The Alchemist's Apprentice

by Dave Duncan

  “The doge was one you had shown the books to?” the Maestro asked.

  “And his agent was there. I never expected him to come in person! He didn’t stay long.”

  “And the foreign couple who spoke French?”

  Imer shook his head. “I have no idea. They seemed to think it was a public gathering. When I realized…I ordered them to leave. The man was abusive, but they left.”

  “You offered three wines.”

  “There were to be others at supper. Karagounis provided the retsina. He said it was better than any in the city. Vile stuff. I never touch it.”

  I was careful not to show any reaction and the Maestro certainly did not, but he chased the ball.

  “Who else drank retsina?”

  “How should I know?”

  “What happened to wine that had been opened and not finished?”

  “I expect the servants stole it. They usually do.”

  “What do you know about this Karagounis?”

  The attorney squirmed. “Not very much. He is planning to marry a local girl, so he can become a resident. He is taking instruction in the Catholic faith and plans to abjure the Greek heresy…So he says. I warned him it would be better if he did not come to the viewing, but he turned up anyway.”

  “Has he chosen a bride yet?”

  “I believe so.” The attorney colored, which suggested that the bride was part of the deal, some niece or cousin, no doubt. He was not old enough to have marriageable daughters to dispose of.

  But that seemed to be that. The rest of the Maestro’s questions produced nothing of use. Imer had been dashing back and forth between his books and the main party and could not say who might have been close enough to tamper with the victim’s drink. If he was representative of the Republic’s attorneys, I hoped I would never need to sue anyone.

  “Well, we may be worrying needlessly,” the Maestro said. “I must track down the procurator’s physician. My boat is at your disposal, lustrissimo. Alfeo will come with you as a witness when you question your servant.”

  “Benzon? Why?”

  “If we learn that other people drank from the same bottle as the procurator, we can eliminate one unpleasant hypothesis.” The Maestro stretched his lips in a smile.

  The attorney grimaced as if he had a serious toothache.

  Giorgio rowed us back. He sang a couple of romantic ballads in case we wished to talk confidentially, but Imer said absolutely nothing, except to tell me Karagounis’s address when I asked for it.

  The moment we entered his chambers, he ordered the old clerk to fetch Giuseppe Benzon, an order that obviously surprised the old man. This time I was invited to sit in a client’s chair. Moving like an old man, Imer walked around the cluttered desk to his own.

  “If we frighten Benzon so much that he runs away, we shall be in grave trouble.”

  This was precisely why the Maestro had specified that Imer ask the questions, not me. I said, “You are entitled to interrogate your own servant, lustrissimo.” If the servant did flee, that admission of guilt would rescue the Maestro from suspicion, but might not help Imer much.

  Benzon was about my age, a stocky, honest-looking lad with a smear of jewelers’ rouge on his hand to suggest that he had been cleaning silverware. He looked reasonably scared already by the unexpected summons. He bowed and was told to shut the door, but not told to pull up the third chair.

  “As you know,” Imer mumbled, “one of my guests took ill two nights ago. All he had consumed in my house was some wine, and the doctors are wondering if there was something wrong with that particular bottle. Do you happen to remember which wine the procurator chose?”

  “Yes, lustrissimo. He laughed and said he would take the retsina.”

  I was already impressed by Benzon. His eyes were quick and he did not fidget.

  “Thirty-two guests and you remember what every one of them drank?”

  “No, lustrissimo. But he was only the fourth or fifth to arrive, and I never served a procurator before.” Procurators wear marvelously ornate purple robes and tippets.

  “Did anyone else take the retsina?”

  “Three or four, lustrissimo. I had to open a second bottle.”

  Imer’s glance at me was a comment that the first bottle was therefore not available as evidence, and I nodded.

  “Pulaki brought six bottles. Where are the others?”

  “His master told him to take them when they left.”

  “Well, apprentice? Have you any questions to ask?”

  I could think of several. Being neither a state employee nor a doctor in the case, I had no right to ask any of them. Procurators do not joke with other men’s menservants.

  “My name’s Alfeo, Giuseppe.”

  Benzon eyed me uncertainly. “Yes, lustrissimo.”

  “Just Alfeo. How many glasses could you fill from a bottle?”

  “About six, if the glasses were all empty. Topping them up, I would get more, of course.”

  “That’s good. Thank you. You said the procurator laughed. Did he come alone, or who was with him?”

  “A young lady.”

  “Hot?”

  Lechery flickered in his eyes. “Fiery!”

  “Courtesan?”

  “No, er, Alfeo.”

  I met Imer’s frown. “Any idea who she was, lustrissimo?”

  He shrugged. “I forget. Granddaughter? Niece?”

  “No further questions, thank you.”

  5

  I told Giorgio the Karagounis address, which was close by, in the Greek quarter of San Giorgio dei Greci. The Greek ought to be even more susceptible to bullying than the attorney had been, but I had very little hope that these interviews of the Maestro’s were going to do any good at all. Had I been present at that book viewing and seen two people exchange glasses and one of them had then died, I would not admit to noticing anything at all—not at this late date. Had I poisoned one of the glasses myself and switched them deliberately, I would be even more taciturn. But an apprentice does what he’s told. Maybe my master would come to his senses in a day or so.

  When we arrived at the door—Giorgio knows every building in the city—I shouted up to a woman drying her hair on a second floor balcony.

  “Top floor,” she said.

  “You watch out for her, sonny,” said one on another balcony. “She lies in wait for the young ones.”

  The first countered: “No, you stop in at her place, handsome. She’s the one who gets lonely.”

  “You can share me,” I suggested, earning whoops of approval from spectators at other windows.

  Giorgio said, “Good luck. Their husbands carry knives, you know.”

  “Husbands or not,” I told him. “I won’t be long.” There were other gondoliers waiting nearby, so I knew he would not lack for conversation.

  The stairs were dark and narrow, smelling of urine and unfamiliar cooking, as tenement stairs usually do. I met no husbands and no one lay in wait for me. Top floor was four up, and I slowed to a walk for the last flight, so I would not be short of breath when I arrived. I had a choice of three doors. The first did not answer my knock. Nor did the second, but a woman shouted from inside it, and then told me to try the one opposite, which was the one I had already tried.

  Either Alexius Karagounis was out trying to sell his books elsewhere or he had already fled from the Republic. I went back down again. No lonely housewives or knife-bearing husbands detained me.

  When we returned to Ca’ Barbolano, the Maestro had already retired for his midday nap, having skipped or just forgotten dinner, as he often does. I carried an armful of books into the dining room, where Mama delivered enough food to feed a galley crew after a long day: marinated anchovies in caper sauce, rice with peas, and tuna with polenta. Then she asked what dolce I wanted.

  “I cannot possibly eat all this,” I complained. “I had that pidocchi earlier, remember?”

  “Eat it! You are too skinny!” Compared to her, everyone is too ski
nny.

  “I am not as skinny as Giorgio.”

  “Bah!” she said. “Forty years I have lived in this parish and never a fat gondolier have I seen.”

  “He doesn’t get enough sleep.”

  She shook her fist at me and waddled out, chuckling. I ate alone, reading everything known about digitalis.

  I went to my room, bolted the door, and changed into shabbier clothes that I did not mind dirtying. My room is not the largest or grandest I could have, but I enjoy the view from its three big windows, which look out across a forest of chimneypots towards San Marco. Most houses are two or three stories high, so the churches, bell towers, and palaces stand up like islands in a stormy sea of red tile roofs. More particularly, my windows overlook the roof terrace of Number 96, and that scenery becomes spectacular on warm days, when the residents sun themselves there. They wear hats with wide brims and no crowns, spreading their hair out to bleach it without browning their faces. That day the terrace was deserted, except for some laundry drying.

  The calle between the two buildings is very narrow and little used because it is a roundabout way of reaching the campo, while the wider one on the far side of 96 is straight and also leads to a bridge. Although my windows are about fifty feet above the ground, they are secured by stout iron bars. I opened the center one and peered out, provoking an explosion of pigeons. Three of its bars can be removed just by lifting them out of their sockets and leaning them against the sill—inside the room, of course, so they cannot fall out and drop like iron javelins to impale passing citizens. I wriggled through the gap and set my feet on a hand-width ledge just below, while keeping a firm grip on the bar that does not move. Then I made one long, death-defying stride to the steep tiles opposite, where I could sprawl forward and grab the rail around the altana to stop myself sliding off and making a nasty stain on the ground.

  Yes, I could have gone downstairs, out the watergate of Ca’ Barbolano and in the watergate of 96—there is no real pedestrian fondamenta flanking the Rio San Remo, but there are ledges along both buildings just above high water and the manoeuver is not difficult for an agile person. I prefer my secret route, though, and like to think I am deceiving the Ten’s spies. Besides, a man must keep up his reputation.

  I unlocked the trapdoor and trotted down several flights of stairs without meeting a soul. Number 96 is owned jointly by four ladies, although many more live and work there. Violetta occupies the best suite, in the southwest corner, and I have a key to its servants’ door. Peering into the kitchen, I found Milana struggling to iron a bulky brocade gown that probably weighed nearly as much as she did. Milana is small and has a twisted back, but she is fiercely loyal to her mistress and I have never seen her unhappy.

  She jumped. “Alfeo! You startled me.”

  “I do it just to see your smile. Is she up yet?” Courtesans go to bed at dawn, like the gentry. I also wanted to know if she was alone, of course, but that went without saying.

  With a doubtful frown, Milana said, “Just a moment and I’ll see,” and disappeared. In a moment she returned, smiling again. “No, it’s all right. I told her you were here.”

  I thanked her and went through to Violetta’s chamber, entering just in time to catch a tantalizing glimpse of bare breasts as she pulled the sheet up—her sense of timing would be the envy of any high-wire sword juggler. Her room is vast and luxurious, decorated with silk and crystal and ankle-deep rugs, plus gilt-framed mirrors and erotic art.

  Other nations denounce Venice as the most sinful, vice-ridden city in all Christendom, claiming that we have more prostitutes than gondolas. Such talk is sheer envy. We are just less hypocritical about our follies, that’s all. Noble ladies see nothing wrong with a young blood squiring a courtesan to a ball or banquet—they would much rather he flaunt his current plaything in public than debauch their daughters in secret. Many noblemen never marry at all, supposedly to protect the family fortune from being divided between too many heirs, or else just to avoid the fuss and bother.

  Harlots to suit every purse are available at Number 96. Violetta is not one of them. She is witty, highly educated, a superb dancer and singer. The stage lost a great actress in her, and it is tragic that Titian did not live long enough to immortalize her beauty. She is not available by the hour or the day, rarely even by the week. She accepts no money, only gifts—an emerald necklace here, a dozen ball gowns there—and the state treasury itself would not buy her favors for a man she did not fancy. Violetta dresses as well as any dogaressa or senator’s wife, and owns more jewels than the Basilica San Marco.

  I am not and never have been one of her patrons, but we are friends. We are frequently close friends, especially during siesta, when we both have time to ourselves. Love was not what I had come for that day and I saw at once that it was not immediately available, for she was Medea, teeth and claws, green eyes smoldering. In truth her eyes were not, and never are, green. They are all colors and no color. They change all the time, but at that moment they had a greenish tinge, which is a danger sign. I seated myself on the end of the bed, safely out of reach, and smiled stupidly at her glare.

  “Who was that slut I saw you with on the Lido two nights ago?”

  “I wasn’t there,” I said. “It was some other man. I was masked, so you couldn’t have recognized me. And she is not a slut. Michelina Angeli. Her mother asked me if I would take her there as a treat for her fifteenth birthday. She will be betrothed soon and wanted to see Carnival on the Lido.”

  “A virgin?” Medea asked with disbelief like a blast of Greek fire.

  “I didn’t ask her. If she isn’t, then it won’t look like me. Besides,” I added, “how did you recognize me?” I had certainly not noticed her among the hundreds of masked revelers.

  “I would know those gorgeous calves anywhere.” She laughed and melted before my eyes, becoming Helen. Helen of Troy, that is. Violetta does not play roles, as an actress does. She truly is several different people by turns. She says she cannot control her changes, they just happen, but I have rarely seen the wrong persona appear for any given situation. Medea’s voice is hard and metallic, Helen’s low and husky. Even her face is softer, more rounded. As Helen, she is the most beautiful, desirable, and skilled lover in the world. As Medea she is as dangerous in bed as she is anywhere else.

  Helen held out her arms to me. The sheet dropped, of course. Encrusted in her finery, Violetta can be the cynosure of a ducal ball. I cannot begin to describe her appeal when she is still warm and drowsy and flushed from bed, still smelling of sleep, wearing nothing under a silken sheet. Her natural hair is middle-brown, but she bleaches it to a reddish gold. For formal affairs she dresses it in two upstanding horns, but then it hung tumbled loose in thick waves. I wanted to plunge into those waves and drown.

  “Please!” I begged. “Business first.”

  “You are not business, Alfeo Zeno! Don’t you dare be business! You are strictly pleasure. Every wife in the city has a cavaliere servente. Cannot I?” Her eyes were dark with promises of unimaginable delights.

  I needed digitalis to soothe a raging heart. “Very soon, beloved, you will have the finest lover in the Republic all over you, but I do need some serious talk first. Noble Bertucci Orseolo died, did you hear?”

  “And people are whispering that he was poisoned by your master to fulfill his own prophecy. I sent him a note yesterday. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Not directly. I was out shopping.”

  “It’s absurd! An old man drops dead and everyone suspects poison.”

  “It was poison.”

  Helen sighed. Reluctantly she pulled the sheet up and straightened her legs. Her face and voice changed again. She become thinner, and I recognized the one I call Minerva, after the Roman goddess of wisdom. The Greeks knew her as “Owl-eyed” or “Gray-eyed” Athena. Violetta’s eyes were gray and the mind behind them blazed. “That is terrible news. Can I help?”

  “We think the venom was in his wine.”

  “A p
oisoned glass substituted for his?” Typically, she had worked that out faster than I had. Minerva may be even smarter than the Maestro.

  “It would have to be done that way, we think. I know you can take one glance at a ballroom and describe every gown to the last stitch. Can you tell me who stood next to Orseolo at the book table?”

  She did not deny my exaggeration. “Let’s see…I came in on Pasqual’s arm. Don’t pull faces. You know how I earn my living. We were on our way to the Lido, but his father was going to be buying old books. Pasqual wanted to make sure the old man wasn’t blowing away the family fortune, he said. We stayed a few minutes and then left.

  “As we came in, the viewers at the table all had their backs to us; your master was opposite, facing us. On my left…a footman was refilling glasses for the procurator and his companion, or offering to. Of course he was the one who collapsed later, Orseolo. Then that awful English couple—”

  “Ah! The ones who spoke in French? Do you know their names?

  Stars twinkled in her heavenly eyes. “I do know their names, Alfeo, but Parisians would not know their French. He is sier Bellamy Feather. Her name is Hyacinth. They have rented an apartment in Ca’ della Naves over in San Marcuola. Protestant heretics, probably spies.”

  That was bad news. If even Violetta thought they might be spies, the Ten’s informers would be crawling around them like flies on a dung heap.

  “Next to them was the swarthy Turk…and an old man wearing senatorial scarlet. He had a big nose. Next to him there was a gap and then Pasqual’s father. We went to the gap, of course, and Pasqual asked if he was going to buy Cleopatra’s diary.” She smiled knowingly. “I pretended not to recognize the nose on my left. He kept his eyes on the books and ignored me.”

  “Then he’s older than I thought.” In fact, having access to Pietro Moro’s medical files, I knew that he still engaged in sex, although not as often as he would like. Doge or apprentice, some problems are universal.