields, with all manner of coats of arms painted on them, hung over the sides. The sails were furled, but from the topmast flew the flag of Saint Mark and the emblem of Montferrat, and three banks of oars projected from the hull. As the ship cleared the seawall, another appeared behind it, and another behind that.

  The fleet was surging up the Bosporos.

  THREE

  [They] call themselves Venetikoi; nourished by the sea, they are vagabonds like the Phoenicians and cunning of mind.

  ——NIKETAS CHONIATES, O CITY OF BYZANTIUM

  The great iron chain that stretched from the Galata Tower on the far shore of the Golden Horn to the Eugenios Gate by the Akropolis was slowly raised until it blocked the entrance to the harbor. The Venetians watched it desolately, knowing that their ships and cargoes were trapped inside for the duration of the siege, and their fortunes with them.

  The fleet did not attempt the chain, nor the shore by the tower. It seemed to be heading toward the opposite shore of the Bosporos. As invasion wasn’t imminent, I decided to continue my investigation. I’m not much good at stopping fleets, anyway.

  I first went for religious counsel. This might surprise anyone familiar with my general distrust of established churches, but the particular cleric I sought had his own peculiar expertise. In this city, the Patriarch of the Church was appointed by the emperor. The more c
orrupt the emperor, the more corrupt the Patriarch, and the more corrupt the Patriarch, the more corrupt the Church. And of the two hundred churches scattered across this city, from the grandeur of the Hagia Sophia down to the little two-benches-and-a-cross emporia, the most corrupt was Saint Stephen’s by the River. It was from this husk of a church that Father Esaias spun his webs.

  Few had seen his face. I was one of the few, and I didn’t care to repeat the experience. He hid it beneath a simple cowl and lived in a luxurious apartment concealed within the crypts beneath the church. A small cadre of padres surrounded him, each more deadly than the next. The depredations of the rich and powerful occupy a rarefied world of their own, but the commonplace crime that afflicted the rest of us was Esaias’s bailiwick. He had a piece of almost every act of extortion, theft, prostitution, fraud, and smuggling in the city. And that was his good side. He had no enemies that anyone knew about. At least, not for long.

  When Aglaia and I had first arrived in the city, we had struck an alliance with him—one of necessity more than desire, but it had proved mutually advantageous on more than one occasion, so it continued. Fortunately, the goals of the Fools’ Guild did not generally butt into the business of the underworld, so there was no need for us to challenge each other. Not that we thought there never would be such an occasion, but so far, so good.

  The house of worship was on the west bank of the Lycos river, which entered the city from the northwest and was more or less sucked dry before it could reach the sea. It was a medium-sized brick church, with no distinguishing features except the sense of menace it projected over an already menacing neighborhood.

  Father Theodore was standing inside the entrance, watching me approach. A burly man with no discernible expression on his face, he was a fearsome swordsman. He wore one sword openly outside his cassock today. I expected that he had some smaller weapons concealed inside, but I had never put that theory to the test and never wanted to.

  “Good afternoon, Father,” I said. “How’s business?”