‘My lord, let him speak,’ said Father Lorenzo.
The Doge released Israello, who fell to his knees, gasping and massaging his throat. ‘My lord, I spoke the truth,’ he said at last. ‘But the dragon spirit within you has not come to its full strength. It is sometimes so with men whose own spirit is strong.’
Doge Falier aimed a kick at the cringing man. ‘More lies! Take him to the prison,’ he ordered the guard.
‘No!’ Israello exclaimed. ‘My lord, listen to me . . . there is another way.’
Marin Falier hesitated for a moment, then waved a hand at the guard. ‘Get out. Stay within call.’
When the man had withdrawn, Israello staggered to his feet and stumbled over to the cabinet that held the Oriental treasures. ‘Please, my lady, open it,’ he said to Aluica.
Donna Aluica glanced at her husband, who gave her a curt nod. When she had unlocked the doors, Israello took up the great silver neck chain with its engraved dragons and held it out to the Doge.
‘If you wear this, my lord, it will enhance your powers.’
‘Oh, don’t—’ Aluica began, with an anguished glance at Father Lorenzo, but the Doge silenced her with a glare.
He took the chain from Israello and laid it across his shoulders. As he settled it in place, the plaques, finely articulated, clashed softly, as if the chain were a sentient thing, taking the Doge into its embrace.
The Doge seemed to stand taller. His eyes closed for a moment and he raised his hands, palms upwards, as if he received something from above.
Suddenly disconcerted, Fantino started towards him, but the Doge whirled away from him and headed out of the door, past the startled guard and down the stair leading to the courtyard. The others followed, Aluica clinging to the arm of the priest.
Doge Falier did not halt until he stood on the quayside. A few lurid, blood-red streaks still showed in the sky, but clouds were massing across the lagoon, blotting out the silhouette of San Giorgio across the channel. They mounted higher in the sky, seeming to reach out threatening arms towards the city, and a wind rose, fluttering the surface of the sea.
Most of the boats were tied up for the night, and the few people along the quayside were hurrying for home, though a few of them stopped to stare at the sight of their Doge and his lady, divested of their state robes and so sparsely attended.
Thunder rumbled across the sky. Within moments the clouds had swallowed up the last of the light. The wind suddenly strengthened, striking the quayside like the blow from a gigantic hand. Rain crashed down; Fantino and the others were instantly drenched, and the last of the gawping citizens scuttled for cover.
Amidst the turmoil of sky and sea the Doge stood like a rock, his back to the lagoon. His arms were outstretched. His white hair and beard were whipped to and fro in the wind as if they were living snakes. His face showed pure ecstasy.
Struggling to stand upright, Fantino saw with growing horror that the plates of the neck chain were beginning to glow with an incandescent silver light, outlining the dragon forms more clearly. As the light grew it spread across the body of the Doge until he was outlined in silver fire.
Water lapped around Fantino’s feet and he looked down to see it bubbling up between the paving stones. His cry of alarm was drowned by a shriek from Israello.
‘Look! The lagoon!’
Fantino followed the direction of his pointing finger to see a growing darkness in the distance, blacker than the clouds and mounting higher and higher into the air. At the same time he realised that waves were surging up and over the quayside.
Israello had retreated until he stood with his back pressed against one of the columns of the colonnade. ‘The Dragon of the West!’ he gasped. ‘The spirit of water!’
Then Fantino realised that the swelling darkness was a wave, mounting higher still as it raced across the lagoon, ready to engulf the city. Terror gushed through him, fierce as the storm.
‘We’ll drown!’ he cried. ‘Everything . . . swept away!’
Father Lorenzo stepped forward, his soaked cassock clinging to his body, his face white and desperate. He stood in front of the Doge and raised his pectoral cross.
‘In the name of the Lord Christ!’ he commanded. ‘Come out of him!’
At the same moment Donna Aluica darted past him, grabbed the neck chain that still pulsed with silver light and dragged it over her husband’s head. The light died as she cast it down onto the paving stones.
A vast shape erupted from the Doge’s body: a dragon with jaws gaping wide and its wings extended to cover the city. Green lightning danced over its scales and across the membrane of its wings. Its jaws gaped and it let out a bellow from deep within its chest; thunder answered it from the sky.
The Doge collapsed, and Donna Aluica crouched beside him, crying out his name as she raised his head.
In front of the dragon, small and indomitable, Father Lorenzo stood with his pectoral cross still held against it.
‘Lord Christ, help us!’ he cried.
Lightning branched and crackled across the sky. Out of it, as if the vault of Heaven had split open, came the winged lion of San Marco, plunging down the sky in a flurry of golden light. Its eyes blazed incandescent, fixed on the dragon, and its glittering claws reached out to crush its enemy.
A blast of foetid air wafted over Fantino as the dragon beat its wings and hurled itself into the air to meet the challenge of the lion. The two creatures clashed above the quayside; gripping claws locked them together as they mounted into the sky. Their outlines grew smaller; gold and green light seemed to coalesce as Fantino strained to see the combat.
Lion and dragon together shrank to a glittering point, a single jewel pinned against the darkness. Then from the mote of light a golden flash blasted across the sky, a moment of luminescence from horizon to horizon.
Fantino closed his eyes tight against the brilliance. When he opened them again he saw the lion, pacing downwards as if on a giant stairway until it stood with forepaws on the quayside and its hindpaws on the sea. It stretched out its wings over the rooftops of the city, a gesture of protection and blessing. Then it faded, leaving twilight and a sky where stars were beginning to emerge.
The vast wave had disappeared and one last surge slopped over the quayside before the sea grew quiet. The wind died and the lashing rain dwindled to a few spatters.
Fantino looked around. Israello was huddled beside the pillar as if he had fainted. Father Lorenzo still stood looking out across the sea, shaking with exhaustion, his eyes filled with wonder. The only sound was Aluica’s sobbing as she sat on the quayside and cradled her husband’s head in her lap.
*
I wrote the last few words and tossed the pen aside, staring across my desk at Fantino Falier. Creating a logical narrative from his incoherent stumbling had sorely tried my patience.
Earlier that evening Doge Falier’s head had been cut off at the top of the stairway where he had taken his oath as doge less than a year before. His mind had gone; he could only whimper and express his guilt. Grief for what he had been weighed heavy on me. After an outstanding career in the service of the Republic, his short dogate and this black day – 17 April 1355 – would forever be stamped with infamy in the annals of Venice.
‘I hope you don’t expect me to believe this farrago,’ I said to Fantino.
He sat upright with a look of alarm. ‘Father Lorenzo?’
‘Oh, come, Ser Fantino. Do you really believe I am so stupid?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Fantino retorted. ‘I have told you the truth.’
‘And I’m the Archangel Gabriel.’
I rested my elbows on the table and my chin on my hands, taking a certain mild pleasure in the young man’s discomfiture. ‘It was a coincidence, was it not,’ I began, ‘that Filippo Calendario happened to know the man who could make use of the magical artefacts that Doge Falier happened to possess? At the very time when Doge Falier had need of him? Such an unlikely conjunction! I believe
that someone plotted with Calendario to seek out not a sorcerer, but a charlatan who could deceive the Doge, making use of his Oriental collection. And who could that man have been but you, Ser Fantino?’
‘That’s nonsense!’ Fantino protested, but there was a note of fear beneath his bluster. ‘I told you . . . the elixir . . .’
I shrugged. ‘Some herbal brew, no doubt. Immaterial, since its purpose – along with the aromatic smoke and the chanting – was to persuade the Doge that he was infused with a power greater than mortal. I doubt that the ritual was as spectacular as you made it sound.’
Fantino was looking more dismayed with every word I spoke. ‘But the dragon!’ he protested. ‘You were there – you saw!’
‘I did. And I saw Israello’s face when the spirit manifested itself. He was utterly astonished and terror-stricken. For the dragon chain was truly magical, and it needed no sorcerer to call up its power. Only a receptive mind, as Doge Falier’s was . . . thanks to your manipulation. If you call upon evil, believe me, Fantino, it will come.’
‘I still don’t know why you’re blaming me,’ Fantino said, tossing back his hair with a petulant gesture.
‘Then let me explain,’ I continued, knowing now that I had struck gold. ‘You never expected true magic. So you needed to explain it, to establish why Israello should call up a spirit to destroy the city. And so you fabricated his meeting with the Genoese. Really – enemy sailors conspiring openly in a crowded tavern like Il Galeone? They would have been torn to pieces. You may or may not have lied about your conversation with Gradenigo, but you posted no denunciation through the Lion’s Mouth. A Genoese conspiracy, and the Council of Ten did nothing?’
There was no response but a black look from Fantino.
‘If you truly believed that Israello was conspiring with the Genoese, why did you not denounce him to your uncle?’ I went on. ‘You could have destroyed Israello and saved your Doge with a few words. But those words were never spoken.’
‘He would never have listened to me,’ Fantino said sulkily.
‘He might have. Marin Falier was no fool. And a truly loyal man would at least have tried. No, all that part of your story is just a little embroidery to blacken Israello and perhaps the Doge too, for listening to him.’
Fantino crossed his arms, hunching down lower in the chair. ‘So you say . . .’ he muttered.
‘And there is more. When I went to visit Calendario and Israello in prison, to bring them the comfort of the last rites, I was denied. That lies heavy on my heart. And yesterday, when they were hanged between the red columns on the balcony of the Palazzo Ducale, they had gags in their mouths. Was that your order? What might they have said if they had been allowed to speak?’
‘And why did I do all this?’ Fantino asked, summoning a reserve of bravado. ‘What do I benefit from destroying my uncle?’
‘Ah, that is the question.’ I sat back and looked at Fantino. He was past his first youth, and his self-indulgence showed in his pallid complexion and pouchy face. I even found it in my heart to pity him a little. He had lived long in the shadow of a great man. ‘Why should you plot to have your uncle indicted for sorcery . . . or his mind destroyed by the practice of it? But I think I can explain that, too. Did Gradenigo pay you well?’
‘What?’ Fantino half started from his chair and then flopped back.
‘He will probably be our next Doge, after all. And like your uncle he is an old man. Does he feel his time is running out?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Fantino said.
‘Or if I give Gradenigo the benefit of the doubt, what of Donna Aluica? She is a very beautiful woman, and in spite of Michele Steno’s scurrilous allegations, I believe her to be virtuous. Did you feel you might win her if your uncle were out of the way?’
That arrow had gone home. Fantino glared at me, and I saw his hand move towards the dagger at his belt, but he had the sense not to draw it.
‘Prove it!’ he said savagely.
‘Oh, I think I could cast enough doubt on your tale to interest the Council of Ten,’ I told him. ‘The missing denunciation would take some explaining away. And a session in the Court of the Rope might take care of the rest.’
Fantino’s face was pale as dough; he looked as if he might be sick. ‘No . . .’ he whispered.
I paused, for long enough to let the images of torture fix themselves in his mind. ‘No,’ I said at last, suppressing a sigh. Though I was convinced to my own satisfaction that Fantino had plotted against his uncle, I could not summon the certainty that would let me accuse him to the Council. Besides, the name of Falier had been dragged through enough mud, and to reveal the truth would cause unrest among the people. ‘Marin Falier consented to his own ruin when he agreed to take the dragon spirit into himself,’ I continued. ‘Calendario and Israello deserved to die, for conspiring with you to destroy him. Your death would serve no purpose. But I warn you, Fantino’ – I leaned forward – ‘if you involve yourself in more plotting, or if you make one move towards Donna Aluica, I shall take what I know to the Council of Ten. Now get out.’
Fantino’s chair scraped against the floor as he levered himself to his feet. He let out a curse as he blundered from the room.
I looked after him, wondering whether I was right, or whether he was indeed the simple, somewhat incompetent man that he would like me to believe. Pure terror could have prompted his near confession. But whatever the truth, I have drawn his fangs. I hope that now his name will be no more than a footnote in the books of history.
*
As I finished this commentary, the door of my study opened and Giovanni Marcello, one of the three Heads of the Council of Ten, strode in.
Without greeting me, Ser Giovanni seized the pages of Fantino’s story and shuffled them into order. While he was thus occupied, I discreetly slid the account of my recent conversation underneath a book.
Marcello’s face darkened as he read; at last he looked up. ‘What is the purpose of writing this down?’ he asked.
‘I must send a report to the Holy Father,’ I told him.
Ser Giovanni did not look pleased. But though he is a powerful man, he has always shown respect for Holy Church.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But you must take it yourself, and you will keep your mouth shut about what it contains.’
I answered mildly, though I do not take kindly to being ordered around, even by one of the Council of Ten. ‘I never considered blabbing, Ser Giovanni.’
He set the parchments down on the table again; his anger faded to a look of simple harassment. ‘This story cannot be allowed to get out,’ he said. ‘How many more of these evil artefacts could be scattered around the city? What destruction might they still cause? What panic among the people? We are poised precariously here, between land and water, and a little thing might destroy us.’
I nodded. ‘No one will hear it from me.’
‘I will speak to these others, too,’ Ser Giovanni continued, with a gesture at the parchments. ‘An everyday, down-to-earth conspiracy . . . that is enough to explain these executions. And the battle in the heavens? An unseasonable storm, no more. Marin Falier’s name and his memory shall be blotted out . . . but the Republic will survive.’
Giving me a satisfied nod, he strode out and snapped the door shut behind him.
*
I write these last few words on board ship as I begin my journey. Giovanni Marcello’s advice is good. There must be no more of this evil magic. I shall take this account to the Holy Father, for safe-keeping until it pleases God to reveal the truth. And I do not think I shall return to Venice. There are many dark alleyways there, and I prefer not to look over my shoulder as I walk.
Ω
The framed painting of a black shroud in the Doge’s Palace bears the text, Hic est locus Marini Faletro decapitati pro criminibus (‘This is the place for Marin Falier, beheaded for his crimes’).
The accepted version of history is that Falier mounted a co
up, planning to kill many of the noble class and declare himself Prince of Venice. The plot was discovered, a number of conspirators were hanged, and Falier himself was beheaded as a traitor after only seven months in office as doge.
The seventy-six-year-old Marin Falier is known to have been irascible and to take offence quickly. The libellous epigrams of Michele Steno and the light sentence he was given supposedly provided the motivation for Falier’s conspiracy against the Venetian aristocracy which resulted in his death – but this account by Fantino Falier, dictated to Fr Lorenzo, suggests a far more complex and disturbing reason for his execution.
Marin Falier did indeed possess a number of artefacts and manuscripts from the Orient, which were given to him by Marco Polo many years before he became doge. Did they provide the basis for the magical conjuring which Fantino Falier describes? Was it just the dragon chain which summoned the spirit of the dragon to possess Marin Falier, or did the elixir have a part to play? Do we believe Fantino, or Fr Lorenzo? Fr Lorenzo’s codicil to Fantino’s story makes the sequence of events more ambiguous. As rational people today we might be tempted to accept Giovanni Marcello’s cover story of ‘an unseasonable storm’, but Fr Lorenzo, clearly a level-headed and astute judge from the way he handles Fantino Falier, accepts the summoning of the dragon spirit as fact, as attested by his taking of this text to Pope Innocent VI in Avignon.
Venice was ruled by powerful, ambitious men; fourteen served as doge during the fourteenth century. Six days after Falier was beheaded Giovanni Gradenigo became the next doge, as Fr Lorenzo predicted. During his fifteen months in office he made peace with the Genoese. The young libertine Michele Steno, nearly half a century later, was also elected doge.
1382–1419
The Middle Ages are often spoken of as a hotbed of heterodox religious activity, with a wide variety of spiritual groups springing up across Europe. But this period of religious experimentation was spread across half a millennium, from 1000 to 1500.
Even with that caveat, over those centuries there was a groundswell of popular religious movements very much at variance with the orthodoxy of the Catholic Church. Several groups, including the Spiritual Franciscans, were inspired by the twelfth-century mystic Joachim de Fiore. The Bogomils, a Gnostic dualist sect, were strong in the Balkans and Hungary in the eleventh and twelfth centuries; their beliefs were very similar to the later Cathars of the Languedoc and northern Italy. There were the Waldensians from the thirteenth century onwards in much of western Europe, the Lollards in England in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and the Hussites in fifteenth-century Bohemia.
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 13