He no sooner spoke the words than a silence fell on the whole room.
Foscari turned bright red.
Alessandro laughed. ‘You have never known how, or when, to pick a fight, Jacopo,’ he said. He took Swan’s arm and they crossed the room together.
‘You hate him!’ Swan said.
Di Bracchio laughed. ‘I hate several men in this room,’ he said. ‘This is Venice – enemies must cohabitate. Foscari will eventually collapse under the weight of his own plots. But some of these men are my friends – Antonio, for example. He is finally getting married – his father has decided they are rich enough.’ He shook his head. ‘Venice is not an easy place to listen to music, perhaps. Be civil.’ He clasped Swan’s shoulder and went back to the men by the fireplace.
Swan drifted over to listen to the woman.
She was older than Swan – perhaps twenty-eight. Her face was masked and her gown was made of fine stuff, but Swan could see it had been worn many times.
She sang a Landini romance of the last century. Her voice was high and pure and marvellous and Swan lost himself for a while. He came out of his musical fugue only to find her gazing fondly at him.
‘You are not a Venetian,’ she said. ‘No one in Venice pays that much attention to a song.’
Swan grinned. He couldn’t help it – she made him smile. ‘I’m from England,’ he said.
She nodded. The man in the red velvet doublet frowned at her, and her face grew serious. Without taking another breath, she stepped back and began again to sing.
Swan had liked the Landini better. The old songs about anguished love – and spilling blood – seemed to have more heart than the new stuff that affected to describe ‘sentiment’ in terms appropriately ‘classical’.
The man who had been writing in his wax tablet book stepped up beside Swan and motioned at a footman for wine. ‘You appreciate the music, I think,’ he said. He was dressed in the black of apprentices and priests. It was at variance with his carriage, which was as erect as that of any soldier, and his jewels, which were those of a great noble. The ring on his finger had a ruby that eclipsed the mere garnet on Swan’s finger.
Swan shrugged. ‘The signora has just explained that I cannot be a Venetian if I actually enjoy her music.’ He bowed. ‘I am Tommaso Swan, of England.’
The black-clad man bowed politely. ‘I am Lorenzo Loredan,’ he said. ‘You came here from Rimini via Ferrara. You lead a company of lances and Greeks, and you are travelling on with the Pope’s letters to Vienna. You stole the Head of Saint George from the Turks and serve the Order of Saint John. Your mother …’ Loredan smiled. ‘Is of no moment.’
Swan bowed again. ‘You serve the Serinissima?’ he asked.
Loredan returned his bow, his hands on his heart. ‘I have that honour.’
Alessandro reappeared next to Loredan. ‘Don’t let the witch hunter have you, Tommaso.’ Alessandro looked at Loredan with something very like loathing. ‘You don’t have to stay.’
‘On the contrary,’ Loredan said. ‘It is my duty.’
Alessandro put a hand on his arm. ‘The noble Loredan is a spy for the Ten. He is an officer of State Security. His speciality is the detection of sodomy.’ Alessandro laughed bitterly.
Swan saw that most of the other men were watching Loredan with ill-concealed hatred.
Loredan shrugged. ‘My speciality,’ he said, ‘is the detection of treason. Sometimes, traitors have sex with each other.’
‘The noble Loredan had me exiled,’ Alessandro said.
‘And now you are not only recalled, but being trusted with the business of the state,’ Loredan shot back. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Bembo.’
‘Well, you have no need to watch Messire Swan,’ Alessandro said. ‘His inclinations are altogether traditional.’
Loredan shrugged. ‘He is the only man here who saw the singer as beautiful,’ he remarked.
‘Including you,’ Alessandro shot back.
Loredan shrugged, apparently unconcerned.
Alessandro went back to his friends. Loredan watched them for a moment and then sipped his wine. ‘I am not his enemy,’ Loredan said. ‘If he settles down, he will be a brilliant addition to the city, and one day to the Senate.’
Swan felt, as he too often did, that he was out of his depth. ‘Do you really hunt witches?’ he asked.
Loredan sighed. ‘I am charged – as is the Council of Ten – with the maintenance of public order and the fighting of faction and suppressing of treason. Treason comes in many forms.’ He looked at Swan, his dark eyes unblinking. He had a thin, ascetic face and Swan thought that he looked like a Greek saint. ‘I have yet to meet a person who I could charge as a witch,’ he added carefully. He didn’t smile or frown. ‘I have become adept at seizing spies,’ he added.
Swan straightened his back. ‘Yes, I imagine everyone in the world spies on Venice.’
Loredan looked surprised. ‘Why?’ he asked.
Swan winced at the snare, but went on bravely. ‘The Arsenal is a marvel of intricate production techniques. I imagine the Sultan would do anything to learn its secrets. The casting of cannon – the number of ships arming …’ He shrugged.
‘You put that very well. You might even be a spy yourself,’ Loredan said. ‘You know, if I left this party, every man here could enjoy himself.’ He looked at Swan. Swan met his eye. The eyes were mild, not fanatical. ‘And as long as their enjoyment did not verge on discussing treason, I would not care.’
Swan wondered why the Venetian was telling him all this.
The singer began a new song, and her voice soared – it was so remarkable that Swan turned away from Loredan and looked at her. She had her head thrown back to free her throat. Swan didn’t know in what language she was singing.
‘Spanish,’ Loredan said, as if reading his mind. ‘She is very good.’
‘Is she … a member of the family?’ Swan asked. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised that she couldn’t be, in her old gown. No decent daughter of a respectable Venetian noble family was unwed at twenty-eight unless she was in a nunnery.
Loredan laughed. ‘I will tell her later,’ he said. ‘No, she is a courtesan. We call her type cortigiani honore. Not a prostitute, but a performer.’ He reached past Swan to take a sweetmeat off a tray and then looked back with his mild eyes. ‘You know the Rabbi Aaron, I believe?’ he said.
Swan knew that he was being tested. ‘Well enough,’ he said.
‘And Messire Balthazaro, too, I suspect?’ Loredan asked.
Swan crossed his arms over his chest. ‘My pardon, Most Noble. Perhaps you can tell me where this is going.’
Loredan shook his head. ‘Nowhere, except that I know a fair amount about you, and I wonder what you are after. You could save me an enormous amount of time and tell me. I find you interesting. I would have sent men to fetch you from your inn if you had not appeared here.’ He looked around. ‘You have … dangerous friends.’
‘Most Noble, I am en route from the Pope and Cardinal Bessarion – who, I think you know, is a strong friend of Venice – to the Emperor and the King of Hungary. That is all I can say.’ Swan looked for Alessandro.
‘Yet you came here with thirty soldiers and escorting the Lord of Rimini’s son – a boy who is himself only in Venice to ensure his father’s good behaviour. And I hear a rumour about your visit to Rimini. Several rumours, really.’ Loredan’s eyes didn’t leave his.
Swan didn’t bother to shrug. Calmly, he reached into his plain woollen doublet and fetched out his leather letter case. ‘I have a passport signed by the Doge and the Council,’ he said.
‘I know that perfectly well,’ Loredan said. He didn’t glance at the passport or take it. ‘This is an exceptionally delicate time in this city. What are you actually doing here?’
Alessandro caught his eye. Swan gave him the ‘I’m in trouble’ sign. Alessandro pursed his lips and came over.
‘I am serving my master, Cardinal Bessarion,’ Swan said.
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Alessandro stepped in – literally. He physically stepped between the two men. ‘Leave Tommaso alone,’ he said. ‘He has nothing to do with your plots.’
Loredan turned to Alessandro and frowned. ‘Most noble and illustrious son of Bembo Primo, inasmuch as every man in this city knows that it is your father’s intention to legitimise you – to make you the Bembo lord of your generation – I beg you to understand that I only do my duty to the state. The same state you will serve, and that will serve you.’ The surprising thing was that these patriotic statements might have been dark or ironic or even mocking – but the man sounded genuine.
Alessandro shrugged. ‘Ah, most noble Loredan. May I promise you that Messire Swan and I are implicated in no plots whatsoever involving any element of Venetian engagement except the funding of the crusade?’
Loredan blinked. ‘Be my guest, Bembo. Promise me.’
Alessandro smiled. ‘I give you my word.’
Loredan looked at Swan. ‘And you?’
Swan nodded. ‘You’ll take my word?’ he asked. ‘I give it. I am here waiting for the Senate and the Great Council to decide whether they will help support the crusade.’
Loredan nodded. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Was that so difficult?’
Swan rolled his eyes. ‘Why would you believe me?’ he asked.
‘I can almost always tell when a man is lying,’ Loredan said.
Alessandro gave an almost infinitesimal nod.
Alessandro looked back at his friends. ‘Why now, Loredan?’
Loredan frowned. ‘There is a conspiracy,’ he said.
Alessandro shrugged. ‘There always is,’ he said. ‘Though why anyone would try to make themselves king of the swamp that is Venice is beyond me.’
Loredan looked at Swan. ‘I would like to like you,’ he said. ‘Gossip has it you are a fine swordsman – a good soldier. I have been a soldier.’ He smiled. ‘I enjoyed it.’
Swan nodded. ‘Where did you fight?’ he asked.
Loredan frowned. ‘Terra Firma. And a little in Greece. I was the proveditor of the stradiotes.’
Something like a bell went off in Swan’s head. So you’ve known who I was and where I came from all along, he thought.
Loredan left them and forced himself on the man in the red doublet – escorting him to a corner and speaking to him, so that the man in red wilted, his arrogance slowly draining away – his head hung, and his shoulders slumped, and still Loredan stood like a soldier on parade.
‘I’m sorry I brought you,’ Alessandro said. ‘Loredan is not even human. He is some sort of automaton harnessed by the Ten.’
Swan smile crookedly. ‘I rather liked him,’ he said.
‘We were friends, once,’ Alessandro said. ‘He’s a fine swordsman,’ he added, as if that alone might make up for a great many things.
When Loredan was done with the man in the red doublet – Alessio di Contarini – he made his excuses with grave courtesy, bowed formally to the singer, and went out into the rainy night.
The men at the party cheered.
And later, after food had been served, Marco of the Cornari introduced himself. ‘You are the English knight, Ser Suane?’
Swan liked it when he was promoted to knight. ‘Yes, I have that honour,’ he said.
‘My uncle is the Corner,’ Cornari said.
‘The Most Noble Matteo,’ Swan said. ‘I met him.’
‘Indeed. You probably do not care, but he is threatening to turn all of that Malatesta boy’s people into the street. He sent a note to the Doge.’ Cornari grimaced. ‘The governess deserves better. She is well born. My uncle claims she is a strumpet. Somehow she made him very angry.’
Alessandro put his hand on Swan’s shoulder. ‘Not our problem,’ he said.
Swan bowed. ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention,’ he said. ‘Will you see them?’ He lowered his voice. ‘The governess?’
Marco smiled – a knowing man of the world. ‘Ah – I might, for a friend.’
Swan saw no reason to dissimulate. ‘I’m at the inn opposite the church of Saint Niccolo.’
‘I know it – the mercenaries all lodge there.’ Cornari smiled. ‘I suppose that makes you a condottiere.’
‘Possibly,’ Swan said.
Young Corner gave Swan a wry smile much like those Swan used himself. ‘You know what we say about our little empire? We pay foreign women to be our whores and foreign men to fight our wars. And someday, they will not need us at all.’ He bowed. ‘If I see her, I’ll send your respectful greetings.’
‘Please tell her I am at her service.’ Swan looked at Alessandro, who was drinking all this in.
On the way home in a boat, Alessandro nudged him with a sharp elbow. ‘Who’s the governess?’ he asked.
Swan attempted to be nonchalant. ‘A nice young woman – good family. The one you thought looked like a boy.’
Alessandro grunted. ‘At the Cornari palace?’ he asked.
Swan nodded but it was useless in the dark, so after a few pulls by the oars, he said, ‘Yes.’
Alessandro grunted again.
‘Be careful, Englishman,’ he said. He hadn’t said that in months – perhaps years. It gave Swan a sense of past times, good times now gone.
The next morning, despite a pale sun and an enduring hangover, Swan rose early, washed thoroughly in hot water provided by Giovanna and wished he’d found a way to bed the singer. Or Giovanna. Or really, any acceptable, clean young woman.
He sent a note across the lagoon to the Rabbi Aaron, and by the time he’d had a crust of dry bread and a cup of hot wine a reply returned that made him smile. He got up and stretched.
‘I’m going out to fence,’ he said to Niccolo, the innkeeper. Giovanna was cleaning cups.
Niccolo nodded. ‘Yes, fine, good,’ he said, and didn’t really look up from his coins.
‘I’m going to have sex with the Pope,’ Swan said.
‘Ah!’ said Messire Niccolo, waving genially and moving five more ducats into his pile. ‘Have a good time.’
Giovanna passed him in the common room. ‘Sex with the Pope? she asked, and Swan flushed. She reached into her cleavage and drew out a folded scrap of parchment. ‘This came. A Cornari boy brought it.’ She shrugged. ‘It was sealed and I opened it.’ She looked defiant.
Swan unfolded it with a flick of his thumb. It was from the Signora Sophia. It said, baldly, ‘A man came here and said that you should be killed. My charge is threatened. Please help me leave this place.’
Swan murmured his thanks to Giovanna as he tried to take this in.
Giovanna put her hands on her hips. ‘Who is she? And what is wrong? Are these the same men who tried to kill you before?’
Swan shook his head, already moving to the door. Giovanna stamped her foot.
‘I know one of the girls at Ca’ Corner,’ she said.
‘You know everyone,’ Swan said, but he smiled. ‘This girl – she is innocent, but, I think, caught like a mouse in a clock.’
Giovanna grunted.
Swan tapped his teeth with a thumbnail. ‘She’s … a gentlewoman,’ he said.
‘Then why does she summon you? Why not her menfolk?’ Giovanna shook her head. ‘I don’t like it. It smells.’
Swan shrugged. ‘Let me think.’ He looked out of the window at the day. ‘Could you get me in to the Ca’ Corner?’
Giovanna looked to heaven for help. ‘If my friend let you into the palazzo, she’d lose her place and be whipped – if she wasn’t killed.’
Swan swore. ‘Let me think on it,’ he said, and hurried out.
Filippo Viladi kept a room for teaching various fighting arts in a small apartment over a tailor’s shop. He had torn out two walls to make the space big enough – barely – for two men to engage with swords of any length. When Swan arrived, he could hear the clash of blades above him and the heavy oak floor was thudding rhythmically. Swan made a face and the tailor spread his hands.
‘He pays good rent,’ th
e tailor said.
Swan nodded. ‘I suppose he has a client. I’ll wait.’ He wandered around the tailor’s shop and found himself looking at an elegant pair of black wool hose worked in scarlet flames and pearls that were lying over the counter.
The tailor came over. ‘That’s good work – Donna Esperanza does it over in the next street.’
Swan admired the pearls. ‘What does something like this cost?’ he asked.
The tailor looked at him, sizing up his donat’s ring, his plain brown clothes, and the band of the ring of the conqueror, which was turned inward so that the diamond didn’t show. It still made a fine gold band.
The tailor decided he might just be a customer. ‘I didn’t make these – I’m merely sewing up a tear that the gentleman made last night. I could make a pair for twenty ducats, with the pearls,’ he said. ‘But not with the pearls and flames. Messire is a foreigner?’
Swan nodded. ‘I am English,’ he said.
The tailor shrugged as if to say that there might be good even in Englishmen. ‘These are – how can I tell you – part of the uniform of the Calzi. There are many clubs. You must belong to one of them to wear the hose.’ He shrugged, now to indicate that it wasn’t just foreigners who had odd ways.
Swan was admiring a small mannequin wearing hose, a short doublet and a half-cloak that bore more than a passing resemblance to a Roman garment. He had seen them on statues. ‘I’m going to Vienna,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the Venetian.
The sounds overhead rose to a new crescendo. Swan looked up. He was jumpy – Sophia’s warning had done that. He wondered about her …
‘I like that cloak,’ he said. ‘I need a new arming coat.’
The tailor shook his head very slightly. ‘I am not a pourpoint maker,’ he said gravely, as if Swan had given him mortal offence.
Swan, who usually bought used clothes in the Roman markets, had not been aware of these niceties. But he had time to kill. ‘Imagine that I would like a suit of clothes to wear of an evening to a great house – the Cornari or the Dondalo,’ he said.
The tailor’s mouth folded down at the corners. It was clear that he thought such an invitation unlikely. ‘I could make such a suit,’ he said. ‘You would have to pay in advance for the cloth,’ he went on, with a sniff of pure distrust.
Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Three Page 3