Votive

by Karen Brooks

  Helped by two serving women to disrobe in an elegant antechamber, I bid them goodnight before I entered Cosimo’s bedroom. It was filled with the light of dozens of candles and a small fire in the grate. Two huge windows were wide open and the cool night air blew in. I stood before one and looked out over the quiet piazza towards the Grande Canal. The moon was out of sight but its beams turned the water silver. I could see the distant islands of the Arsenale and the masts of the Doge’s navy as the ships lay at anchor.

  I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I must now do. I went to the chair over which my dress had been draped and, from within its folds, drew out the two candles that Signor Ezzelino had instructed me to make. Crossing to the bed, I quickly removed the two existing candles from their elaborate holders and replaced them with mine, dragging them closer to where Cosimo’s head would finally lie. Then I took out the two that I’d brought without the Maleovellis’ knowledge, placing them in the wall brackets above the bed. I took away the existing ones and snuffed them with my thumb and forefinger. I tipped the excess wax into the well of another candle, waited until the wicks had stopped smouldering and then put the candles back in the pocket of my gown.

  Satisfied, I lay across the covers of the bed and waited. I tried to blank my mind, but my conscience was heavy. My only consolation was that with Cosimo gone, the way to the Dogeship was becoming clearer. Already Cosimo’s younger brother had shocked everyone by renouncing his right to the throne and eloping with a commoner – a servant. I smiled as I thought of how happy they were under the protection of the Duke of Firenze. That the emotions were induced by false means did not trouble me. I knew that their love would last, unlike many marriages. Forgoing leadership of Serenissima was a small price to pay. Plucking at the soft linen of the pillow, I was surprised at how strongly I believed that.

  I thought of the colleganzas the Maleovellis had signed, the riches that the trade they had gained had given them, the profits, the security of a solid and growing reputation. No-one suspected anything. Fortuna and Signorina Dorata were how the Maleovellis’ rise was explained by nobiles and, according to Baroque, by the popolani as well.

  Already, three other courtesans enjoyed the sponsorship of nobiles, much to the chagrin of their wives, their husbands insisting it was in the interests of good business.

  I wondered briefly about Cosimo’s wife – the Principessa. A small woman, she had once been a beauty. Endowed with a rich family as well as naturally pale hair and a womb thought to be fertile, she’d been considered a fitting wife for the Doge’s eldest son. But the kidnap of her only son had changed her too. The sparkling, vital woman some had described to me was not the same as the one who roamed the corridors of the palazzo asking the servants if they’d seen her son. That’s how I’d encountered her, one night as I left Cosimo’s chambers. She was shuffling along past the Doge’s rooms, a candle in her hand, calling. As I drew closer, I heard her. On seeing me, she held her light aloft and asked in a soft, frightened voice, ‘Have you seen Claudio?’

  My heart had wrenched. I shook my head. Her eyes, one moment filled with hope, slid from my face and became as dark as the places she explored. She continued on her way. Five ladies in waiting, all wrapped in their nightgowns, scurried after her, some glancing at me curiously, others with envy.

  Cosimo and his wife did not speak anymore. Their loss had torn them apart. It had ripped the Dandolo family asunder. Long before the Maleovellis began their plotting, there were fractures that nothing but Claudio’s return could heal. I had even heard that kind of gossip from Quinn’s customers. I knew that, in many ways, the Maleovellis were using the decline of the Dandolos’ fitness as leaders to justify their push for power. But they were not the only ones. Sensing weakness in their ranks, all the nobiles were jostling. Whoever appeared to have the power and strength to rule would be given the throne. The Dandolos’ time, no matter what I did, was over.

  I shook my head. Listen to me. I sounded like the Maleovellis, defending my actions. The Dandolos were also in the pocket of the Church, I reminded myself. They were the ones who ordered Renzo killed. I shut my eyes at the memory. I drew my breath in and extracted from the scents around me. The pain fled and peace descended.

  Then a thought occurred to me. I was to ensure that the Prince could never make a claim to the throne. Signor Maleovelli had suggested that I persuade him to travel, to leave Serenissima. That would render his claim redundant. No member of the royal family was allowed to leave Serenissima without the permission of the Council. To do so was against the law – it was a serious violation of protocol. Jacopo had taught me that in one of our earliest lessons.

  Sending Cosimo away would not be hard. The candles I brought tonight were infused with all the right elements so that I could place the idea in his head and he would act – swiftly. I could imagine him fruitlessly roaming the world, never understanding why, the emptiness inside him growing bigger, deeper, until one day it swallowed him. To my surprise, I felt uneasy with that. I didn’t love Cosimo; I didn’t know him well enough to feel anything but a gentle regard, but I did feel sorry for him – for him and his wife. I understood what it was like to live with a huge, gaping hole inside you. Perhaps there was something I could do to ensure that the vacuum inside him didn’t increase. One way to do that was to make sure he had a goal, something to fill the void his son had left.

  Perhaps there was yet a way …

  I sat up, my heart lighter than it had been for days. Of course! I breathed in the scent of the candles, testing their potency again before quickly extracting the effects from my own body. Oh, these would work. They would work well. Once again the Maleovellis would be delighted with me. Only this time I would be able to live with what I had done.

  And I would make sure that Cosimo, poor, lost Cosimo, had a reason to live as well.

  The door opened and the Prince appeared, loosening the neck of his grand togati. I gave him a real smile and opened my arms wide, the golden gauze falling apart and revealing my nakedness. His eyes widened and his face glowed.

  ‘Come, Cosimo,’ I purred.

  As if in answer, the flames atop my candles brightened.

  SITTING ON THE ROOF OF A CASA opposite the northern end of the Doge’s palazzo, leaning against the chimney, eyes fixed firmly on the unremarkable water-gates below, Dante waited. Already the horizon was a thin band of burning orange and the pigeons were becoming restless. Rubbing his eyes, he watched them bobbing across the eaves, their emerald necks reflecting in the sun’s first rays, their trilling a comforting end to his lonely vigil. The same one he maintained night after night across different locations in Serenissima.

  He stretched cautiously, careful not to disturb the tiles. As much as he longed for his bed, there was something he desired more. He wondered how much longer she’d be; it had been hours and his shoulder was cramping.

  A noise below alerted him and he wriggled to the edge of the roof and looked down. His patience was rewarded. Emerging out of the doors and walking across the jetty was Tallow.

  His heart soared and he held his breath as she turned to the servant and, opening her purse, pressed a soldi into his hand. She looked magnificent in a deep gold gown that had panels of black velvet over her breasts and peeping through the slashes in her full sleeves. He liked the way her hair had been arranged. As usual, it maintained its style. He imagined her sitting before the mirror as servants pinned it into place.

  The doorman smiled and bowed, retreating into the shadows as she moved to the paline at the end of the little wharf and waited for her gondola to arrive. Often it was already there, floating by the jetty, water-stairs or wherever else she happened to be. Dante hated those times, as he barely caught a glimpse of her. She would board the gondola with practised ease and duck straight into the felze. His heart would wrench and he would return to the Tailors Quartiere unfulfilled, to try to catch what sleep he could until darkness fell and he would once again go the Maleovellis’ casa, wait for
Tallow to leave and follow her.

  But today there was no gondola and he was able to drink in the sight she presented. She stood perfectly still, her ornate mask clutched in her hand. She gazed out over the water, looking in the direction from which she knew the gondola would come.

  Dante sighed softly. Signorina Dorata – the celebrated courtesan. No wonder she’d evaded capture. Who would have ever suspected that the scruffy little candlemaker, Tallow Pelleta, had metamorphosed into this magnificent woman? Here she was, flaunting herself, right beneath the Doge’s and Cardinale’s eyes. How did that make her feel? His little dorato would have been anxious – but this woman? He recalled the posters with their crude image of Tallow plastered all over the different sestieri, calling for information, offering rewards. He’d laughed when he saw them. Nothing could be further removed from the reality. Her daring, her courage, only made him love her more.

  While he knew what it was she did each night with the different men she entertained, he did not feel jealousy so much as envy. He wanted to be them. He longed to be the one that she caressed, held and loved. He yearned for her, but he also wanted her safe, and that was what kept him remote, a watcher. Katina and Constantina had been clear in their instructions. He was to observe, learn and understand, but not to act. Not yet. To move too soon would be to put Tallow and the entire prophecy in danger. He didn’t quite understand why, but he knew, in his heart and head, that he had to obey. To do otherwise was to risk Tallow and he would not, could not do that.

  As if aware of his thoughts, Tallow turned slightly. He caught his breath and was reminded of the first time he saw her, of the moment he recognised who she was, all those months ago.

  Despairing after Katina was taken back into the Limen, he lost himself in a fugue of drink and self-pity. Disobeying explicit orders, he’d taken advantage of Carnivale, and after purchasing one of the large masks that covered his entire face, a bauta, and a cloak, he’d gone to the Chandlers Quartiere.

  Roaming up the calle at the back of his grandfather’s workshop, he’d seen familiar faces as well as the usual masked revellers, drinking, dancing, running in and out of each other’s premises with abandon. But he’d seen no sign of his own family. Flickering lights in the upper storeys revealed they were home, but no-one was celebrating. What did they have to be joyous about?

  Sitting in the local taverna, he heard snatches of conversation, rumours. The Macelleria family hadn’t been the same since Renzo’s death. Business was failing: time in the Doge’s dungeons had changed his uncles. Observing the activity around him, he felt remote, distant. This was his neighbourhood; here were people he’d grown up with, rituals he knew and loved and yet … Part of him wanted to snatch off his mask and declare himself, announce his return and damn the consequences. But another told him not to be a fool. What would it achieve anyway? He was dead and gone. He no longer belonged here and, as the night progressed, he was no longer sure he wanted to. What could he do anyway? He’d simply be arrested, bring more trouble and grief upon his family. He was a Bond Rider now and had a pledge to fulfil. Tallow’s face appeared briefly among his crowded thoughts.

  Thrusting the drink he’d ordered away from him, he rose and, fumbling in his purse, laid soldi on the bar. Then it occurred to him. There was something he could do to help.

  Leaving the taverna, he almost ran down the calle. Dodging the people dancing in the campo, he turned into the main street, the salizzada of his quartiere, where the entrance to Zia Gaia’s shop lay. The salizzada was thick with folk making their way to the canal. He loitered, peering in shop windows, pretending to be drunker than he was. One group tried to take him with them, but he shook them off brusquely. They laughed and let him be.

  Finally, the salizzada emptied. He paused outside Zia Gaia’s shop window. Reaching for the top of the door with one hand and placing the other on the handle, he slowly entered, his fingers catching the string that pulled the little bell before it could ring. Shutting the door behind him with care, he paused a moment while he grew accustomed to the dark. His breathing filled his ears. He saw the shelves were stacked with little paper-wrapped bars of soap. The old abacus sat atop the bench. A small bunch of flowers sagged in a vase. It pained him to see everything so familiar and yet so different.

  Shaking himself, he did what he came for. Behind the counter, he found the box where Zia Gaia kept the day’s takings. It was, as he suspected, empty. Pulling out his purse, he quietly took out every last soldi. He would simply replace them, as Debora had taught him, with another purse from an unsuspecting merchant in the mercato. He tipped them into the tin, wincing at the noise they made. He pushed the lid back and returned the box to its former position. The coins jangled as the box hit the wood. He waited, listening.

  There was a creak on the floor above.

  He inwardly cursed.

  ‘Buona sera?’ called a voice he knew and loved. Zia Gaia.

  He shot to the door, dragging it open. The bell tinkled sweetly. He turned just as a shadow appeared on the stairs. The candle she was holding revealed the top half of her aged face as she bent to see who intruded. He caught his breath and then ran, the door slamming behind him. As it did, he felt sure he heard his Zia cry, ‘Dante?’

  Confused and heartsore, he stumbled through the calle, crossed so many bridges, darted through so many sottoporteghi, he lost count. This time, when he entered a taverna, he tossed back the drinks offered to him, running out into the night when payment was sought, shouts of abuse all that followed him.

  Just before dawn, he started to feel sick. Staggering outside yet another taverna, he tried to work out where he was. He sank back against a building, squatting on the fondamenta, staring out over the water that had turned a dirty grey. Snow began to fall, its soft flakes melting against his hot face.

  Then, it happened. Through the veil of white a woman emerged out of a low door on the other side of the canal dressed in a long black cape that fell open as she moved. He noticed her gown. Golden, it sparkled even in the half-light. There was something about her that made him frown then straighten. Something plucked at his heart, pulled him to his feet. His head spun. His mouth was dry.

  He crept to the edge of the water, peering through a curtain of snowflakes. She didn’t see him; she was too busy searching the canal. He took in her dress, the mask that hid her eyes but exposed a full, pink mouth and the creamiest complexion. Ah. He leered, squinting to bring her into focus as his mind registered who it was he was seeing. It was the famous Signorina Dorata. He relaxed. Alone, unescorted, a sight for him to enjoy. He quietly snorted, his cooling body warming again as he tried to imagine what she looked like beneath that dress, behind the thick black cape that she now wrapped closely around her as if aware of the way in which his eyes were roaming her body. Signorina Dorata, he thought while his heart continued to pound and a tremble beset his body. He glanced at the casa behind her. Grand indeed. Are you worth it? He was about to call out something crude when she took off her mask.

  Dante gasped and almost fell to his knees. The woman swung towards the sound and frowned into the thickening snow. ‘Who’s there?’ Her voice carried over the water that separated them. ‘Show yourself.’

  Before she even spoke, he knew. His eyes and his hammering, full heart told him. It was Tallow.

  Unable to move or speak, he saw her try to penetrate the obscuring snow, work out who it was that stood there, a dark and silent shadow. He waited for her to sense him, to use those great gifts he knew she possessed. To call him, find him, hold him, know him. All she did was stare. Time froze. What was mere seconds seemed like hours.

  Just as he was about to do something risky, something foolish, a sleek black gondola glided between them, breaking the moment and carrying her away from him. Startled into action, he followed the craft, running along the fondamenta, diving across bridges, making sure the gondolier didn’t see him. When it turned down a narrow waterway that he couldn’t reach, he’d waited at the corner. By now,
the sun was rising above the snow clouds and its washy light filtered across the city. Standing atop the bridge that joined the two sides of the fondamenta and under which Tallow’s gondola had floated, Dante tried to see which casa her craft entered, but it was hard to tell. He couldn’t be sure.

  He rested his arms against the wooden balustrade of the bridge, lowered his burning head onto his hands and sighed deeply. At least he’d found her. His heart, his Bond had told him true. She was here. Lightness filled his being; the dull ache in his head gradually lifted. Then a hand fell on his shoulder.

  ‘It’s the umber one with the nasty little gargoyles over the water-gate,’ slurred a voice. Dante spun and the hand slid away. A man with half-closed eyes swayed before him. He smelled the fumes of vino on his breath.

  ‘Scusi?’ said Dante, one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other across his nose.

  ‘You’re looking for Signorina Dorata, sì? Many do.’ The man pointed a gnarled finger down the canal. ‘She lives there. I see them, day after day, the servants coming and going, bringing gifts, invitations. It never stops.’ He smirked, showing a mouth full of rotten stumps. ‘Good for business.’ It was then Dante noticed the rickety cart he was pushing. Laden with winter flowers, it was a splash of colour in the faded morning.

  ‘Whose casa is it?’

  The man leant against him. Dante shifted away, resisting the urge to cough. It wasn’t just vino he could smell.

  ‘Not s’posed to tell. But for a soldi, you might be able to change my mind.’

  Dante held up his hand to stop the man coming any closer. ‘I don’t have any.’ He patted his empty purse. Not that it mattered. It would be easy to discover whose casa it was. Dante stood back from the rail and looked around. He could not believe his eyes. Why, he was on Nobiles’ Rise. He hadn’t realised how far he’d come, the bridges he’d crossed, he’d been so fixed on following Tallow. Then he caught his own odour. It wasn’t just the flower man who reeked. He felt suddenly ashamed. If Tallow should see him like this! And he, a Bond Rider. What would Debora and Alessandro say? What would Katina?