Votive

by Karen Brooks

  ‘What’s it say?’ asked Santo. Then he rolled towards the canal and vomited. Stefano watched as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the waters, listening to the awful sounds without one shred of sympathy. His mind was on fire.

  Pale now, Santo leant back onto his elbow and slowly sat up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He couldn’t meet Stefano’s eyes. His head was bowed, his shoulders drooped. ‘What is it? Read it to me, please,’ he asked in a small voice, his earlier bravado now floating away in the canal.

  ‘I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’ Stefano was staring at the paper like a man obsessed.

  ‘Think of what?’

  ‘Dante isn’t in love with a courtesan.’

  ‘No? Then why does he keep following her?’

  Stefano glanced at Santo. His eyes were agate. ‘Because Signorina Dorata is the Estrattore. Signorina Dorata is Tallow.’

  Santo gaped at him. ‘How did you come to that conclusion? Just because Dante follows her doesn’t mean –’

  ‘Think about it,’ snapped Stefano, poking the bit of paper with his finger. ‘The Cardinale is offering a massive reward for information about the Estrattore, for a boy! Look at the picture. You can understand a picture, can’t you?’ He thrust it into Santo’s face.

  Santo blinked and made a show of studying the crude image. He’d seen it a hundred times, so what? He shrugged. ‘It sort of looks like the boy we tried to snatch off the bridge. I told you, he’s nowhere to be found. Not even Dante can find him.’

  Stefano resisted the urge to punch him in the head. Instead he continued.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said slowly, darkly. ‘No-one has, have they? Why? Because the Estrattore isn’t a boy at all. I know that, you know that, all the Bond Riders know that, including Dante. Dante, who followed a girl onto the bridge, who risked his life for a girl.’

  Understanding dawned on Santo’s face. He glanced from the paper to Stefano and back again. ‘You think the courtesan is that girl. That it’s Tallow.’

  ‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? What was this courtesan’s name again?’

  ‘Signorina Dorata.’

  ‘No, you idioto. Not the name the popolani have given her – her real name.’ Stefano tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Surely you’ve discovered that.’

  ‘Err …’ Santo slapped his forehead. ‘Let me think … Taylo, Tarlo, something like that.’ Santo stopped.

  Stefano just stared at him.

  ‘Right beneath our noses all this time,’ said Santo incredulously. He noted the look on Stefano’s face and struggled to sit upright.

  ‘Right beneath your nose, you mean. When it wasn’t in a mug of vino.’

  Santo paused and his pasty face flooded with colour. ‘Don’t try to blame me.’

  ‘Well, who else, you fool? You could have worked this out. You’re the one who’s been here all this time, all these months. You said yourself you saw Signorina Dorata – and apart from Dante and Katina, you’re the only one to have a close encounter with Tallow.’ Stefano gave in to his desire, and cuffed him across the ears. Santo groaned. ‘But instead of using your head, you fill it with vino and don’t use it at all. You didn’t need to be able to read or write to work this out, you stupid, illiterate bastardo – you just needed to use the eyes and ears the gods gave you.’

  Santo frowned and folded his arms. ‘How was I supposed to make that kind of connection, huh? Signorina Dorata looks nothing like that.’ He slapped the paper that Stefano still held. It was torn out of his fingers and fluttered to the ground.

  ‘You should have seen this, Santo. Don’t make pathetic excuses. Yet again, you caved into your weakness, the way you always do when you come back here. I’m just surprised you didn’t have a woman in your bed as well.’ Santo cringed at the tone in Stefano’s voice.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he mumbled, eyes downcast. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No? Why not? You’ve done everything else you promised you’d never do again.’ Stefano stood up.

  Santo was about to argue when his shoulders slumped. He waited a moment. ‘You’re right. Mi dispiace, Stefano. I promise, it won’t happen again. I know what to do now, all right? Just tell me what you want me to do to make up for this. What do we do?’

  Stefano looked down on his partner, at the state of his clothes, of his puffy face, streaked with sawdust, dirt and worse. He felt nothing but contempt. ‘We don’t do anything. You don’t do anything. I’ll go back and report to Elder Nicolotti and return shortly with new instructions you can meet me at the Pledge Stone in a few days.’ He bent down and picked up the paper, folding it and putting it in the pocket of his shirt. ‘Actually, there is something you can do. Sober up, Santo, because, by the time I return, if you’re not ready to join me, I’ll do this on my own. I won’t rescue you from yourself again.’

  Without another word, Stefano turned and walked away, disappearing around a corner.

  SANTO SAT FOR A MOMENT, gazing out over the water. He began to shiver. He needed to change his clothes. He pulled his shirt away from his body and the odour that rose to his nostrils almost made him heave again. He struggled to his feet and stood swaying, trying to control the nausea. His head hurt. He felt a lump forming above his eyebrow, a companion to the one on the back of his head. Blood stuck to his fingers. His stomach and left shoulder ached as well. Nothing one more drink wouldn’t fix. Then he’d stop. He would. Promise. Stefano wouldn’t mind; he’d understand.

  His eyes sidled in the direction Stefano had gone. He’d also never know.

  On the way back to the taverna, he passed another one of those godforsaken posters. This time, he stopped in front of it and stared at the drawing of the Estrattore and at the, to him, illegible squiggles beneath. The image blurred but he could still see the dark hair and those huge, ugly silver orbs, staring at him, reading what he was, what was tucked away in the deep recesses inside his mind.

  ‘Make a fool of me, would you? Come between me and Stefano? Never again. Not you, or the Maggiore puttana.’ Shaking, he drew out his dagger and, first looking up and down the ramo to make sure no-one was about, clumsily shredded the poster into tiny pieces. He watched them flutter to the cobbles and then ground his heel into each little strip. He felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction.

  Swaying to and fro, he stared down at the remnants of Tallow’s poor likeness, at what it signified, warmth infusing his body. He was about to leave when a thought suddenly occurred to him. In an instant, he knew how to win Stefano’s approval; earn not just his respect, but his love again as well.

  Katina and Dante’s Obbligare Doppio might have stopped the Riders acting on their own Bonds, but what if he chose to fulfil Stefano’s for him? Surely the dual pledge couldn’t prevent that?

  He began to smile, then laugh as he kicked the ground, scattering the fragments of paper in all directions.

  Next time, it won’t be your image, I cut, Signorina Dorata, he thought as he staggered back to the taverna, a wild grin splitting his face as he formulated a plan. Oh, no. Next time, it will be your heart I break when I tear apart all who are Bonded to protect you …’

  THE COUNCIL OF TEN, THE MOST LEARNED and powerful of the Serenissian nobility, were ruled by a trio of men known as the capi. Head of the capi was Signor Zanino Nicolotti. In a small, dark chamber adjacent to their usual meeting room in the palazzo, Signor Nicolotti looked down the polished wooden table at the faces assembled before him. He’d dismissed the servants with the exception of four of his most trusted, and asked them to position themselves in the secret corridors that ran behind the room. He wanted not one word of what the ruling body behind the Doge was about to discuss to escape.

  Thick candles atop enormous iron holders had been burning for a few hours as the capi waited for the other nobiles to arrive and take their chairs. Smoke filled the room and the air grew close, but Signor Nicolotti ordered that the solitary window remain shut.

  He r
eached inside his togati and, tugging a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, patted at the sweat that dotted his brow. Picking up the silver ewer that sat near his glass, he refilled it, taking a long drink of the vino. Like the room, it too was warm.

  Finally, all the members were seated. Whispering among themselves, curious as to why this late meeting had been called, even though they could guess the reason, they cast glances at the vacant chair in their midst.

  Signor Nicolotti reached across the table for the little hammer and struck it against the block of wood in front of him three times. At once the talking ceased. All eyes fixed on his. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Signori, some of you will be aware of why we,’ he said, indicating the two men on either side of him, ‘have called you here tonight.’

  There were murmurs, a few nods.

  ‘My reasons are twofold. The first, in light of the recent and most unexpected death of Lenuzo Vincini, distant cousin by marriage to Signor Moronisini – our condolences, good Signor –’ As one, they crossed themselves.

  Signor Moronisini looked grim-faced. ‘There has been too much death, too many sons, brothers, nephews lost of late.’ He directed compassionate looks at other members of the Council. They all crossed themselves again.

  ‘Allora,’ continued Signor Nicolotti after a respectful pause, ‘our immediate business is to replace his seat so that, once again, we are a full Council.’

  Again there were slight murmurs. Signor Manin, on his left, coughed.

  ‘It was unanimously decreed at our last meeting that, should a vacancy arise before the next annual election, Ezzelino Maleovelli would be offered the seat. I am pleased to say he has accepted the honour. Signor Errizo –’ he nodded to the gentleman on his right ‘– if you could admit our new Councillor.’

  Colleto Errizo pushed back his chair and hobbled his way slowly to the large wooden door buried in the walls of the chamber. He pressed the secret latch known only to Council members and the capi’s servants and it swung open silently. Standing there, one of Signor Nicolotti’s men at his elbow, was Ezzelino Maleovelli. His usual black togati had been substituted for a red one, accompanied by a loose white cowl, which draped across his shoulders and down his back. It was this that distinguished the robe from those worn by a regular member of the Great Council.

  ‘Permesso?’ he asked, as was required.

  ‘Prego,’ said Signor Nicolotti.

  Ezzelino bowed as low as his age would allow him and then, using his cane more as a prop than an aid, walked proudly to the table. Each step was accompanied by the drumming of the Council’s hands against the table – a hollow-sounding refrain that ceased once he reached his designated chair.

  ‘Welcome, Ezzelino. It has been too long since a Maleovelli sat in this chamber.’

  Ezzelino’s eyes glinted and Signor Nicolotti wondered briefly if it was from unshed tears until the candlelight caught his face and he saw only the glimmer of triumph. He quickly swore Ezzelino in, both of them using the Bible from which the Cardinale read in the basilica. As the ceremony finished, all the men crossed themselves and then, raising their glasses, toasted Ezzelino.

  ‘Grazie, Signori,’ said Ezzelino in a measured, deep voice, lifting his glass. ‘Salute. It is my honour to sit among the most esteemed and wise of my peers and to be trusted to do what is best for our country.’

  He took his seat, running his hands up and down the polished wood, noting the comfort of the plush purple velvet, and received the approving nods of the Council members. Beside him, Signor Moronisini reached over and patted his wrist.

  Signor Nicolotti sat, sweeping his togati behind him. He rested his hand on top of the papers piled in front of him.

  ‘What we are about to discuss, gentleman, is strictly confidential. The Council of Ten has long been trusted to act with discretion, with or without the approval of the Doge to do, to borrow Signor Maleovelli’s words, “what is best for our country”. Tonight, we need to do this once more.

  ‘As you know, a great deal of misfortune has struck the Dandolo family. Some attribute this sfortunato, this bad luck, to beginning last century, back when Andrea Dandolo was Doge and sued for peace with the Jinoans.’

  Grumbles issued from around the table. Signor Nicolotti repressed a smile. The Jinoans, for all that they made good trading partners, were not loyal allies. ‘Others locate it as commencing when young Claudio was kidnapped by unidentified intruders. But there has been no ransom, no threat, only silence. He has vanished. Whatever the reason for his abduction, the fact remains that the Doge’s two sons, the heirs to the throne of Serenissima, have, for whatever reason, seen fit to deny their birthright and follow alternate paths. There has been no other male issue in his family; no more sons or grandsons. God has seen fit to deliver of the Dandolos a daughter alone. And daughters do not rulers make, as we all know, Signori. Women were designed for different purposes.’ There were knowing smiles and chuckles of agreement.

  ‘Significantly, what this means for us is that we must look to our future. To the future of Serenissima. Doge Dandolo is the last of his family to hold office. He is an old man. In other words, Signori, it’s time to think about electing a new Doge.’

  Signor Nicolotti watched as conversation broke out among the Council.

  He banged the gavel. Gradually, silence fell upon the room.

  ‘Signor Errizo, you wish to speak?’ He indicated his fellow capi.

  ‘Grazie.’ Signor Errizo stared at the candle in front of him, gathering his thoughts. His skin looked yellow in the halo cast by the light, papery and thin like the man himself. ‘I believe that when we seek to appoint a Doge, it must be someone from a large family, someone we can trust to train his sons to hold office with dignity. Someone who, at the first sign of trouble, will not run to the Limen or make a poor marriage. We need to prove once more that we are strong, that as a country, we are leaders in Vista Mare. For this, we need constancy. Tradition. Once again, we need to establish a new and long-lasting dynasty.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said a voice down the table.

  ‘I disagree.’ All eyes turned to Signor Moronisini. ‘With your permission?’ he asked Signor Nicolotti.

  Signor Nicolotti inclined his head.

  ‘While I respect what Signor Errizo says,’ began Signor Moronisini, ‘I think he is wrong. I think that’s the lesson the trouble plaguing Casa Dandolo teaches us. Rather than look to a dynasty, I think we need to reconsider whom we appoint as Doge. Times have changed, so has Vista Mare. Rather than a family with many sons, a family who could rule for years if not centuries, we should seek to appoint someone who is powerful now and for the term of his natural life. Who, if he makes mistakes, will not pass these onto the next generation. With his death, a new Doge can be appointed. In the long term, we should consider changing the Dogeship from a hereditary office to one of appointment. In the short term, the question of male issue should not be a consideration. What should be is appointing a Doge with strong leadership and connections. For it is not the Dandolo problem alone we face, is it, Signor Nicolotti?’

  ‘No,’ said Signor Nicolotti, ‘it is not.’ He released a deep, heavy sigh. ‘Signori, the problem of the Doge is a vexed one. I will leave you to ponder this discussion later. But Signor Moronisini is right. We have other problems to consider, ones that will affect our choice of Doge, as well as which families we approve to step forward to make claim to the throne.’

  Ezzelino cleared his throat. ‘As the newest member of Council,’ he said slowly. ‘May I ask what these troubles might be?’

  Signor Nicolotti nodded. ‘Indeed you must. They come from the East – it’s the Ottomans, Signor Maleovelli. The Ottomans are threatening the Serenissian Rebublic – specifically our ports and holdings in the Mariniquian Seas.’

  There were sharp intakes of breath, the whisper of alarm. The men eyed each other cautiously, the fear of possibility and danger in their gaze.

  Ezzelino frowned. ‘How? They are but a r
abble, barbarians who roam the Ankaran Desert, worshipping their strange god, killing one another, are they not?’

  ‘Not anymore.’ Signor Moronisini leant forward. ‘We have had information from our ambassador in Konstantinople that the Ottoman ruler, Sultan Selim I, has done what his father failed to do – he has brought together the people. United, they pose a danger to, not only Serenissima, but the Church as well. Reports tell us they are on the move, not in their usual ad hoc, fractured way, but as a cohesive fighting force.’ He paused. ‘Worse, they have their sights set on Konstantinople – our most precious of the colonies.’

  There were gasps, followed by hurried murmurs.

  ‘This can’t be allowed. Once these heretics get a foothold in the Mariniquian Seas, they’ll be no stopping them,’ argued Signor Dardi Pisano.

  ‘I know they’re good fighters. The skills of the Janissaries, their elite warriors, is legendary,’ said Signor Guido Maggiore from the other end of the table, his white hair shining. ‘But Konstantinople is well protected from land – and sea for that matter. It’s not only ringed by walls, but the Straits separate the Ottoman Empire from Konstantinople, from the whole of Byzantium.’ He laughed. ‘What do we care if they create an army? They cannot walk across the water, nor can they swim. They are not the threat you fear, Pisano.’

  ‘Vero. This is true,’ agreed Signor Nicolotti. ‘But they can sail.’

  ‘Since when? They’re not known for their navy – surely, you worry about nothing? It wouldn’t be the first time a foreign power has made threats towards Konstantinople. But threats are different from actions.’ Signor Maggiore smiled around the table, seeking support. There were grunts of approval. A couple of the Council members struck the table.

  ‘Sì, sì.’

  ‘They have been acquiring a fleet,’ said Signor Nicolotti flatly.

  There was a moment of silence before voices broke out. ‘How? Who would supply them?’ Concern and trepidation mingled in the air.