by Alan Gordon
“A bit busy at the moment, Feste,” he replied. “You wish to see Father Esaias?”
“If he could spare a moment, I would be most grateful.”
“You know the way,” he said, and he stood aside to let me pass.
I descended the stone steps to the crypts and approached an altar. I stood before a screen on which Saint Stephen looked benignly at me. I tapped lightly on it. Saint Stephen looked at me with one painted eye and one real one. I crossed myself piously. The real one winked, and the screen slid aside.
Father Melchior was on the other side. He greeted me warmly and motioned me over to a cushioned chair.
“Good to see you, Feste,” he said. “Father Esaias will be here shortly. He’s hearing confessions.”
I heard a slap and a muffled yelp from another room. Melchior glanced in its direction.
“That fellow should be confessing soon,” he observed.
“I hope his sins were not too grievous,” I said.
“His penance should be purely monetary. Wine while you’re waiting?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Father Esaias came in and plunged his bony hands into a basin.
“He is forgiven, Father Melchior,” he said, scrubbing hard until there was no trace of blood. “Get him cleaned up and send him on his way.”
“Yes, Father,” said Melchior, and he left the room.
“My apologies, Fool,” said Father Esaias as he dried his hands on a towel. “There is panic in the air today. I have to administer reassurances.” He sat in a chair opposite mine and poured himself some wine. “Business or social?” he asked.
“Business, I’m afraid,” I replied. “I’m looking for a prostitute.”
“I can refer you to several. What did you have in mind?”
“It’s not for me, it’s for a friend.”
He snorted.
“Perhaps you’ll tell me what you really want,” he said.
“A silk merchant by the name of Bastiani was poisoned last night in the Venetian quarter. He had been known to receive visits from a young lady who normally works the Forum of Theodosios. I’d like to talk to her.”
“As would I,” he said sharply. “The ladies of that forum aren’t allowed to make private calls. Either she’s one of ours and she’s working on the side, or she’s a competitor. And I dislike competitors. What does she look like?”
“I got a glimpse of her, I think, but she was cloaked and veiled.”
“That doesn’t sound like one of ours,” he said. “Their wares are usually on display at all times.”
“Maybe at the forum, but not for private visits?”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But you’ve given me little to go by. I’ll drop a word and see what turns up. Forgive me if it isn’t my main concern at the moment.”
“I understand completely, and I thank you for any help. And please let me talk to her before you begin disciplining her.”
“Why does this merchant concern you?”
“Anything Venetian concerns me. What do you think of the present state of the world?”
He shrugged. “We will act according to how the situation develops. What goes on in Blachernae? You were there this morning, weren’t you?”
“Confusion and blame. No coherent course of conduct, yet. Normally, no sane army would attempt these walls, but given the disarray of the Empire, the Crusaders might have a chance.”
“Are you still friendly with that Varangian captain?”
“Henry? Yes.”
He put his goblet down with a thud.
“In our own way, we are as patriotic as any faction in this city,” he said. “Tell him that we can’t help him outside the walls. We’re no good on open plains where stealth is not a strength. But if the walls are breached and the foreigners brave the alleys, they will find them as deadly as any terrain they have ever encountered. We will guarantee that.”
“I’ll pass it along,” I said. “Whence comes this loyalty?”
“If the Crusaders win, they take the traditional three days of looting,” he said. “That won’t affect our holdings—we’ve already moved our wealth away for safety. But if they steal from the rest of the city, that cuts into our future prospects.”
“And, as you said, you dislike competitors.”
“Precisely. Go in peace, my son.” He raised his hands in blessing. As it was meant sincerely, I thanked him and departed.
And yet, I did not feel especially blessed.
I hurried home to rejoin my fellow fools. Aglaia was already there, preparing the meal. Rico arrived soon after, and Plossus last of all, somersaulting through the window.
“Food,” he cried. “I have had a hard day of counting. It has made me hungry.”
“Counting ships makes you hungry?” wondered Aglaia as she placed a bowl of stew in front of him. “That’s strange. Counting sheep makes me sleepy.”
“I have been counting ships that are shipping counts,” said Plossus. “Along with earls, knights, and all the rabble they’ve brought along to do the real dying.”
“We heard there were two hundred in the fleet,” said Rico.
“A gross exaggeration,” said Plossus. “There are a hundred and ninety-seven. Forty of the big transports, a hundred horse transports, and the rest galleys. It took most of the day for them to pass by the city. What a glorious sight they made! The knights on the ships hung their shields over the sides just to flash their colors at the Greeks. People were bringing blankets and baskets of food to the Akropolis to spend the day watching them.”
“What were the people saying about it?” I asked.
“Lot of disbelief, nervousness. No one seemed to have heard the fleet was coming until they saw it, so they are wondering about how prepared the Emperor is to face it. Everyone is confident that the walls will hold, but they are a little distressed that there was no local navy opposing the invasion.”
“Did the boy Alexios’s name come up?”
“Not once. I guess Blachernae’s done a thorough job of suppressing that bit of information from the rest of the city. Other than that, there was little hostility, little uproar. A couple of archers in the Varangian Guard loosed a couple of arrows from the seawall, but it looked more like they were betting on the distance than actually trying to hit anything. The fleets too far away.”
“Any sign from our people?”
“I heard some singing from the Eagle, but couldn’t make out what it was. Probably Tantalo—it was the first ship up the straits, a real monster, and it was flying mostly Venetian colors.”
“Yes, I saw it when it passed the Golden Horn,” I said. “Good work, lad. What’s happening with the Emperor?”
“Agitation, in a word,” said Rico. “He wanted no distraction from me. He wouldn’t even make time for that Egyptian minx, which is unheard of. She sat by the throne and pouted prettily, but he’s called for his horse and armor and sent for the Ikon of the Virgin from the Church of the Theotokos.”
“He means to ride?” exclaimed Aglaia. “He can barely walk on those legs.”
“He’s afraid,” said Rico. “He mutters about God’s revenge upon him for what he did to his brother. He’s lashing out at all of his generals and advisors. It’s not exactly inspiring.”
“He should let the battle come here,” said Plossus. “If the army goes after the Crusaders, they’ll be spread too thin.”
“Strategic, but not popular,” I said. “If the people don’t see some active pursuit soon, they’ll turn against him.”
“That’s what the Emperor says,” said Rico. “He’s talking about sending a delegation to the Crusaders, but he’s waiting to see where they land first.”
“Something we need to know as well. And the Empress?”
“Consulting astrologers, as usual,” said Aglaia. “She’s taking the invasion as a personal affront after all the hard work she’s done quashing unfavorable omens.”
“She shouldn’t take it so hard,” protested Rico. “She did her be
st. There’s hardly a statue left unmutilated in the entire city, thanks to her.”
“Nevertheless, she’s upset. Most of all, because she fears the Empire will fall before she’s finished remarrying off her daughters.”
“Not to mention the fact that two of them could end up widows,” I commented. “Palaiologos and Laskaris are going to be right in the thick of battle if it gets that far. You marry your daughters to generals, you take your chances.”
“There’s that,” agreed Aglaia. “But at least the first two daughters are married right now. And Palaiologos is claiming his old leg injury is acting up, which may prevent him from going to war.”
“Convenient,” laughed Rico.
“And there’s a bit of a scandal brewing with the third daughter,” Aglaia continued.
“What’s little Evdokia done to disgrace the family now?” asked Plossus.
“There is no one capable of disgracing that family,” said Rico.
“She’s fallen for a married man,” said Aglaia.
“Not for the first time,” said Rico.
“No, but this one’s in prison.”
“Ouch,” I said. “That doesn’t sound promising. Criminal or political?”
“Political, I think. Alexios threw him in a few years ago for the usual suspicions of conspiracy. Evdokia met him while making the charitable rounds, and now her charity has narrowed considerably in its scope. All of which has nothing to do with the Crusade, but it’s what occupies Euphrosyne’s attention while her world is being destroyed.”
“All right,” I said. “For the moment, we watch and wait. Rico, you should drop hints to Alexios about paying the Crusaders off whenever you deem it appropriate. Aglaia, do the same with Euphy. I don’t know how much contact she’ll be having with her husband, but you never can tell when she’ll pop into the throne room and start haranguing him. Plossus, keep sounding out the factions, see if the wind starts changing. If the people get up in arms about the current Emperor, I want to know about it immediately.”
“And while we do all this, you will be doing what?” asked Aglaia.
“I’ve been roped into a little investigation for Philoxenites,” I said. “Plossus, you know the Venetian quarter better than I do. Ever hear of Camilio Bastiani?”
“Silk merchant,” he replied immediately. “Nothing unusual about him. Kind of a quiet fellow.”
“He just got a lot quieter,” I said. “Someone poisoned him.”
“Really? When was this?”
“Last night. Philoxenites said he was his informant on the quarter and his link to the fleet.”
“Always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” mused Plossus. “Well, that’s news to me, but no surprise, I suppose. The eunuch has informants everywhere, they say. He thinks someone from the quarter did it?”
I filled them in briefly on what I had learned.
“And why, pray tell, does this concern us?” asked Rico.
“When I find out, I’ll let you know,” I said. “In the meantime, I’m going to the wake tonight, and then I’m going to get rid of the outfit and makeup and show up at the funeral.”
“Disguised as a common human,” sighed Aglaia. “Oh, well, go ahead. Abandon your wife and child-to-be. I knew this marriage would have days like these.”
“Want me to go with you?” asked Plossus.
“Not just yet. Too many fools might alert the murderer.”
“Too few fools could get you killed,” pointed out Rico.
“I’ve worked alone before, and I haven’t been killed yet,” I said, picking up my lute.
“You never manage to succeed in reassuring me, you know?” said Aglaia, smiling brightly. She came over and kissed me.
“Until tomorrow night, everyone,” I said, and went back into the night.
The night patrols were out enforcing curfew, but I had all manner of documents from various imperial sources allowing me safe passage. We all did, justified by so many late nights entertaining others. The gates to the Venetian quarter were heavily guarded tonight. More to keep the Venetians in than to keep anyone else out, I supposed. The captain himself came out to verify my legitimacy, but we knew each other, so it was no ordeal.
“Someone having a party in the middle of all this?” he asked. “Some cheek if you ask me.”
“A wake, as it happens,” I said. “I’m making mournful music for a murdered merchant.”
“A wake, is it?” he said, looking uneasily through the gate. “There will be many more of those in the next few days. You’ll be a busy fool, Feste.”
“Any idea who killed him?”
“Don’t know anything about it. Our jurisdiction stops right here.”
He opened the gate for me and I went through.
“Have a nice wake!” he called after me, and the gate clanged shut behind me.
Though night had fallen, the Venetians were out, gathering in small clumps at the street corners, drinking in the taverns and casting baleful glances at the seawalls. There was a constant muttering in the air, a resentful flurry of words that swirled through the alleys and thudded into the piles of furniture brought in from the houses that had been torn down earlier that day.
I caught my share of stares, wandering the streets in my whiteface. Some actually shuddered as they turned and caught sight of me, making a ghost of me in their minds before realizing it was only Feste, that drunken madcap. I unslung my lute, tuned it, and started strumming as I walked along, warning the unwary so that they need not fear my approach. And in this manner I reached the embolum.
There were several men inside, ranging from some in their teens to a pair of graybeards who chatted quietly with Ruzzini. Tullio was not there, but his handiwork remained with the remains, the finished lid resting against the wall by the coffin. There were a dozen candles surrounding the late merchant, the light flickering across his face, glinting off the coins someone had placed over his eyes. Christian or not, some old traditions carried on.
I nodded at Ruzzini, who pointed to a small bench in the corner. I sat down unsteadily, nearly falling, then took a swig from a small wineskin. I saluted the ensemble, then began to play quietly.
Venetian tunes were largely about traveling the seas, sailing to distant lands to seek your fortune, sometimes never to return. They provided an apt metaphor for death, the last voyage. I selected the more sentimental ones, hoping the combination of the tunes and the occasion would steer the mourners toward the melancholy and the maudlin. And that seemed to work. Some of the older fellows became wistful, even weepy, as they sipped their wine and gazed at the Venetian flag hanging on the wall behind the coffin. I was hoping that someone might say something revealing when a blond young man with barely enough fuzz to call a beard stormed up to confront me.
“Enough, Fool!” he commanded angrily. “That music meant nothing to Bastiani. Do not sully the honor of Venice by playing it in his presence.”
“I beg your pardon, kind sir,” I said, slurring my words a little. “I meant no offense. What shall I play?”
“Play something Greek,” he spat. “He cared more for Byzantium than he did for us.”
“Hold your tongue, Signor Viadro,” said Ruzzini sharply. “You dishonor the dead.”
“He had no honor in life,” retorted Viadro. “Why should he have it now?”
“Peace, Domenico,” said another man, a dark-haired fellow of about thirty with a quiet authority to his mien. “He wasn’t flawless in life, but who is? You go too far. Bastiani was one of us, and we will treat him according to our traditions.”
“Traditions, Ranieri?” said Viadro, mockingly. “Our Venetian way of life? I was born and raised here. I’ve been to Venice once in my existence, and I honor it more than any of you true Venetians who travel back and forth and know its every bridge and canal by heart. All you do is for the sake of expediency. Placate the Greeks while they tear down our homes and lock us within these walls within walls. That’s what Bastiani did, and what did it get him? Murdered
in his bed.”
“He was murdered?” I gasped, looking stupidly at the youth.
“Quiet, Fool, I wasn’t speaking to you,” snapped Viadro.
“What are you saying, Domenico?” asked Ranieri softly. “That the Greeks killed him? Those are dangerous thoughts right now.”
“All thinking is dangerous to you,” retorted Viadro. “The times are dangerous, and the time for thinking is past. Venice knocks at our gates. Shall we tell Venice we’re at home, or hide behind the gates and hope they give up and go away?”
“They are across the water, and we are here,” said Ranieri. “The Greeks have their mercenaries and outnumber us forty to one. And silk makes poor armor as far as I’m concerned.”
“It isn’t the quality of the armor, it’s the strength of the arm that makes the army,” declared Viadro, holding his arm up and flexing it. He was powerfully built. I would have lost to him in a second if strength were what mattered.
“You’re too headstrong, boy,” pronounced Ruzzini. “You speak as if you could take on anything outside this quarter. You’re too young to remember how it used to be here. We are completely at their mercy while we live within these walls. You weren’t here in ‘71. Those of us who were could tell you how quickly the Greeks could turn on us. The entire quarter imprisoned on the whim of an emperor. All our goods confiscated. They didn’t have enough prisons to hold us, so they put us anywhere, in rootcellars, warehouses, church crypts. Many of our people died in those crypts. Thirty years ago, and the Greeks still haven’t finished making reparations. Do you want to bring all of that back down upon us again?”
He mopped his brow after making this speech. Viadro fumed, but remained silent. One of the graybeards came over to take his arm, but he shrugged it off and retreated to the safety of a bottle.
I played on, late into the night. The graybeards were asleep first. Then Viadro went, having expended his energy in speech and then dousing it with wine. Others followed as the candles around the coffin burned down to nothing.
Eventually, my hands slipped off the lute, my eyes closed, my body sagged against the wall, and I began to snore lightly. The routine has fooled people on more than one occasion, and this proved to be no exception.