by Sasha Gould
“I cannot go any farther,” the Duchess explains. “It would be a scandal for the Doge. Here.” She hands me the ducal seal, cast in wax. “Show this, and the warden will allow you access.” Her glance drifts to the secret door. “To think my son is through there somewhere and I cannot even …” She turns her face away to hide her emotion, then retreats back down the corridor. I’m on my own.
The door clangs as I knock on it, then slides open. A man gives me a lecherous, gap-toothed smile, his face red and greasy. “A jewel amidst the pig swill,” he comments. “What brings you here?”
I feel perspiration prickle beneath my armpits. “I am here to see Roberto, the Doge’s son.”
The warden laughs and spits on the floor, littered with damp and rotting straw. “Oh, that one!” he remarks. “Yes, he looks handsome enough to catch a prize such as you. But I don’t think he should be allowed to look upon you now.”
I show him the seal, and he nods thoughtfully before turning his back. “Follow me.”
Immediately, the stench hits me. I can smell sweat and dirt, feces and blood—but, more than that, I can detect the scent of desperation.
This is it, then. I must follow.
As we climb a set of stairs, the heat increases. I am soon aware of the circles of sweat staining the fabric of my dress. Beneath our feet, I can see rows of roofless cells with men lying or squatting on the packed dirt floor. White half crescents shine from their filthy faces as their eyes watch me, and clothes torn into rags only just cover their bodies. One man is almost naked but for a loincloth, his body writhing as he stretches across his cell, froth at his mouth.
“That man there!” I put a hand on the warden’s shoulder to stop him. “He needs help.”
My guide glances down. “That man needs nothing. He’s spoilt with attention. He’ll be well again soon enough.” I am forced to continue, as the prisoner’s distressed cries fill the air and a jerk of his foot sends a gruel bowl spinning.
I almost wish I’d taken the man’s handkerchief; the heat and the stench are overwhelming. Bile rises in my throat and I think I’m about to be sick. The sensation passes. I wipe the sweat from my face and carry on climbing higher beneath the lead roof that gives the prison its name, the metal taking the heat of the day and doubling it. I hardly dare think about what I’ll find when we reach Roberto.
Finally, we stop climbing. The man jerks his chin towards a cell in a far corner and departs back down the stairs. “A few moments only,” he snarls.
I walk across the floorboards, the gray roof low over my head. The heat is unbearable now. As I come to stand before the cell, I see a shape slumped against the back wall. At first I think it is an abandoned sack, but then there’s a movement and the flicker of white eyes.
“Roberto?” I whisper, throwing myself forward to grasp the bars of the cell.
A head rises and a smile spreads across my love’s face. He gets to his feet, moving stiffly, and as he hobbles across the cell towards me I can see that every movement causes him pain. He leans to one side as though his ribs have been bruised.
“What are you doing here? How …?”
I smile. “Your mother helped. She says to tell you that she loves you very much.”
His face creases with a sort of despair, but then he gathers himself and wipes a hand over his brow. When he drops his hand again, he is grinning bravely.
“What happened?” I ask, reaching through the bars to lift his tunic. Quickly but gently, he bats me away. His hair hangs in dank locks around his face, and a purple bruise stains his left cheekbone. The skin has split, and blood is crusted in the wound.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Oh, my darling.” He stretches his arms through the bars and draws me to him. I try not to flinch at the smell of him, and I press my lips against his. They are hot with fever.
“Tell me what happened,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. “How did that woman …”
Roberto shoves a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he says, moving away from me. “I’ve gone over it so many times in my own head, trying to remember. I felt ill at the ball … started to make my way home. I can’t remember anything after that. The next thing I know you were banging on the door and that woman was bathed in blood on my floor! You know the accusations aren’t true, don’t you, Laura? Tell me you know that!”
He’s been pacing his cell, and now he turns to me. I hate to admit it, but the look on his face scares me. It’s furious, desperate. But is there a hint of guilt?
“Of course I know that. But if I’m to help, I have to ask. How did it come to this, Roberto?”
“I’ll tell you how!” he almost shouts. “Someone set me up. Those watchmen, turning up when they did. Coincidence? Only in a fool’s head! The whole thing was planned.”
Roberto must be right. Those men who stormed his home were only seconds behind me.
A hand lands heavily on my shoulder. “I said a few moments only,” says the warden, his breath hot against my ear. I find my grip tightening on the bars of the cell.
“Just a minute more won’t hurt,” I say, trying to keep my voice light—flirtatious even. The hand moves to grip my arm, and suddenly I am yanked round and flung back against a wall. Roberto calls out, “Leave her alone!” but the warden has brought his face close to mine, and I can see the spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth.
“Now do as I say,” the warden growls. He begins to drag me down the stairs, and it is all I can do not to trip over my skirts and go hurtling to my death.
“I’ll do everything I can for you!” I call back.
“No!” Roberto’s voice is hoarse with panic. “Don’t get involved. The authorities will realize their mistake. Everything will be fine!”
These are the last words I hear as the warden opens the main doors to the jail and throws me out into the street. The sunlight hurts my eyes, and I raise a hand to shield my face. A woman is walking past with her daughter, and she throws me a nervous glance, drawing the child to her as they scuttle past. She’s just seen me ejected from the city’s most notorious prison, after all. I smooth out my skirts, pat my hair back into place and wipe the sweat from my throat. Then I begin walking without looking back. Roberto’s last words make my heart beat faster. Everything will be fine.…
“It will be, my love,” I mutter. “I’ll make it so.”
11
In my hand is a bouquet of lilies and white poppies tied with purple ribbon. A fresh breeze comes off the water and threatens to tug my hair from its pins. I think of Roberto alone in his stinking cell and my hands tighten around the stems. What am I doing here while he lives a nightmare?
I stand in a line of women, all gazing out across the harbor from St. Mark’s Basin. To one side of me is Emilia and behind me stands Faustina. We are each dressed in our finest, at Venice’s formal welcome party for the Ottomans. They have sent an ambassador to join the talks with the Doge, and as a member of the Grand Council, Father insists that his family be represented today.
“The daughters of Venice will be on hand when the Turks arrive,” he explained. “And you will be among them. Is that understood?”
I tried to tell him that my grief for Roberto made public appearances impossible, but how could I ever have expected Father to understand?
“Roberto has brought shame on this family. It is up to you to retrieve some honor. You will be there,” he said, his voice laden with threat.
So, here I stand. Faustina considered carefully what outfit I should wear. Finally, this morning, we settled on the cream satin embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis, with a front-laced bodice. My hair is plaited and wound around my head, and a string of iridescent shells hangs from my neck. Emilia brought out her best gown from her luggage, and Faustina steamed the peacock silk until every last crease had been smoothed out. It took her the best part of a day to prepare.
Another breeze drifts off the water. Sails flutter, and Venetian flags ripple and snap ab
ove our heads. The harbor is alive with noise—people chattering, noblemen talking in whispers. Behind us, musicians play trumpets, clarinets and drums. Ahead of us is the Turkish galley ship, surrounded by smaller vessels. The Ottoman Empire has a huge fleet; everyone in Venice knows that. Constantinople’s shipyard is legendary.
Massimo, the man who commands Venice’s warships, has trimmed his beard back a little, I see. He heads a detachment of soldiers who form an escort to the Grand Council. The show of might is hardly subtle. I have no doubt of the importance of these talks, for they concern the trade routes across the sea that bring silk, grain and spices to our markets, and money into our purses. But my affection for Venice cannot override my love for Roberto, and the pain I feel is like an iron cage pressing my ribs tighter and tighter. I have asked Allegreza for another interview to discuss the mysterious woman at Murano. Surely, this woman holds more clues. I was a fool to allow Allegreza’s empty words about wheels turning to keep me from asking more questions. There are secrets waiting to be unearthed, and I must do the digging.
For now, though, I have no choice but to play my part in this spectacle. The lead ship of the Ottoman fleet has three masts and is squat in the water. It is an imposing object, with none of the gilded beauty of our gondolas. If ships could speak, this one would say, I fear nothing.
“Are you nervous?” Emilia whispers to me as the breeze plays with the curls at her temples. Her eyes are fixed on the water, eating up the scene.
“No,” I tell her. I feel almost nothing. The rest of life dulls to gray beside the nightmarish color of the blood I saw on Roberto’s floor. I close my eyes and try to push that image from my mind, but it is branded behind my eyelids.
“You should be nervous!” Faustina’s voice protests. I dare not look round to face her; I must appear as a lady of Venice, entranced by the Ottomans’ arrival. “I’ve heard that all Turks are goblin-faced brutes. This Halim—their prince, as they call him—I’ve heard he can turn people to stone with his ugliness! Whatever you do, don’t gaze into his eyes, girls. I won’t be answerable for what happens.”
On the edge of my vision, I see Emilia’s shoulders shaking with contained mirth. A smile plays around my own lips, despite myself.
“You’re talking nonsense,” I murmur over my shoulder.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” is Faustina’s last shot. There’s no time left to speak. The ship has docked, and men are scrambling up the masts to let down the sails. A gangplank has been set against the side of the vessel. Men walk down it, gazing around them with open curiosity. I wonder how Venice appears to eyes that have never seen it before; the canals and piazzas, the colorful market stalls and soaring spires.
A sudden blast of trumpets sounds, and the crowd swells forward as a solitary figure appears at the top of the gangplank. He wears an outfit of dazzling white that almost seems to glow in the Venice sunshine. A thick silk sash circles his waist and his head is decorated with a turban, the coils of linen gleaming as they snake around his brow. On all sides of me, the crowd gasps in delight. The clean simplicity of the man’s outfit is in stark contrast to the luxurious embellishments in which most Venetian men indulge. His skin shines golden, and his broad shoulders shift as he raises a hand in salutation, smiling so that his teeth sparkle white.
This is no goblin-faced brute.
He stands on the pier now, and one of the Grand Council introduces himself. Prince Halim listens politely, but his eyes travel along the formal row of Venetian ladies. As he looks at each young woman, she dips in a curtsy. Finally, his gaze comes to rest on me. His eyes are a deep brown, chestnut rich. I lower mine and bob from the knees, fingertips grasping my skirts as I curtsy. But the girl to the left of me does not move. When I straighten back up, Prince Halim is still looking right at me. The sound of giggling has broken out and my cheeks flame as I realize that I am being singled out for attention.
“Don’t look into his eyes!” Faustina hisses from behind me.
Finally, thank heavens, the Doge steps forward to greet the Turkish prince, and the moment is broken.
“Have you turned to stone yet?” Emilia teases, to my right. I shake my head, to prove Faustina’s theories wrong. But I can’t stop watching the men as the Grand Council gather around Prince Halim, their heads close together, talking. One of the prince’s servants has drawn near and seems to be eavesdropping shamelessly. The bald skin of his head gleams, and I notice a slight hunch to his shoulders. As he listens, he watches the crowd. When his glance catches mine, he turns away.
There’s another trumpet call to tell the crowd to disperse. People make their way through the streets, noisily eating snacks and discussing the scene that’s just played out.
“He’s very handsome!” says an older woman gleefully. “Not at all what I expected.”
“Did you see that ship?” a young man murmurs to his friend. “I’ve heard the Turkish vessels are the fastest on the seas.”
“Such insolence!” mutters Faustina. “I saw the way his eyes wandered.”
My father comes over to speak to us. “You did well,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Prince Halim noticed you. Good girl.”
I turn my face away. He’s forgotten already that while people fawn over the visitor, Roberto sits in a filthy cell. Father notices my expression and draws his lips close to whisper in my ear.
“Don’t think you’re too good for all this, because you’re not. You were good only for the convent, until my eldest daughter’s death.”
Fortunately, Julius and Grazia de Ferrara draw near, before I forget myself and speak back to Father in public. Faustina has taken my hand and grips it gently, silently reassuring me.
“Ah, Julius!” Father says. He bows his head towards Grazia. “What news of Carina?” As if he cares about anyone but himself! I keep my glance firmly on the ground, unable to catch Grazia’s eye.
Julius sighs. “Still nothing. She always was a wayward girl. But we live in hope that one day soon she will turn up.” He tries to laugh lightheartedly, but the sound dries up in his throat. My heart goes out to him, a father’s grief still so fresh.
“I know what it is to lose a daughter,” my own father says. “When Beatrice died, I thought my world had ended.”
“Yes, but my daughter isn’t dead.” Julius throws him an angry glance, and I look up to see Father’s mouth open and close as he struggles to find something tactful to say.
“Let’s let the men talk, my dear,” Grazia murmurs to me, and the two of us draw away to one side. She turns her face from the sun, and it is almost impossible to see her expression. “The Segreta meet this evening to discuss the situation with Roberto. You will attend, of course?”
“Of course!” I say hurriedly. “It will be difficult at such short notice, but I’ll be there, certainly. I want to hear more about the girl at Murano also. Do you know if …”
I’m about to ask Grazia if she has any morsels of information to give me when the crowd suddenly heaves to one side and I stagger. Regaining my composure, I see a group of men rushing the harbor. Their fists strike the air and one of them is shouting, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Get the foreigner out!” he cries. “Go home, heathens!”
Before he can get near the ships, soldiers rush forward on a barked command and the group of men are driven back at the points of swords. Their leader stands firm, but is dragged back by his comrades. Another is wrestled to the ground. I see a knee jerk into a stomach, fists connect with skulls. The shouts die and the men are led away. I notice Prince Halim watching the group, his face serious.
“What was that?” I ask.
Grazia’s face is like stone. “Hatred, that’s what.” She shakes her head. “When will this city ever learn?” Then she gives a small nod. “I will see you later.” As I watch her move away from me across the docks, her skirts swaying, relief blossoms inside me. Tonight I will be with the Segreta, and one step closer to getting Roberto out of his stinking prison.
12
Dear Laura,
Since we spoke, I have thrown caution to the wind. I shall not allow my boy to languish in that prison! I have requested house arrest for Roberto. I will let you know the instant he is free of that festering leaded prison. I know you love him as much as I do.
In haste,
Duchess Besina
The note was waiting for me upon our return to the villa. I hastily broke the wax seal in the privacy of the garden’s new greenhouse. Now, I look at the Duchess’s handwriting and hope that her impetuosity will work for Roberto, rather than against him. No other woman could earn him such a reprieve, not even one of the Segreta.
“Laura?” Faustina calls for me. “Laura!”
Hastily, I shove the note into my pocket and step out of the greenhouse. She spots me and comes bustling over, carrying a large square of linen in her arms. “A picnic!” she calls. “Come and help.”
Emilia and I go to our rooms and quickly exchange our outfits for loose muslin dresses so we can work in the garden after we eat. I can’t stop thinking about the note and what it might mean for Roberto, but for now I must act as if everything were normal. I hastily tuck my dress, with the note in its pocket, into a blanket box and follow Emilia to the kitchens.
It’s not often that I’m allowed here—it’s not a noblewoman’s place—but this afternoon Faustina is more than happy to let me collect bowls of olives and take a knife to shave thin slices from the cured ham. Emilia carries out a basket of bread and a board of cheeses, and soon we are settled beneath the olive tree, enjoying a picnic for three, as Lysander is out visiting boyhood friends.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, we revel in the fresh tastes, scooping up small bunches of grapes and tearing hunks of bread to soak up glistening olive oil. For a time, I try to be cheerful for Emilia’s sake, and I’m surprised by my appetite. We talk of Bologna, where she grew up, of the beauty of the Tuscan hills, and of her family. We both laugh as Faustina reaches for a third slice of cake.