by Sasha Gould
I go to my position, guarding the door. Grazia throws back her cloak, and I understand that she is allowing Silvio to glimpse the silver dagger at her waist. His smile fades; he knows the game is over. He moves a hand towards his own waist and pulls out a leather purse. He loosens the strings and exaggeratedly tips it upside down. Nothing spills out.
“You’re wasting your time,” he says, his words bleeding into each other. “I don’t have a penny. Not even enough to pay that whore!” He throws his head back and laughs with gusto.
“It’s not your money we want,” Grazia tells him quietly. The dagger is now in her hand, held out towards him.
Silvio still refuses to be scared. “A lady’s dagger,” he says. “Isn’t it pretty? Close to useless!” He turns his back on Grazia, grunting as he shuffles towards the edge of the bed. He must be really drunk if he doesn’t realize how deadly Grazia’s weapon is. That slender blade could slide between a person’s ribs before they’ve even registered the attack.
Sophia draws a sword with a snake engraved around the hilt and trains the point on Silvio. He staggers back into a bedside table.
“Where’s my girl?” he asks uncertainly.
Sophia gives him an icy smile. “You won’t be seeing her again,” she says. She takes a step forward and slices her sword through the air, a hairsbreadth from his nose. He flinches and cries out. “In fact, you won’t see anyone else ever again unless you do everything we tell you.”
“What do you want?” he asks. His voice is weak, his eyes watery and yellow.
Sophia lowers the point of her sword, then jabs it beneath the oily sash that fastens his trousers.
“What are you doing?” he protests, trying to curl his body away. But with a sudden upward jerk, Sophia tears through the sash and his trousers sag around his hips.
“Take them off,” Grazia orders, watching from the other side of the bed. She is smiling from behind her mask.
Silvio’s eyes widen. “You’re joking?”
Grazia shakes her head and tosses her dagger from one hand to the other.
“Do it,” I say.
Slowly, Silvio unlaces his trousers and they shudder down his white legs to gather at his feet. He steps out of the trousers and kicks them into a corner of the room. Bella Donna can burn them later.
“Now your shirt,” I say from my place at the door.
Trembling, Silvio heaves his filthy cotton tunic over his head, struggling to free his arms. For a moment, all we can see of him is his round belly, soft as dough. It sways from side to side as he tries to maneuver out of his shirt. Grazia and I share a glance while Sophia stifles a smirk.
“You heathen women,” Silvio bellows from inside his shirt. With a loud tearing sound, it finally pops over his head and he throws it to the floor. “Happy now? Does my humiliation amuse you?”
“It does indeed,” Grazia answers smoothly. “But it isn’t over yet.” She dips the point of her blade towards his undergarments. “And the rest.”
Her eyes haven’t left his face. He hesitates for a moment; then with a grunt of disgust he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his stained cotton hose and pulls them down, bending at the hips. I keep my eyes fixed on the wall above him. I can hardly believe what Grazia’s making him do—but after all, he has forced Teresa to endure much more than petty embarrassment.
Silvio straightens up, cupping his hands over his groin.
“Are you women or witches?” he spits, his eyes swiveling between our three masked faces.
Grazia draws near to our victim. Her smile has faded. “Now, if you ever raise a hand to your wife again, or betray or cheat her, I promise it will be more than your clothes you lose.”
Silvio’s face hardens in partial understanding. “Teresa is behind this? How do you know her?” I can see the anger rising inside him. He must be warned.
“If you make your wife suffer for what has happened tonight, the consequences will be severe,” I tell him. “So far we have been lenient.”
Silvio throws me a scornful glance. “Who do you think you are?” he asks. “No woman tells me what to do!”
Within a moment I am upon him, the tip of my dagger at his throat, drawing a bead of blood. I can feel my heart thudding and the roar of anger pushing through my veins. One thrust and I could have this man’s throat cut open. Where has this taste for blood come from?
“Do you understand?” I hiss into his face.
His lip trembles, and his brow looses a bead of sweat that trails along his jawline. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”
I sense the other women watching.
“Careful now,” Grazia’s voice tells me. I press the flat of my blade against Silvio’s Adam’s apple. Then I pull away, taking my weapon with me.
“Then go,” I say. “Take your hateful face out of our presence and thank Teresa that you still have your life. And remember, we can find you anywhere.”
Silvio staggers slightly as he bends to retrieve his clothes.
“Oh no you don’t,” Sophia tells him, kicking his shirt under the bed, out of reach. “Those don’t belong to you anymore.”
“What? You …” He starts to protest but then thinks better of it. Holding his hands over his nakedness, he waddles out of the room, cursing under his breath. I slam the door shut behind him, then move to the window, watching as he emerges into the alley below, looking over his shoulder nervously. He’s lucky. The nighttime streets of Venice will likely preserve his modesty. I almost wish we had struck during the day, so that he could be openly mocked in the busy markets. But the cover of night is always best for us.
“All clear?” asks Bella Donna, poking her head around the bedroom door. Grazia beckons her into the room, and we conceal our weapons. Bella Donna rests her hands on her thighs and guffaws. “I was watching through the keyhole. Did you see the size of that belly? I thought he would pop with outrage!”
We pull down our hoods and take off our masks, shaking out our hair. We trust Bella Donna enough to share our faces with her—a rare privilege. It’s good to go back to being Laura, a woman with a face.
“Your performance was the best,” Grazia says to me. “The move with your dagger was very clever—even I thought you were going to run him through.”
I bow my head modestly, but only because I don’t want her to see my face. She can read eyes, that one. And I know what she would see in mine—guilt. These women can’t know how close I came. How my anger almost won.
21
We leave Bella Donna and go to meet the rest of the Segreta, following the best route to avoid the city’s night watchmen. The appointed place is a grain store in a secluded part of Venice, near the northern shore. Four stories high with a peaked roof, it sits beside a canal where supplies can be shipped by boat. I follow the others inside, and my nose picks up the comforting scent of wheat. Burlap sacks, each printed with the supplier’s mark, sit in neat rows along wooden shelves. We pass them and climb the stairs until we arrive at a wooden platform beneath the eaves of the building. Would the merchants of Venice ever guess what secrets their storehouses hide?
The other women are waiting, lit only by the moonlight streaming in from a window in the roof. One person is missing—Paulina. It’s hardly a surprise. I sent a note of condolence to her home, but words are never enough. I wish I could see her and try to offer some true comfort.
Allegreza steps into the center of the circle and turns on her heel, gazing into each of our faces. The success with Silvio fades from my mind, and I remember why we are gathered here—because our city, and my love, is in crisis.
“These are testing times,” Allegreza begins. The other women murmur in agreement. “But the Segreta have been tested before. Aysim put her trust in us, and we have failed her. There is no avoiding that fact.” She pauses, and I can feel the attention of the women linger on me, even if their eyes do not. “Moreover,” continues Allegreza, “her secrets have gone to the grave with h
er. What worries me more is this: Why did she die when she did? Who else knew that she would be coming?”
I remember Allegreza’s words to me when I visited her at her house. “A traitor in the Segreta.” The others pick up on her meaning too. We each keep our gaze firmly fixed on our leader, not daring to look at each other in case our glances are misconstrued as accusation—or guilt. My cheeks burn nonetheless. Does anyone here believe that I’m the person giving away our secrets?
“I tell you now,” Allegreza continues. “Stay alert at all times. If you see or hear anything—anything!—that is suspicious, it is your duty to report it to me. Do you understand?”
There are murmurs of assent. Allegreza’s glance lands on me, and I nod quickly.
“Excellent. Now, go back to your homes. Remember all that I have told you.”
The other women begin to move away, but I’m frozen. Surely our meeting can’t be over already? Nothing has been said of my fiancé’s plight or his brother’s death. Not a word has been shared in sympathy and understanding for Paulina. But it’s my loved one’s dilemma that troubles me most.
“Will you help Roberto?” The words spill from me before I can stop them.
The other women pause and share confused glances. Allegreza’s face hardens.
“What do you think we can do, Laura?” she asks.
“Either get him out of Venice or work the Segreta’s influence on the trial. He’s an innocent man—he does not deserve what is happening to him.”
Allegreza walks around the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. Her shadow moves with her, stark black against the milky light of the moon.
“We must use our power carefully,” she says. “A knife overused quickly becomes blunt.”
This is too much for me to bear. Allegreza told me—promised me!—that in time the Segreta would turn to Roberto’s plight. Now she talks of caution! I can’t stop myself; I step towards her, my voice loud in the silence of the room. “You had that monster Vincenzo exiled, so why can’t you help Roberto?”
Allegreza pats the air as if to calm me. “Vincenzo was guilty of spying, an agent for the Duke of Milan. We had good reason to banish him.”
“And Roberto is innocent! Isn’t that a good enough reason to help?”
I wait for the murmurs of agreement, but silence stretches between Allegreza and myself. I look around me at the other women and see none of them moving to speak. When I try to make eye contact with young Sophia, my accomplice such a short while ago, she looks away.
Understanding dawns. “You don’t believe in his innocence, do you?” I begin to stalk from woman to woman, staring brazenly into their faces. “Do you?” I pause before Allegreza, my breathing labored.
She shakes her head. “Calm yourself, Laura. A woman has been wronged. We must remember that above all.”
“But not by my fiancé!”
Grazia moves to Allegreza’s side. “You are behaving inappropriately, Laura,” she says.
I step back, trying to calm my thumping heart.
Allegreza sighs. “We understand your pain, Laura,” she says. “Why don’t we put it to an anonymous vote? To help Roberto or to stay out of the case? We will help only with majority assent.”
I feel a flutter of hope. One of the women tears slips of paper from an old, dusty ledger, and we each cast our votes. People can vote yes or no to help Roberto in his plight. We deposit our pieces of paper facedown on the floor in front of us and one of the Segreta collects each of our slips. She goes to a corner of the room and begins counting them out into piles.
Suddenly, there is a clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairs. The Segreta scatter, slinking into the shadows or crouching behind sacks. I press myself into one of the dark corners.
A black-clad figure enters. “Paulina!” cries one of the women, rising to her feet and rushing out to meet her. But Paulina pushes past, glancing around the room. One by one, we step out of our hiding places. Paulina’s eyes come to rest on my face.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell my friend, holding out my arms to her.
“You!” Paulina lunges at me, her nails raking the air. She grabs my hand and drags me towards her. “Nicolo is dead. All because of you!”
Her face is close to mine, and I can feel the spittle on my cheeks. Her hand grips my hair.
“Stop!” I say. “Please!”
“It’s your fault! It should be Roberto’s blood staining the palace floor. Instead, instead …” A sob escapes her. “My love is dead! And with him, my future!”
With a sudden groan of defeat, she falls away from me.
“Roberto is innocent,” I say quietly.
She scoffs. “You simply have no idea, do you? What do you think he was doing when you were in the convent? Saying his own prayers? Don’t make me laugh! He knew his way around every whorehouse in Venice.”
“Hush now,” someone protests. But not because the words offend her—I can sense that she’s trying to protect me.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“Your one true love!” says Paulina. “A man of spotless character. Oh, please! I’m only saying what we all know.”
Paulina’s face is red with fury, but even as her final words melt away, I can see the guilt there too. She knows she’s gone too far. All of the women’s eyes are on me, and I want nothing more than to disappear.
“I see,” I say stiffly. “Thank you for educating me.”
Grazia reaches out for Paulina, but she turns away, defeated and sobbing. “Leave me be!” She runs from the room.
“Shall I go after her?” asks Sophia.
Grazia shakes her head. “There’s nothing we can do for Paulina at the moment.”
Why did my friend say such horrible things? I suddenly feel very young again. Naive and innocent as the day I left the convent. Was she speaking merely out of anger and grief, or was she venting secrets that have been kept from me? I swallow back a rising panic. Roberto is no whoremonger. He isn’t capable of anything like that.
Allegreza watches from across the room. In her hands, she holds the scraps of paper from the vote.
“A decision has been made,” she announces. “The Segreta have spoken.”
“And?” I say.
Allegreza looks at me, but I cannot read her expression. Compassion, maybe, or pity. “I think it best for you not to know the result of the vote,” she says.
I’m flabbergasted. Not tell me? “But why?”
Allegreza nods. “You are too close to this, Laura. Too emotionally involved.”
“But I have to know,” I say. “Will you help him?”
Allegreza shakes her head. “The meeting is over.”
22
The noise greets us even before our coach arrives at the cathedral. It is the sound of mourning—wailing voices and low sobs. But nothing prepares me for the sight we come upon as we turn into St. Mark’s Square. Beside me, Emilia lets out a small cry of shock, and I feel my breath catch in my lungs. So many people!
Venice is mourning Nicolo’s death. Hundreds are crammed into the square and lining the surrounding streets. Rope barriers have been erected and soldiers stand before them to keep back the press of the crowds. Women dab their eyes with handkerchiefs and opportunistic stall sellers are offering black-stained flowers to throw upon the coffin when it passes. The scent of incense is heavy in the air, and a distant band of street musicians plays a lament. Agile young men climb the fountains and statues to get a better view of their dead prince when he arrives.
The funeral has been organized quickly. In this heat, no one wants to leave a body waiting for burial. Word traveled the streets, the canals and the narrow alleyways, sent out from the Doge’s palace: the ceremony would take place on the second Sunday of the month, four days after Roberto bent to hear his brother’s last words. I haven’t seen my beloved since, and my messages have received no reply.
Now, even the Segreta are keeping secrets from me.
The coach dra
ws to a halt, and I step out, helped by my father. The skin of his hands is papery and dry, and when I look up into his face I see nothing there but accusation. You bring us to this, his eyes tell me. You and the man you insist on loving. If I hadn’t been loyal to Roberto, defending him against Halim’s attacks, Nicolo would still be alive and my family would have been saved from scandal. Perhaps Paulina was right to attack me. But the moment I think this, my heart twists. How can loving Roberto be wrong? What could I have done differently?
As I move across the square, the black taffeta of my skirts swishes noisily. I wear a single string of pearls at my throat, and my hair is framed by an embroidered cap. The sky is gray above us, and the tiny pieces of jet sewn across my bodice barely glimmer.
Lysander looks up at the dense clouds threatening rain and shudders. “The perfect day for a funeral,” he comments.
“Don’t,” Emilia reproves.
“Show some respect,” Father hisses from behind us.
“Yes, show some respect!” calls a stranger’s voice. I look over my shoulder and see a woman, her bosom spilling out of her corset, lunge towards me. Her eyes are wild, and I can smell the wine on her breath. “Look, everyone! It’s Laura della Scala—betrothed to a murderer.”
More noise erupts around us, angry shouts and curses. Lysander puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. “Ignore them,” he whispers into my hair. But I can feel the blood drain from my face as the awful truth hits me with the taunts and insults that ring in my ears. The people of Venice hate me! They are filled with hate, filled and overflowing.
“Shall I try to talk to them, to explain?” I twist my neck to look up into my brother’s face, but he’s too intent on scanning the crowd to respond. He pulls me along now, forcing me to walk faster than my petticoats allow. I almost trip, and it’s only Emilia’s hand on my elbow that saves me from falling into the waste that pours down the open sewers of the street.