Votive

by Karen Brooks

  The words of the nobile suddenly became clear. I was the enemy of the Republic that this man had consorted with. He was being put to death because of me.

  And Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli knew. They’d brought me here to witness this, to teach me a lesson … but what lesson? They were consorting with me as well – this could be their fate if they were caught! Why were they risking this?

  I wanted to scream, to fight my way free of the crowd. To run and run and never come back. But I was trapped.

  Renzo Macelleria finished his prayer and, without a murmur, knelt before the stump. His shirt was pulled away from his neck and the swordsman stepped forward, pushing Renzo’s head onto the block and twisting it to one side, away from the palazzo, away from the symbol of his country. The Republic that he was accused of betraying.

  The executioner stood back and raised his weapon towards the sky. For what seemed like hours, he held it above his shoulder, frozen against the firmament, silver and grey, cold metal against soft, rolling clouds. I was transfixed. This was not real.

  But it was.

  Just before the sword fell, Renzo tilted his chin slightly and looked into the crowd. His eyes locked onto mine. I willed him to see through the mask, to know me, to understand how sorry I was. How I would never forgive myself for this.

  With a swift rush of air and a heavy, wet thud, his head toppled into the basket. A fountain of blood rose into the air and then splattered all over the cobbles, spraying those in front of us and landing at my feet.

  I began to extract. Feelings rushed into my body. Overwhelming sadness, resignation and a plea to … the gods! Not the God of the Patriarch, of the Church, but to the gods of the Estrattore! I could sense love, trust and a hope so strong … I tried to grasp hold of it, to distil it down to its core and thereby understand, but I was knocked from my feet as the crowd surged forward and a cheer rose. ‘Estrattore lover! Traitor!’ Missiles of fruit and vegetables exploded onto the stage, forcing Renzo’s executioner to jump backwards. The commotion hid the sobs that rose in my chest and exploded from my throat.

  Swiftly, the Maleovellis grabbed me and propelled me forward, through the crowd, which was becoming noisier by the second, past the dais and onto the other side of Nobiles’ Rise, the fondamenta of the Grande Canal. Even in my distress, I recognised the gondola dipping on the waters.

  Salzi leapt off the prow and ran towards us. Without a word, he scooped me into his arms. I was crying now. I didn’t care that I was thrown into the felze, or that Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli squeezed in with me, shutting the curtains, shoving my legs off the seat so they too could sit. I curled into a corner, sobbing.

  Salzi pushed into the current, but we were well on our way home before anyone spoke.

  ‘Here, drink this,’ said Giaconda, thrusting a flask that I recalled from my last trip in this gondola into my hands.

  ‘I don’t want any,’ I said brokenly. I searched for my handkerchief and blew my nose in a very unladylike manner.

  ‘I was not asking you,’ said Giaconda ever so softly and slowly. ‘If you don’t drink some, Papa will hold you while I pour it down your throat.’

  I stared at Giaconda for a moment before snatching it from her fingers and taking a gulp. It burned, but I felt my nerves settling.

  I tried to glare at both of them, but their faces swam in my tears. ‘You knew who that was, didn’t you? You knew he was executed because of what he did. Because of me.’

  ‘Sì. Vero. We did.’ Giaconda removed her hat and veil and regarded me steadily. Signor Maleovelli eased back in the seat, giving away nothing. Giaconda lit a candle. Its dim light only added to the stuffiness of the interior.

  ‘Why? Why did you bring me there? Why did you make me watch? He was a good man, a kind man, and he died because of me.’ I hit my chest.

  Giaconda blew out the spill and shoved it back in the tinder box. ‘Esatto, Tarlo. That’s the point. To teach you a lesson.’

  Signor Maleovelli reached for his pipe.

  ‘Papa, please,’ said Giaconda, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Not in the felze. Do you want us to choke?’

  Signor Maleovelli sighed and put the pipe back in his pocket. The ordinariness of their exchange infuriated me. Here they were worrying about some smoke, when a good man, a man I knew, had just been brutally killed. I balled my fists.

  ‘What lesson might that be, Signorina Maleovelli? Please enlighten me, because I can’t see the gesture as anything but cruel. If you knew, why didn’t you tell me? I would have been prepared. Maybe I could have stopped it.’ Even I realised how foolish that sounded. ‘Helped him in some way …’ I saw how unmoved they were by my statements. ‘I don’t understand why you dragged me there.’ I pointed through the curtains. ‘I don’t understand what you hoped to achieve.’ I hiccoughed as another bout of weeping threatened to steal my resolve to speak.

  ‘What you have learnt today is very important, Tarlo.’ Signor Maleovelli faced me as he spoke. ‘You have witnessed that what we’re involved in is a deadly game. Lives are at stake. We have to be very careful or more people will die. But Tarlo, we can protect you and others from that …’ He searched for the right word. ‘… barbarity. If you help us to power, you need never see anything like that again. Do you understand?’

  ‘But that’s not all.’ Giaconda shifted from her father’s side and sidled towards me. ‘There’s another lesson to be taken from this, Tarlo.’

  I waited.

  ‘Just as Renzo Macelleria paid the ultimate price for breaking the rules, so too today’s trip outside the casa serves as a form of punishment for you. We knew seeing the old man die would be … difficult for you.’

  ‘Difficult?’ I spluttered. ‘That was beyond difficult.’ I took a few deep breaths. I needed to master myself. ‘Why am I being punished? What have I done that …’ I stopped. My hand flew to my mouth. I knew exactly to what Giaconda was referring.

  ‘You were told very clearly never to extract from us, Tarlo, never to touch us in the way that your kind do.’

  ‘B– but I haven’t.’ I pulled the skirt of my dress around my legs so it did not touch Giaconda’s. ‘I know you forbid that.’ Colour flew to my cheeks.

  ‘Really?’ said Giaconda. ‘Well what do you call spying on us?’

  Words froze in my throat.

  ‘You eavesdropped on our dinner last night; on the conversation we had with our guests. It amounts to the same thing as extracting. You wilfully broke our rules.’

  My head reeled. Hafeza had told Giaconda after all. She’d betrayed me. First, the shock of Renzo, and now this. Grief became something solid in my chest. I pressed my face into my hands.

  ‘When you eavesdrop, you learn things about us that we’re not ready to share. Do it again, and I swear, someone else you care about will die.’

  I lifted my head. Tears streaked my face. ‘What do you mean? Is that a threat?’

  ‘It’s no threat, you silly girl! The Cardinale is offering generous rewards and clemency for information about those who would hide an Estrattore. All it would take is one name from us …’

  Pillar? They would give him Pillar.

  ‘After all, we have a whole quartiere from which to choose.’

  I glared at Giaconda darkly.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Estrattore. I don’t understand why you would do this to us. We are not your enemy. What more do we have to do to prove that to you?’ She waved her hand so it included my clothing, the gondola, her father and finally, herself. ‘You don’t scare me. But what I am saying to you should terrify you to your very marrow.’

  I slumped back against the wall of the felze. I didn’t want to admit it, but her threats did frighten me.

  Taking me unawares, she threw back her head and laughed. ‘Such a heavy conversation; such a heavy day. We need to put this behind us. We need to look to what we can achieve, what we can change, do we not, Papa?’

  ‘Indeed we do, cara mia.’

  Giac
onda clapped her hands together. ‘Bene, bene.’

  Signor Maleovelli excused himself and, taking his pipe out of his pocket, joined Salzi outside. Smoke soon drifted into the felze. Giaconda reached over and pulled the curtains tightly across. Sitting back down, she rearranged herself in the seat until she was facing me. ‘Tarlo,’ she began, the harshness of her earlier tone softened, ‘I know I must seem so hard to you –’ she delicately pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear – ‘but it is the only way to survive in this world. I’m a courtesan: I share my feelings, my heart, with no-one. I cannot afford to. Neither, my dear, can you.’ She traced my tears with a gloved hand. ‘You are an Estrattore – your whole being is created to feel – to understand emotions and enhance or weaken them. But Estrattore can also suppress them.’ She sat back in the seat. ‘Do you know what Jacopo told me he’d read?’

  I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak. Her sudden kindness unnerved me. It made me want to cry more.

  ‘He told me that in the past, Estrattore would often help grieving families by taking away their sadness; or that they would help a love-struck youth forget the object of his love. It’s in their scope to stifle emotions as much as it is to extract and distil them.’ She leaned forward. ‘You need to do this for yourself – cut off your emotions. Make them disappear. Act as if nothing affects you. If you don’t, then you will be lost.’ She opened the window in the felze and stared out at the passing casas. ‘We’ll all be lost.’

  I followed the direction of her gaze. Through the rain, which had started to fall again, all I could see was the patterns of mould and mildew that grew along the casas rising from the waterline. Grim, it formed a stark contrast to the colourful render. It occurred to me that my choice was like that. I could either be lost in a mire of emotions and sink into a pool of despair, or embrace the colourful life being offered to me and rise above it.

  I became aware that Giaconda was studying me.

  ‘When we reach the casa, you are to remain in your room for the rest of the day. Papa, Jacopo and I have arrangements to make on the basis of the agreement we formed with the Moronisinis last night. We need Baroque as well,’ she added, her face a grimace. ‘I will have Hafeza bring food. I want you to think on what you saw today and what Papa and I have said. Then, tomorrow, your lessons will continue. Only from hereon in, I want to see more of Tarlo Maleovelli and less of Tallow Pelleta the candlemaker. Am I clear? We need to pick up our pace, Tarlo. Things are afoot; we have to be ready to act. Capisce?’

  I nodded. My head was spinning.

  ‘Now that this unpleasantness with the old chandler is over, the celebration to welcome the new ambassador can go ahead and, when it does, we will use the opportunity to present you to the world.’

  I barely heard her next words.

  ‘You had better be ready, Tarlo.’

  Behind my mask, my eyes throbbed. Emotions I had never experienced before burned in my chest and rose in my mouth. ‘Sì, Signorina,’ I said, nodding to her. ‘It will all be as you desire.’

  Giaconda tipped her head in response, her lips pouting just a tiny bit as they did when she was pleased. ‘Molto bene.’

  The sip I’d taken from the flask was beginning to have an effect. I wanted to drink more, to rush myself into oblivion. Despite my outward composure, my insides were being eaten away. Renzo, oh God! Another Macelleria dead because of me. Forgive me, please, forgive me. I sent my thoughts spiralling to the world in which I hoped Renzo now rested.

  And Hafeza. I’d foolishly thought we had a bond – that we shared something as outsiders in the Maleovellis’ household. But Hafeza was one of them. I couldn’t trust her. I couldn’t trust anyone. Baroque was right. I needed to grow up. My future, the future of my old friends and of my people and even Serenissima should the Maleovellis be successful, depended on it.

  When we reached the casa, I went straight to my room, shut my door and fell into bed. I stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, reliving every word, everything I’d seen and felt. Hafeza came and went. I ignored her. I had nothing to say.

  After she left the third time, I managed to nibble some bread, cheese and cold game. Climbing back under the covers, I watched the fire burn down. Outside, the rain lashed the window and the wind howled through the cracks. I imagined the world outside being washed clean, clean of today’s terrible death, of Renzo’s blood that had soaked the cobbles, of the pain of the Macelleria family who would not even have been allowed to bury him. Instead, like all traitors to the state, his body would have been dumped far out at sea.

  Most of all, I imagined the rain carrying away all the connections to my old life, scouring me clean of past obligations and duty. I would do what Giaconda said. She was right – the Maleovellis were not my enemy and I could not treat them that way. But neither were they my friends. If I could use them in the same way that they were using me, I would. If that meant obeying them, then so be it.

  Giaconda would have her wish. I would go to sleep as one person and tomorrow, I would wake up as a different one – Tarlo Maleovelli, the woman who would one day bring the Estrattore back and change the world.

  WHEN I JOINED BAROQUE IN THE WORKSHOP the following day, I was subdued. As I pulled the apron over my head and tied it around my waist, he gently touched my arm. ‘I heard about Macelleria. Mi dispiace, Tarlo. I know that would have been hard for you.’ His eyes flicked to the upper storeys of the casa.

  I bowed my head, fighting back the tears I felt welling.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he said. I stared at him glassy-eyed.

  ‘I’m beginning to know how your mind works, that you would believe his death to be your fault.’ He gave me a gentle smile. ‘The Cardinale, he is a ruthless man. He had to punish someone. Unfortunately, Macelleria was his scapegoat. But Tarlo, you need to know, it’s not over yet. He won’t stop. There will be others, and some of them will be dear to you. You must be strong.’

  ‘Sì,’ I said, moving away so his hand fell. ‘And I must be quick. The sooner this ceases the better, and that means helping the Maleovellis. So, let’s get on with what we have to do. Enough talk.’

  I stood before Baroque and clasped my hands. I had learnt my lessons well.

  ‘Sì, Signorina,’ he said, and bowed exaggeratedly. He shot me one last look of concern before he began to place the items we needed on the table. This time, Signor Maleovelli wanted candles that would engender feelings of generosity and sanguinity. More forthcoming than usual, Baroque whispered to me that Giaconda had a liaison with Nobile Pisano, one of the Council of Ten and a wealthy man who made his soldi importing spices from Marrakech.

  ‘No doubt the success of the Signor’s colleganza with Moronisini has prompted him to seek more such arrangements. A small investment on his part for large returns.’ Baroque lifted a handful of tapers onto the table. ‘The Moronisini colleganza is the talk of the city. Most think he’s mad throwing his lot in with Maleovelli.’ He held up a candle, examining it in the light filtering in the door. ‘In a sense, he isn’t in his right mind, but who knows, Maleovelli’s notion to send only two ships to the Contested Territories may just work. There are others watching this venture with great interest.’ He sighed and moved to his usual position on the other side of the table, closer to the fire. ‘This is a dangerous game we play, Tarlo. A very dangerous game. But then, as I have learnt over the years, it’s those with high stakes that are most worth playing.’

  That was something I was learning too. Only sometimes, I thought, as the memory of Renzo refused to disappear, they are too high. I sighed. This was perilous – only not for me, not yet.

  Baroque’s eyes were upon me as I picked up the candles.

  ‘Please, Baroque, can you pass me –’ I glanced at the variety of objects on the shelves, objects that were familiar to me. ‘That old Carnivale mask and …’ I searched for what might make someone act with unstinting generosity. It was not a common trait among Serenissians. Then I saw what I need
ed – a coin from a beggar’s bowl. Baroque passed the mask and coin to me.

  I held them loosely in my fingers and began to extract, sorting through the emotions and sensations I found there, drawing what I needed into myself and distilling it into its purest and most virulent form. My body went hot as I held the mask, its colourful feathers tickling my wrist. I felt laughter begin to bubble inside me as I captured the joy and earthy delights of those who had worn it. The coin told a different story and in its dense composition I found many things, but it wasn’t until I felt the generosity of the padre who, torn between feeding those who relied on him in the orphanage and the plight of the sickly young street boy, gave his last soldi to the child. In his heart was such faith and love for fellow humans and a deep conviction that God would provide, and I drew on all this too. That the child later died before he was able to use the coin was something I stored for later. A chilling reminder that even kindness could not prevent the cruelty of life from striking.

  When I’d finished, I sat on the stool, a mug of vino from Baroque’s own store in my hand. He packed the candles away carefully then, from under a piece of cloth, pulled out the plant that I had tried to fathom earlier – the belladonna.

  ‘Do you want to try again?’ he asked me.

  ‘Baroque, I don’t think I want to deal with any more death today,’ I sighed.

  ‘But it’s not for its deadly properties that I’m giving you this.’

  ‘What then?’

  Baroque sat back down and with great care picked up the plant. It was quite dry now and brittle. The petals of its flowers had curled and some had dropped. ‘Once, a long time ago now, I had a woman –’ He chuckled at the expression on my face. ‘Oh, don’t look so surprised. I wasn’t so bad in my younger days and, even as a spy, I had some status.’

  I tried to imagine him as a young man. The creases in his face vanished, the pouches beneath his eyes reduced and the gold teeth became creamy and whole. I suppose he wasn’t unattractive. Not handsome, but there was something. It was his eyes that I liked best. Grey, bright and sharp. I wondered what sort of woman she’d been.