Too true they would, as their cry of acclaim testified!
But Jaraj was not yet done.
‘The beast!’ he cried. ‘The ravisher! Yet will I not for my honour’s sake let such a creature live to blight another dawn.’
He was growing quite poetic in his nastiness. I had begun to feel soothed by the mastery of Godislav’s oration to the men, but now it occurred to me that I might still be the sop he would casually toss to the waiting maws. This feeling was confirmed when Godislav laughed in response to Jaraj’s demand and turning called for me to come out of the house.
Slowly, clutching my two pistols under the loose-sleeved robe I had put on, I emerged. Jaraj stepped forward, triumphant, his sword in his hand. I was on the point of producing my pistols and blasting that ugly soul to perdition when Godislav laughed again.
‘Here he is, the beast, the ravisher! This is the creature against whose nightly excursions you must lock your doors and bar your windows! When they hear in Senj of Jaraj’s courage in tracking down and slaughtering this monster, how they will cry out in wonderment and admiration!’
His irony won an immediate response. Men began to laugh. Then one called out, ‘Aye, and when they see Dusanka, they will wonder why we did not protect the beast against the maiden!’
At this Jaraj turned angrily to seek the speaker in the crowd, and Godislav took the opportunity to step between me and the lieutenant.
Putting his arm around my shoulders he said, ‘Fear not for your virgins, men. I shall take this lusty youngster with me to Venice where they are not so careful of their womenfolk. This lad’s weapon may yet wreak more vengeance on those proud Italians than Jaraj’s sword could ever do!’
So saying he led me back into the house and, locking the door behind him, let out a long sigh of relief.
‘Oh Carlo, Carlo!’ he said to me in his own language. ‘I had not thought you would risk Jaraj’s wrath again! Have I taught you nothing?’
For answer I brought my loaded pistols out of the voluminous sleeves of my gown and laid them on the table.
‘So!’ he said regarding them quizzically. ‘You have learnt something after all. Perhaps I should not have intervened between you and Jaraj, and then you would have rid me of a very troublesome fellow!’
He laughed as he spoke and I laughed with him. What I did not tell him, for I was filled with great shame at my lack of faith, was that I had learned enough to have needed only one pistol to take care of the lieutenant.
Had Godislav moved to withdraw his protection from me, the other pistol had been intended for him.
1617–18
Venice
1
Do they shit in heaven?
Questions such as this were once disputed by learned men, but now they seem to have larger uncertainties to occupy their minds. Well, I am no theologian, just a plain soldier looking back on a foolish youth, but this I know. Venice, some men say, is like a vision of heaven when first seen across the water, and they certainly shit in Venice!
That culvert (I will not call it a canal) we moored our dinghy in after paddling across the lagoon in a rolling sea-mist made my father’s midden smell like a tray of Turkish sweetmeats by comparison.
We had sailed from Senj in a fishing smack of a type familiar enough to attract little attention from the Venetian patrols, and Papa Priuli was safe in the savage care of Jaraj on the lee shore of one of the many small islands in the lagoon. Godislav had wanted to bring all the hostages from Senj, but Jaraj had protested that one was enough; he could affirm the others were safe and they would act as an insurance in case our plans went awry.
So now we sat huddled in our fishermen’s smocks, sodden by the sea-mist which dripped from the fine tangle of Godislav’s beard like snow in a Swedish pine forest at the onset of spring. I had wanted to leave this drain and seek more comfortable shelter. Even a doorway would be drier, warmer and sweeter-smelling, I argued. But Godislav, who seemed to be well acquainted with the city, said that strangers at large by night ran the risk of either being taken up by the watch or beaten up by the bravi. These bravi were villains, sometimes of good family, who wondered abroad at night armed with the small sharp dagger the Italians call a stiletto, ready to attack and rob, or even murder, the unwary passer-by. For Godislav to express a reluctance to meet them was enough to convince me of their menace. So there we sat on the edge of that foul sluice till the first rays of the sun touched the green and gold of the gently bobbing garbage.
Soon we heard the sounds of stirring life in the city and Godislav stood up and stretched himself.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time to earn our wages.’
He set off confidently like a man who knows his way. I followed in a series of little runs, for once out of our squalid hiding place, I began to realize that this Venice was indeed a place to behold, and often I paused to stare around me like the untutored country lad I still was, and almost lost sight of Godislav in my fits of admiration. We were passing now along what they call the Molo, a broad paved walk between the open sea on the one side and a tall splendid building agleam with white and pink marble on the other. This I later discovered to be the palace of their Doge or Duke, and also I discovered that it contained rooms which were by no means so light and airy as this façade fronting on the sea. But no thought of pain or danger touched my mind at this time, not even when we reached the entrance to a broad square, marked by two huge pillars of marble, one bearing the gilded figure of a warrior slaying a monster, the other a brazen cast of that most famous symbol of Venice, the winged lion. I say not even when we reached the entrance, for between these pillars stood another less beautiful erection, a plain wooden gibbet from which dangled by one leg, the mutilated body of a man.
This seemed to give Godislav pause, but in truth it bothered me as little as it seemed to bother the groups of young men; aye, and some not so young, who squatted and knelt between the pillars, throwing dice. This was an ancient privilege of that place, I later gathered, and one which the company of a corpse was not going to deprive its addicts of.
But it was what lay beyond that ravished my eyes. For this square opened into a yet larger one, the Place of St Mark, so called after their golden church which lies at the eastern end; and in truth to my simple eye it seemed that it might lie many a hundred leagues further to the east without looking out of place, for there was something too much of the Mussulman in those silver domes and gilded pinnacles. Yet its beauty caught at the breath, and that of the other buildings too – the soaring bell tower, the marvellous clock, the facing rows of fine dwellings, arcaded below and fenestrated beyond count above, with at the far western end of the square another church, much smaller, but formed of a pure white marble, more fitting ornament for the source of all our purity.
Such were the simple thoughts of a simple lad!
Godislav had caught up with me now and seemed recovered from his uneasiness. Observing my reaction to this place, he smiled fondly at me and rested his hand on my shoulder, saying, ‘You like it here, Carlo?’
‘Aye,’ said I. ‘It is a brave sight.’
‘Brave indeed,’ said Godislav. ‘But remember, such marvels were not built by simpletons. Those Venetians are as subtle as their works.’
So saying, he drew me with him across the square which, despite the earliness of the hour, was already beginning to be full of people. In the space of a dozen steps I heard almost as many tongues and saw an equal variety of dress, so that our own travel-stained robes were in no way out of the ordinary. But principally among all the shifting colours of the scene moved slow and stately figures dressed all in black who, when they encountered one of their acquaintance, bowed low, clapping the right hand to their breast, if they did not stop to talk, and kissing the other’s sleeve if they did. These Godislav told me were the clarissimi or gentlemen of Venice and all these people were here gathered to see and be seen and do business. At first the Venetians were indistinguishable one from another in their gowns and the
black brimless caps of felt, but later I was able to know their degrees by varieties of material or design. Two men I did notice who passed us close by and these were gowned in black chamlet with sleeves that hung almost to the ground. Yet I would not have taken particular note of them had not Godislav’s grip on my shoulder tightened to the point of pain as they passed.
Curious, I turned to observe them more closely and one returned my gaze from dull unblinking eyes in a narrow, grey face, like Friday’s fish unsold in Saturday’s market.
‘Do you know those men?’ I inquired curiously of Godislav.
‘Nay, nor want to,’ he answered. ‘They are of the Ten. Come, let us hurry.’
Soon we had left that marvellous square and, as we hurried along narrower but not so crowded ways, Godislav rehearsed me once more in our plan.
He had with him the letters from each of our four prisoners instructing, or rather begging, their families to effect their release by payment of 2500 chiquines each. This sum of 10000 in all, though beyond the immediate hope of one such as I then was, yet lay within my computation. It was a goodly amount, true, but when shared out between the Uskok crew (and evenly, too, I recalled Godislav’s promise) it would not be so much. And as the magic of that great golden square was forgotten in a maze of ever-narrower ways which the slant beams of the morning sun could not reach to lighten or warm, I began to think myself a fool to be risking so much for so little. If Godislav feared these Ten, whatever they were, then so must I. To tell truth, I had almost resolved to run away and hide in Venice rather than return to Jaraj and his barbarous fellows. Only my love for Godislav stood between me and this resolution. He was the first man that I had ever regarded as an exemplar and model and I was loth to part from him. But equally I was loth to part from my life.
As if guessing my fears, Godislav halted and put his arm over my shoulder.
‘Carlo,’ he said looking me straight in the eye. ‘When this is done and we have the ransom, I shall give you your share here, and here you may stay, or more safely on the terrafirma if you wish.’
Tears sprang to my eyes at his loving understanding.
‘Will not you stay also, Godislav?’ I asked. ‘Abandon those beasts, start anew?’
Sadly he shook his head.
‘I am their leader,’ he said. ‘I cannot desert them with honour.’
Moved beyond words by this noble statement I hesitated no more, but after a close embrace I left him and went on alone to the stately mansion which was the palazzo of the Priuli family.
This ‘palace’ was a fine large house of three storeys built in a yellowish brick with the podium or open gallery, which fronted on the Grand Canal, all garnished with fair pillars and arches of Istrian marble. Though it was far removed from what in other regions might pass for a palace, yet it seemed huge to me, far too grand to be the home of so humble and unfortunate a merchant as old Papa Priuli. But I recalled that Godislav had told me that this was the home of the main branch of the family only. Papa was but a minor member of a minor branch, yet so powerful was the idea of the family fixed in the Venetian mind that a hurt to one was a hurt to all, and here if anywhere would the ransom be paid.
Our plan was simple. I was to play a ragamuffin hired at the seafront for a couple of gazets (their smallest coin) to deliver Papa’s letter with a covering note from Godislav demanding that a box containing 2500 chiquines was to be given to me and I was to be sent from the palazzo unaccompanied and unfollowed. Any attempt to interfere with this payment would result in the death of Papa Priuli and also of the other hostages in Senj, negotiations for whom would be opened after the present transaction was concluded. Godislav instructed me to slouch low, let my mouth sag open and generally give the impression that I was five years younger than I was and half-witted to boot. If questioned, I was to describe my employer as a burly, black-bearded, hook-nosed man (a good description of Jaraj!) and deny all knowledge of more.
It was, as I say, a simple plan, and simplicity is best I have usually found. Yet there is a difference between the classically elegant and the rustically naive, though they both may be termed simple. In its concept the plan may have been the former; in my performance it rapidly became the latter.
The thing was, I was thrown off balance from the outset. For the door of the palazzo Priuli opened even as I raised my fist to knock and I found myself confronted with an amazing sight. Before me stood, or rather over me towered, a woman, fully seven feet tall. But the height was not hers and nature’s alone. No, on her feet she wore, if such things can be worn, a pair of shoes or choppines as they call them, which had soles a half a yard thick! These were, as I guess, made of some light wood, but covered with leather all brightly painted in curious designs, and as things to view they were not without attraction, but as things to walk on …! By the side of this woman, or lady as I quickly reckoned her to be, stood a female attendant, holding one of her arms and lending her support as she took a perilous step forward. In my country I have seen entertainers and clowns such as perform on feast-days stride grotesquely about on stilts, but none but madmen would think such exercise fit for a woman even of the lowest degree!
Yet it was not simply her height which held me speechless. No, it was also the fact that just at my eye level her bubbs dangled naked! Or not so much dangled, for in truth they were fairly supported by the bodice of her gown which, being composed of some stiff brocade material, pushed up those fair orbs of flesh so that they swelled as proud (and smacked as heathenish) as the golden cupolas on the church of San Marco. Naked flesh I had seen before, and more than most men since, aye, both willing and unwilling, but nothing has startled my mind like this sudden apparition, no, not even the Bessarabian nipple-dancers I saw in Constantinople.
Around her neck she wore a little ruff of cambric and over her face a veil, but of such a fine black silk that it lay on her features but as a shadow, as though one should stand between her and the sun. Her hair was fair almost to whiteness, which was the fashion then of all these Venetian dames, and curled and frizzled in a kind of double pinnacle above her brow, which struck me at first as merely ridiculous, but later I came to think it a fashion most elegant. What things these women are! And what things these men also, for were it ordained that we could screw only women with eyes asquint, how soon would we find a clear level gaze odious!
Hers was both clear and level and I did not find it odious, but it did nothing to clear my confusion.
‘Speak, child,’ she said in a pleasant musical voice with that Venetian lisp I had noted (though much modified) in the speech of Papa Priuli and our other prisoners. ‘What want you here?’
I did not answer and the attendant laughed and said, ‘It is an idiot, lady!’
This filled me with indignation. To be confounded by a beautiful seven-foot woman with bare tits was one thing; to be insulted by a fully clothed middle-aged harridan of five foot six quite another. Angrily I plucked the missives from my rags and handed them to the lady who read through them negligently.
‘What, boy?’ she said when she’d finished. ‘Is this some mountebank’s joke? Maria, push this filthy wretch into the canal!’
The harridan advanced. So much for Venetian family loyalty! I thought and, indignant at such callousness I burst out, ‘Have you no care for your kinsman, lady?’
‘So the idiot child can speak!’ mocked the lady. ‘And more. He knows what lies in these missives too!’
Realizing my mistake, I panicked and decided it was time to depart but when I turned I found my way blocked by a major domo who must have opened the door as I arrived and been standing behind it since. I tried to wriggle past him but he seized me by the hair, whereupon I punched him in the belly and might have been able to make good my escape had not the woman, Maria, attacked me from behind, seizing my private parts with one hand and trying to scratch out my eyes with the other. The pain was excruciating and the damage might have been permanent if her mistress, eager perhaps to join the fray, had not taken a s
tep forward and begun to sway perilously on her choppines. Maria withdrew to catch her, but by this time the major domo had recovered sufficiently to put a vicious arm-lock on me and Maria, having righted her mistress, looked ready to renew her onslaught when a voice cried, ‘What is all this broil? Zanetta, tell me, what is happening here? Do you not know I have Senate papers to read and my uncle expects me in the broglio presently?’
The speaker was a slight, worried-looking man with an expression of sternness which sat uneasily on a rather weak face. He was wearing the long black gown of a clarissimo and, from the conversation that followed, I gathered that he was the lady Zanetta’s husband, Benetto Priuli, a favourite nephew of Antonio Priuli, the reigning head of the family.
When he understood the situation, he immediately summoned reinforcements in the form of two menservants. Having read the letters, he ordered me to be searched and when a perfunctory examination of my clothes revealed a finely honed dagger with a jewelled haft, he looked wise and said, ‘Strip him naked and let us see what else he carries.’
A moment later I stood naked before them, at the same time furious and terrified.
‘Madam, I think this child is taller than when he arrived,’ observed Maria.
‘Nor does he seem so much an idiot,’ said the lady.
‘Nor,’ returned Maria, glancing like an expert gardener to where my ripe fruit hung heavy on the bough, ‘does he seem so much a child.’
‘Cover him!’ commanded Benetto, and my rags were thrust back at me. ‘Now tell me true, or it will be the worse for you, what more do you know of this matter?’
He sounded very threatening, but I thought I detected something of softness at the core of this man, so I forced a couple of tears and stammered out my story of being paid by a big, black-bearded man on the seafront to run this errand.
The Forging of Fantom Page 4