Fantino reflected that judging by the man’s name, he ought to be one of the Children of Abraham, yet his broad, flat face suggested that he came from further east, from Cathay and the land of the Tartars where Marco Polo had travelled.
‘Calendario has explained to you?’ the Doge asked. ‘You know my . . . difficulties?’
Israello nodded. When he spoke, his tone was respectful but confident, with a foreign tang that Fantino could not identify. He did not sound like the simple seaman he appeared to be.
‘Indeed, Your Serenity. You feel that the various councils have taken too much power in Venice, leaving you yourself as little more than a figurehead. You have cause for anger.’
Marin Falier let out a snort. His fury of the evening before had abated, but his face was grim and his eyes chilly. ‘It’s your help I want, not your sympathy,’ he snapped. ‘Though what a man like you can do, I fail to see.’
Israello ignored the implied insult, merely giving the Doge a long look from shrewd dark eyes. ‘Ser Filippo tells me you possess many objects from the East,’ he said, easing his way towards the cabinet where Marco Polo’s artefacts were kept.
The Doge’s eyes flared with annoyance at the sudden change of subject. ‘What of it?’ he demanded.
‘There is much wisdom gathered here,’ Israello replied, his gaze devouring the cabinet that held the treasures, its doors firmly closed now. ‘It may be there is something which can help you. May I . . . ?’ He gestured towards the cabinet.
Still looking irritated, Doge Falier snapped his fingers at Aluica. She hesitated, then opened the doors with a small golden key which hung with others from the chatelaine at her girdle.
Israello took in a breath, half wonder, half pure greed. He stepped forward, letting his fingers run lightly over the artefacts, pausing for several moments on the great dragon neck chain, then seizing at last a small book bound in white leather.
Fantino remembered examining that same book when he helped transport the collection to the Doge’s Palace. Its pages were covered with minuscule writing in unfamiliar characters; after one glance he had abandoned all hope of making sense of it. Interspersed with the writing were tiny, delicate pictures, or diagrams just as meaningless as the text. He had dismissed the book as a curiosity, but clearly it meant more to Israello.
‘Well?’ Doge Falier asked, after Israello had perused the book greedily for several moments. He twitched his robe impatiently. ‘Can you make sense of that scribble?’
Israello looked up. ‘No scribble, my lord Doge, but a work of great wisdom. This is none other than the book of Zhang Guo Lao, venerated as immortal by the people of Cathay.’ He caressed the book: a reverent gesture that a priest might have bestowed upon Holy Writ. ‘It is a miracle to find it here.’
‘And what has that to do with me?’ Doge Falier asked, his tone cold and unimpressed.
‘Zhang Guo Lao was a great adept,’ Israello replied. ‘He had many powers. Your people might perhaps call him a sorcerer.’
‘Sorcery!’ Donna Aluica exclaimed, reaching out towards her husband. ‘No!’
Marin Falier ignored her. ‘Go on,’ he said to Israello.
‘There is an elixir,’ Israello continued, ‘coupled with a certain chant, that can infuse into the man who drinks it the spirit of one of the great dragon kings. His power would be unlimited.’
Donna Aluica let out a gasp, and exchanged an alarmed glance with her kinsman Gradenigo. Fantino felt simply bewildered. Like any reasonable man, he knew that sorcery existed, but he found it hard to believe in it here, in the Palazzo Ducale, the home of order and government.
Marin Falier ran his tongue over his lips. There was an avid look in his eyes that disconcerted Fantino. ‘You can prepare this . . . elixir?’ he asked Israello.
The so-called seaman ran his hand once more over the book. ‘With this, I can.’
‘And will you?’
Israello gave the Doge a measured look from those shrewd dark eyes. ‘What if I say yes? Will I be indicted for sorcery, handed over to the Lords of Night?’ His gaze flicked across the others in the hall. ‘Will the members of your household here keep their mouths shut?’
‘They will do as I tell them,’ Doge Falier retorted. ‘No one is trying to trap you. I give you my word. And if you can do what you promise, I will reward you richly.’
Israello nodded slowly. ‘Then I will do so.’
Donna Aluica opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it again, shaking her head helplessly.
‘How will you proceed?’ the Doge asked.
‘I must buy ingredients,’ Israello replied. ‘And I need a room where I can work.’
‘I’ll find him somewhere,’ Calendario said, stepping forward with a brisk nod towards the Doge.
‘Good.’ Marin Falier waved his hand. ‘Begin . . . and work quickly.’
The two men bowed and withdrew, while the Doge swung around and strode off through the opposite door leading to his private rooms.
Aluica took a pace after him, then turned back and grasped Fantino’s arm. ‘Follow Israello!’ she whispered.
Fantino nodded swiftly and hurried after the two men. He ran down the stair and almost cannoned into his quarry where they had halted at its foot. Hanging back, Fantino could not hear what they said, but saw them shake hands. Then Calendario joined his workmen while Israello made his way out onto the quayside.
Following discreetly, Fantino saw him heading not for the markets of the Rialto, where he could expect to find his ingredients, but along the waterside towards the Arsenale. He moved swiftly and purposefully; clearly he had no idea that anyone might be pursuing him.
With the walls of the Arsenale in sight, Israello stopped suddenly and plunged into a tavern: Il Galeone, a low pot-house for sailors. Fantino knew of it but had never been inside.
As he cautiously entered, the reek of ale and sour wine hit him in the throat. Even at this hour of the morning the tavern was packed and at first he could not see Israello. Wriggling his way through the crowd, uncomfortably aware that he was too finely dressed to blend in among the seamen and artisans, he finally spotted Israello in one corner, in close conversation with two sailors.
Edging closer, unwilling to be seen, Fantino at last reached a spot where he could hear the men’s voices. The noise all around him was too loud for him to catch more than a few words, or to gather what they were talking about, but one thing he could be sure of. The two sailors were speaking in the accents of the Genoese.
*
The war with Genoa had been rumbling on for years. As Fantino retraced his steps to the Palazzo Ducale, he had no idea what to do. The presence of Genoese in Venice should be reported to the authorities but, Fantino reflected uneasily, he had no proof. And his uncle the Doge, in his present mood, would likely see the accusation as an attempt to discredit Bertuccio Israello.
As he approached the palazzo, Fantino spotted Giovanni Gradenigo on his way out. Vastly relieved, Fantino hurried to intercept him, and poured out the story of what he had seen and heard at Il Galeone.
‘What do you think I should do?’ he asked.
The older man shook his head. ‘I see your difficulty,’ he said. ‘The Doge will not believe you when he is set on using Israello. You might speak to one of the Heads of the Council of Ten—’ He held up a hand as Fantino was about to protest. ‘No, I can see that no sensible man would willingly tangle with them.’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘What I would advise, young man, is for you to post an accusation through the Lion’s Mouth. The Council will be alerted, but you will not be involved.’
Fantino thought that over. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Ser Giovanni.’
Returning to his own rooms, Fantino took pen and parchment and – careful to disguise his handwriting – wrote a brief denunciation of Bertuccio Israello for trafficking with the Genoese.
He returned to the Palazzo Ducale later in the evening, after Calendario’s workmen had finished for
the day and gone home. No one was about as he thrust his denunciation into the gaping jaws of the stone lion, but even so he felt a pang of nervousness. Legend said that those jaws would close on the hand of anyone who posted a lie, crushing and rending.
But I know what I saw, he told himself. Israello is a traitor to the Republic.
*
Three days went by, while Fantino fretted and nothing happened. The lion might as well have eaten his parchment, for all the effect it had. Now and again he spotted Israello around the Palazzo Ducale where he was compounding his elixir; he seemed quite confident, nodding courteously when his path crossed with Fantino’s.
On the fourth day, a message from Donna Aluica summoned Fantino back to the ducal apartments. Israello, it seemed, had finished his elixir. Please come quickly, the lady had written, a blot on the parchment evidence of her haste. Perhaps you can persuade my lord from this disastrous course.
A servant was waiting in the Sala del Scudo to conduct Fantino into the Doge’s private apartments. He was shown into a small room used by the Doge as a study, though now it was cleared of furniture except for the shelves around the walls, stuffed full of scrolls, books and papers. The window shutters were closed and the only light came from a single taper, and the glowing charcoal of a brazier standing in one corner. A copper bowl was set there; some liquid bubbled inside it, giving off an aromatic steam which wreathed around the room, so that Fantino saw everything through a mist.
The Doge was already there, dressed in his robes of state, with his cap of office on his head. Israello was stationed in front of him, holding a closed cup. In the far corner Donna Aluica and Giovanni Gradenigo stood close together, their uneasiness evident on their faces.
‘Thank God you’ve come!’ Gradenigo exclaimed as Fantino entered. ‘Perhaps you can talk some sense into Ser Marin. He won’t listen to us.’
Before Fantino could reply, the Doge swung round on him with a savage expression. ‘Not a word!’ he snarled. ‘I will do this!’
Fantino made a helpless gesture as Israello stepped forward and took the lid off the cup. ‘Drink this slowly, my lord Doge,’ he said, ‘while I speak the words. The spirit of the dragon king will come to reside within you.’
‘Are you mad?’ Gradenigo asked hoarsely as the Doge reached out to take the cup. ‘That could be poison!’
‘The elixir is harmless,’ Israello said, withdrawing the cup from the Doge’s stretching fingers. He seemed undisturbed by the accusation. ‘But if it will quiet your mind, I will drink some of it myself.’
He raised the cup to his lips and took a swig, then bowed mockingly towards Gradenigo. ‘Satisfied?’
Gradenigo had no more to say. Israello handed the cup to the Doge, then took up the leather-bound book. ‘We begin,’ he said.
Fantino listened, profoundly disturbed as Israello began to recite from the book, his voice a high-pitched, rhythmic chant, the words in no language Fantino had ever heard. At the same moment the Doge began to sip from the cup.
The aromatic steam from the bowl on the brazier seemed to be growing thicker, filling the room until Fantino could scarcely get his breath, and the figures of the Doge and Israello were half hidden in swirling white clouds.
Fantino felt his blood beginning to pulse in time with the chant. At the same time he felt as if something huge was pouring itself into the room, crushing him against the wall, swelling and gathering weight until he was surprised that the door and window did not explode outwards. He heard a fearful cry from where Aluica and Gradenigo still huddled together, almost invisible now through the white smoke.
His senses beginning to dissolve into sparkling blackness, Fantino groped for the door, but before he reached it the chanting came to an end. The crushing sensation vanished between one breath and the next. The white steam began to dissipate.
‘It is done,’ Israello said.
Aluica was white-faced but steady, while Gradenigo pulled out a kerchief and mopped his brow. Fantino felt his legs shaking, and longed for somewhere he could sit down.
The Doge stood silent in the midst of the room, his face blank. Aluica said, ‘My lord?’ but he seemed not to have heard her. Fantino wondered whether the ritual had somehow destroyed his mind.
Then gradually life began to flow back into Doge Falier’s face. He looked down at himself, at his elaborate brocaded robes, as if he had never seen them before. He examined his hands, the palms and the backs, then raised them to his head as if to check that his cap of office was still in place.
‘I am . . . changed.’ His voice sounded like a squeaking wheel that needed grease. ‘I can feel it.’ Turning to Israello, he added, ‘What should I do now?’
‘Whatever you please, my lord,’ Israello said. ‘But I advise you to wait for a few days. The power within you needs time to settle. And you need time to learn how to wield it.’
The Doge nodded. ‘I will take your advice.’ Slowly his voice was returning to normal. ‘And if you speak the truth, you shall have your reward.’
*
For the next few days Fantino felt as if a massive storm cloud was louring over the city. His tension mounted as he waited for the storm to break. But the Doge took no action, and the Council of Ten still ignored the denunciation Fantino had posted through the Lion’s Mouth.
At last, greatly troubled, Fantino sought out the Doge’s chaplain, Father Lorenzo Contarini, and found him at prayer in San Marco, among the shadows where the mosaics glinted gold in the light of candle flames.
As Fantino approached, Father Lorenzo rose, crossed himself, and turned to face him. ‘Ser Fantino.’ He inclined his head. ‘How may I serve you?’
The priest was a small, elegant man, who wore his simple black cassock as if it were a robe of the finest silk and velvet. Fantino felt slightly intimidated in his presence.
‘Father, I am greatly worried about my uncle, the Doge,’ he said.
Father Lorenzo indicated a bench beside the wall, and seated himself there, turning attentively towards Fantino. ‘Go on.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Fantino poured out the story: how Marin Falier had been enraged by the Council’s leniency towards Michele Steno; how in his quest for power he had listened to Israello’s temptation, and had drunk the elixir that he was convinced would arouse the ancient spirit within him.
‘Indeed.’ Father Lorenzo, apparently undisturbed, fingered his pectoral cross. ‘And did the elixir work?’
Fantino was taken aback by a question like that, from a man of God. ‘I can scarcely believe it,’ he replied. ‘But my uncle is . . . changed. In his body he seems stronger, yet his eyes are glazed, and he scarcely speaks, except to rap out orders. He stalks through the palazzo like a vengeful ghost. The servants are terrified of him.’
‘Has he tried to use the power he thinks he has?’ Father Lorenzo asked. ‘For instance, has he tried to countermand the Council’s sentence on Michele Steno?’
Fantino shook his head. ‘It’s as though . . . as though something were working inside him, swelling . . . Something far, far bigger than the punishment of a coxcomb like Steno. Father, I shudder to think what that might be!’
‘So why do you come to me?’ the priest asked. ‘Sorcery is a matter for the Lords of Night, not for the Church.’
‘But you’re his chaplain!’ Fantino protested. ‘Can’t you talk to him?’
Father Lorenzo hesitated, then rose to his feet. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will try.’
*
The sun was setting as Fantino and Father Lorenzo left San Marco and hurried across the Piazzetta to the entrance of the Palazzo Ducale. The water of the lagoon glittered with scarlet light, and shadows already massed among the colonnades.
When they reached the Doge’s apartments, they found Donna Aluica alone there. As the servant showed them in she sprang to her feet, letting fall a length of embroidery, and advanced on Father Lorenzo, her hands held out.
‘I’m so glad to see you, Father!’ she excla
imed. ‘My lord has gone to confront the Council of Ten, to demand the death of Michele Steno.’ Her voice breaking, she added, ‘I think he is mad.’
Father Lorenzo clasped her hands briefly. ‘When he returns, I will see what I can do.’
‘It may be too late.’ Aluica pressed her hands to her face. ‘I have been so afraid that my lord’s rule would come to ruin! Right from the moment when we first returned to Venice from the Papal Court. The sea fog was so thick that our barge could not draw up in its appointed place. Instead, my lord came ashore in a small boat at the Piazzetta. Mist still lay there, so heavy that before he knew it he had stepped between the two columns where criminals are executed. Such an evil omen!’
‘Yet with God’s help we may avert it,’ Father Lorenzo said. ‘If the Doge—’
He broke off at the sound of a door crashing back, somewhere in the outer apartments. It was followed by the Doge’s voice, distant, but raised in a furious roar. ‘Fetch me Bertuccio Israello!’
‘What in God’s name—?’ Fantino muttered.
He led the way towards the sound, with Father Lorenzo and Aluica following. They came up with the Doge in the Sala del Scudo.
To Fantino’s eyes the Doge seemed crazed with fury, worse than the evening when sentence was passed on Michele Steno. His eyes were glazed, he tore at his beard and foam spun away from his lips as he bellowed. ‘Refused! Told it was no affair of mine! I’ll hang that accursed sorcerer . . . where is he?’
Father Lorenzo started forward, begging for calm, but Doge Falier thrust him away; the priest staggered back and would have fallen if Fantino had not steadied him.
A moment later the doors of the hall opened and one of the guards appeared, propelling Bertuccio Israello forward by one shoulder. ‘Here he is, my lord.’
Marin Falier flung himself at the sorcerer, gripping him by the collar and shaking him until his face started to turn blue. ‘You lied to me!’ he snarled.
Israello waved his hands helplessly; his mouth opened and closed but only a choking sound came out of it.
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 12