Soon afterwards the turnkey came back and I was taken into a room so dark that even after an hour or more, no shapes began to emerge from the darkness. This was when I started to weep and when I had wept myself dry, I strained and strained my eyes after sight till finally strange, shifting patterns of colour erupted in my mind, remaining there even when I closed my eyes.
It was now that the whispering began.
At first it was just my name, spoken over and over again till the syllables became mere sounds empty of meaning.
‘Yes! Yes! I am he! I am he!’ I screamed desperate for communication.
Silence.
‘Are you a Christian, Carlo Fantom?’
The voice was a dry rustle, like dead leaves blowing across an empty piazza at dawn.
‘Yes, I am, praise be to the Lord who is merciful to all sinners.’
‘That is well spoken,’ said another voice, friendly and approving. ‘I think this child is one of those who will reach most eagerly to embrace the flames that purge off his sins.’
‘Aye,’ said the dry voice. ‘And when his fingers melt like wax, perhaps he will hold them up as a candle-tree lit to the glory of the Lord.’
He didn’t sound very confident. And he was dead right. I felt a warmth strike down my leg as though the flames had already begun, but I had merely pissed myself.
‘No! no!’ I cried desperately. ‘I have not deserved this, Sinner I am, and shriven I must be, but I beg you, masters, speak not of the fire. I am no heretic, believe me!’
And I found more tears to weep.
‘Heretic, no! We believe you, child,’ said the friendly voice.
‘No heretic,’ said the dry voice. ‘But far worse. He is an apostate!’
There was a sharp intake of breath.
‘Apostate!’
‘No, not I, masters,’ I assured them, gabbling in my fear. ‘It’s a simple case of mistaken identity. I am Fantom, Carlo Fantom, a Croatian and a dutiful child of Holy Mother Church!’
‘Who donned the heathen’s clothes and performed the heathen’s foul rites!’ thundered a new voice, big with authority. ‘Aye, we have talked with the merchant Priuli, rescued through God’s grace, and we know the depths of your foulness. Give up hope, wretch! There is no hope for such as you.’
‘No hope?’ I sobbed.
‘Nay, if the child makes an honest confession,’ protested the friendly voice.
‘No hope!’ proclaimed Authority.
‘God’s mercy is infinite,’ urged another.
‘No hope,’ repeated Authority. But was there a weakening there, or was it only my terror that detected it?
‘First should we not test his sincerity?’ said the dry voice. ‘The greater the villainy, the greater God’s glory in the conversion.’
I could have kissed the thin bloodless lips those words issued from.
‘God’s glory needs no increment from such as this,’ sneered Authority. ‘But question it. I shall listen.’
What a softening up process was here! I was ready to tell them everything, aye, even so far back as my sister and the murdered priest had they asked. I was, and I hope I still am, a Catholic soul, and what these inquisitors had done was make me aware of the bubbling vat of damnation over which this soul hung by a thin thread.
Perhaps it would have been better if I had told them all. Perhaps with my conscience cleansed I might have made a new beginning or at least a holy ending. Perhaps….
But my questioners made a mistake. No. Let me rather say, I was mistaken in my questioners. For these as I discovered afterwards were no part of that Holy Inquisition with which Mother Church protects her purity, but the three State Inquisitors drawn from the Consiglio dei Dieci, the Ten, and their concern was not with the kingdom of God but the Republic of Venice and all that might threaten its security. As far as the Three were concerned a man might worship his own backside so long as he offered no harm to the State!
Gradually as the reassuring sequence of questions and answers began to soothe my fears, I became aware of the kind of interrogation I was undergoing. What did I know of the Ottoman forces, their disposition, their arms? And similarly about the Uskoks. How many? How was Senj defended? Did they have assistance from Austria? Were there many other Venetian prisoners? Had other Uskoks infiltrated the lagoon? Whose idea had it been? Did we have contacts in the city?
It began to dawn on me that what they feared was a plot, if not to raid the city, at least to pillage their argosies as they lay at their moorings by the Molo! So full of plots and counterplots are these Venetians themselves that they see them everywhere!
So once I had realized that the Three were interested in me politically, not spiritually, I gave them what they wanted, which was mainly the truth, except that I played up my role as the misled innocent and confirmed that it was Godislav whose body lay in the cabin of the fishing boat.
The questioning went on for how many hours I cannot say. When they took me from that room, it was night, for which I was very glad for after so long in complete darkness even the dull glimmer of the turnkey’s lanthorn stung my unaccustomed eyes. I was taken back to my cell with its walls so green and slimy that they shone in the dark. I cared not. So exhausted was I that I sank on to the pile of foul-smelling straw which, was my bedding and fell asleep before the first fleas had begun to bite, and there I would have slept the clock around had not the turnkey stirred me awake with his foot early the following morning.
I shrank away from it as though it were the hoof of Satan himself, so convinced was I that the Ten had decreed that I should be lightly grilled for breakfast! But when the grotesque ancient finally spoke to me (not out of kindness but simply his desire to be rid of me), I embraced his spindly legs and tried to kiss his stinking sandal. For the news he brought was that the Council had decreed in their wisdom and mercy that, pending further deliberations, I should be released into the custody of Benetto Priuli.
3
MY position in the Priuli household was ambiguous. Clearly there was no way that such a creature as I could hope to gain admittance to the drawing room as of right; equally I was determined not to be assigned to the scullery as of nature.
I pursued energetically my policy of adoring Benetto. This was not difficult as, like so many weak men, he was basically very likable. It takes strength of character to provoke hatred, as I have found to my cost. I was also careful to put on display all those quirks of gentlemanly behaviour I had learned of Godfrey and, when questioned about my family in Croatia, I upgraded them to the fringe of the landed gentry, poor but well-connected and, of course, all dead. So, fairly soon I had established my status as much less than a relation but rather more than a servant.
Godfrey, my discreet inquiries revealed, had moved on instantaneously, refusing all offers of grateful hospitality. At first I felt somewhat hurt by what seemed an act of desertion, but closer reflection made me realize that there was little else he could do. I had preserved his secret, true; but only in the face of verbal trial. One pull on the strappado or one touch of the flame and nothing would have been kept back.
Now I had time to consider, I worked out what Godfrey must have done to effect this strange transformation from Uskok chief to English hero. Realizing from the length of time that I was held in the Priuli palace that I must have been interrogated as a suspect, he had hired a gondola to take him out to the fishing boat. There a quarrel had arisen with Jaraj and the others and Godfrey, swift to act, had attacked and slain them, except for Jaraj himself who had jumped into the water but with a mortal wound upon him. Godfrey had then shaved his beard, changed his clothes, killed the gondolier (who could otherwise report this strange transformation) and waited till he saw the expected rescue party before firing off his pistols and drawing our attention.
This was but a rough outline and I recognized it probably did not do full justice to the man’s coolness and courage. But something like this must have happened and I felt honoured that he had trusted in my wit
and loyalty to grasp and support his plan. I prayed nightly that we might meet again for he was the first man I had truly loved.
Soon I began to realize what an important family I had become involved with. This principal branch of the Priulis was very rich and the head of the family, Benetto’s uncle Antonio, was widely tipped as the next Doge. The palatç¢p, though large, was comparatively crowded, for it is their custom (presumably to save the general expense of new establishments) for the sons of the house to bring their wives to live there rather than start afresh. Benetto, as the favoured nephew, was very high up the pecking order, particularly as his way of life was pleasingly frugal and, though not over-gifted with brains, he showed a willingness to work which contrasted with the spendthrift hedonism of some of the others.
My good relationship with him was spoilt only by one thing – Zanetta. She from the start regarded me with the deepest suspicion, showing by her looks and comments that she reckoned I was a mere hypocritical opportunist, playing upon her husband’s good nature for my own ends! I was deeply hurt by her innuendoes, for nothing I said or did gave her cause so to slander me. Were it not for his wife, Benetto’s confidence in me would have been absolute after a very few weeks, but I could see that, besides being worn down by a woman’s greatest weapon – that is, repetition – he also had wit enough to recognize his wife’s superior judgement.
So I feared and resented her and was most careful to avoid giving her evidence to support her allegations. How innocent I was of women’s ways! How simple to believe that she would be content to sit back and watch and hope I might be my own traitor!
Spring turned into summer and one Saturday shortly after noon Maria, the bloodthirsty attendant who had tried to tear me to pieces on my first visit to the palazzo, sought me out and commanded me to go to the market, there to purchase some musk melons for her mistress who had a sudden appetite for the fruit. I accepted the commission without resentment, for in Venice it is common for gentleman of great estate, senators and proctors themselves to visit the market and buy their own provisions. This frugality and domestic economy, held in other countries to be the virtues of Protestants and country wives, is here underpinned by the State itself, for laws exist, and are from time to time renewed, which limit the ornament and materials of a nobleman’s dress, and the very sweetmeats he may put on his hospitable table!
So I did not feel like a servant to go to the market, though in truth I had pride enough to resent being commanded by a servant to the task.
I took care to select the finest, ripest of red melons, careful even in this to avoid giving offence. As I moved away from the stall and made my way past the Rialto, that place where their gentlemen and merchants do meet twice a day to do business, I felt my arm seized and before I could resist I was pulled into a little shady walk, which because of the time of day, was quite deserted.
‘Hold still, Carlo, or you will spill your melons!’ whispered a familiar voice.
Turning, I regarded my assistant most joyfully.
It was Godfrey.
‘Godislav!’ I said, and doubled up as he punched me none too gently in the belly.
‘Godfrey,’ he admonished. ‘Quickly, tell me what has happened.’
Breathlessly I gasped out an account of my interrogation and subsequent life at the palazzo Priuli.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘’Tis as I had heard, but I would not risk showing my face again, till I was certain of your faith.’
‘What, Godis … Godfrey!’ I cried indignantly. ‘Did you think I would betray you?’
‘Nay, I never doubted you, Carlo,’ he said regarding me fondly. ‘But these Venetians I ever misdoubt, for they have subtle wiles, and not so subtle machines, for making a man betray even himself. Say nothing of our meeting, Carlo. Good-bye.’
‘What? Are you going so soon?’ I asked, very upset. ‘Shall I not see you again?’
He laughed.
‘Never fear it, Carlo. Soon we shall meet again, very soon. Now, go about your errand lest any be led to wonder at your delay.’
I returned to the palazzo with my heart and mind so full of this meeting that when Maria instructed me to go up to her mistress’s chamber with the melons, I obeyed instantly with none of my usual caution in dealings with Zanetta.
The room was cool and shady; she was not in the shadow, but sat outside the window on a little terrace overlooking the rear courtyard and garden of the house. Here the sun beat down mercilessly, but it was this heat that she was in search of, for, in common with most ladies of the city, she spent Saturday afternoon bleaching her hair. Their way of doing this is most strange and remarkable.
On her head she wore a large hat, or rather, part of a hat, for it had no crown but a very broad brim. This was pulled down onto her brow so that the most part of her hair lay in locks and straggles all along the brim and, being anointed with bleaching mixture, of which I shall have more to say hereafter, it was left to dry and whiten in the blaze of the sun. Then her maid would take a hot crisping pin of iron or other easily heated metal and curl it up into the two peaks or pinnacles which I have observed already these great ladies (and some not so great) do consider most becoming.
When I saw her so informally at her toilet before me, my wits began to collect again and I hesitated in the chamber. But hearing my entry, she now turned and sharply commanded me forward, so there was nothing else but to obey. In any case I was something reassured to see that at least her breasts were covered against the burning sun by a double thickness of lawn. I had not yet grown used to this wanton fashion and still found it hard to preserve my composure when faced by these cascades of flesh.
‘I have brought your melons, lady,’ I said.
‘What? Oh, you have brought red. I desired the green,’ she said with a frown of disappointment.
‘I’m sorry, lady. Shall I go and purchase the green?’
‘No matter,’ she said. ‘’Tis too hot now to be tramping to the market place. Only fools and vain women go out beneath this angry sun.’
She laughed as she spoke and I smiled too and turned to go.
‘Is Maria there?’ she called after me.
‘No, lady. Shall I summon her?’
‘Yes. No. Let her be. First fetch me the bleaching bowl, then send her to me when you descend.’
Obediently I went on to the terrace, picked up the bowl which lay there and took it to her.
She peered in at the half pint of liquid it contained and pursed her lips.
‘Stupid old woman,’ she said. ‘There is not enough left for a second application. Carlo, I need more.’
She didn’t look at me but my stomach begun to turn gently as suddenly I sensed danger. Let me tell you about this bleaching liquid. There are as many formulas for it as there are ladies in Venice, I guess, but whatever else is added the basic liquor is nearly always the same. Urine. Some say that a virgin’s urine is best, others prefer a young she-goat’s. But wherever it comes from, it’s still piss.
‘Yes lady,’ I stammered.
‘Well, come on, Carlo,’ she said in a light, friendly tone. ‘I know how you young men pass your time drinking half the forenoon.’
‘Lady, I do not think …’
‘At least try,’ she said peremptorily. ‘And hurry, else the sun will have set!’
I was pretty certain that even given the six or seven hours which that left me with, I would find it almost impossible in these circumstances to oblige her, yet to tell the truth I was beginning to feel a strange excitement at the thought of being so close as I tried. I turned to retire into the chamber. She did not look up, but her hand kept its grip on the bowl and I could not move it.
Trembling now, I pulled up my gown, took aim, and tried. I really did try. But it was no use. You cannot loose musket balls from a cannon.
Slowly now she turned, the brim of that hat with its jags of bright hair looking like a child’s picture of the sun. Then her head went back and her eyes met mine.
‘What
Carlo? Quite dry?’ she said sympathetically, and her hand left the bowl and reached out to touch me and complete what my thought had begun.
But before her hand could grasp the petard which would hoist me to my doom, she made the mistake of saying, ‘Wilt adore me as much as you do Benetto, my little Fantom? How pleased he will be to learn it!’
I released my grip on the bowl, It fell to the floor and shattered like a German grenadoe. And I used the moment of shock it produced to turn from those promised delights no less entrancing for my knowledge that they were specious and, with difficulty drawing down my gown, I fled from the room.
I was almost weeping with rage and frustration. She had meant to discredit me, that was sure. Once having roused me to the point of no return, she would have cried rape! and there would have been an end to me.
Interestingly my rage did nothing to quell my lust. I had led the life of a friar (or what a friar’s life ought to be) since my arrival in Venice, avoiding all temptations and loosing no more of my Greek fire than will naturally shoot off to repel the lewd dreams which assault the chaste bed of youth. So now I was groaning in my agony as I sped from that room and down the broad corridor in search of relief.
‘Carlo?’ called a voice. ‘Is that you, Carlo?’
It was Benetto at his desk in a room only two doors removed from his wife’s – so how quickly would vengeance have descended on me!
‘What, boy, are you ill?’ he asked when I appeared doubled-up in the doorway.
‘Nay sir. I have eaten overmuch of musk melons, I think. That is all.’
‘You must be careful, Carlo,’ he admonished me with genuine concern. ‘A superfluity of that fruit may bring on the bloody flux. The Emperor Ferdinand, the third of that name, himself died of it. Aye, it was in the year …’
‘May I be of service, master?’ I asked to prevent him launching into the kind of anecdote he liked best, that which involved great names and was at the same time a parable of temperance.
The Forging of Fantom Page 6