The Mascherari

A Novel of Venice

Laura Rahme

THE MASCHERARI

Copyright @ 2014 Laura Rahme

ePub - ISBN: 978-0-9872937-2-5

Cover Artwork and Title Font

Caryn Gillespie

www.caryn.com.au

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locations and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locations or events is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any forms, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the Author.

www.laurarahme.com

To my beloved grandparents,

Yves Candeau

and

Tran Thi Phuong-Lan

CONTENTS

The Mascherari

Acknowledgments

The Republic

Character List

PART I

A Dream in La Serenissima

The Mask maker of Santa Croce

A Cry in the Campo

Murders in Venezia

The Testimony of Lorenzo Contarini

The Third Body

In the Prisons

Carampane

The Mascherari

The Moor

A Woman’s Secret

Rolandino

Catarina

Angelo’s Flight

In the Atelier

To the Canal and to the Roofs

Catarina’s Story

The Milanese

The Giudecca Gardens

Esteban’s Story

Catarina’s Torment

Giacomo’s Diary

Strega

In the Library

Magdalena’s Pendant

Schemes in the Piazza

The Pendant Maker

Blanca’s Secret

In the Cancelleria

Non Scribatum

The Deposition of Signor Vivaldi

LA BEFANA

Maffeo’s Lost Deposition

The Hidden Message

PART II

The Art of Unmasking

Death to the Janara

Donna Laura

Return to the Silversmith

Whispers at the Loggia

The Wells

Maleficio

Antonio’s Visitor

Last Letters

A Finder of Lost Things

C.X.

The Path to Evil

The Minotaur

Malek

The Dark of the Moon

La Torre

Epilogue

Aradia

Glossary

Acknowledgments

The Mascherari is a work of fiction but it remains informed by some of the most fascinating historical research on Venice. I want to acknowledge the wonderful Peter Ackryod, Iain Fenlon, Associate Professor Ellen E. Kittell, Professor Thomas F. Madden, Professor Guido Ruggiero, historian Peter Burke, late historian Horatio Brown, Dr Sandra Sider, Professor Yadira González de Lara, Michael Rocke, the late historian Flavio Biondo, Richard Covington and Professor Faruk Tabak.

I am indebted to archivist, Giovanni Caniato, from the Archivio di Stato in Venezia, who kindly assisted me during my research on the Council of Ten. I want to thank the Fundazione Musei Civici of Venezia for their excellent guide during my visit to the Palazzo Ducale and for answering my questions on the Council of Ten’s secret chancellery.

During my research of Italian witchcraft, I cannot overstate the precious inspiration I drew thanks to the works of the late Charles G. Leland from the Gipsy Lore Society, Jules Michelet and Raven Grimassi. Finally, I want to acknowledge the elusive and most honorable late 14th century swords master, Fiore Dei Liberi whose contribution to martial arts has also aided this novel.

A special thank you to novelist and Historical Novel Society member, Lisa J. Yarde, for dedicating time from her demanding schedule to beta-read this novel.

Thank you also to beta-readers Joel Morris, Melanie Zanetti and Emanuele Gelsi.

To French Armenian writer, the late Alex Varoux, my dear uncle who once told me I was capable of writing books, your words have carried me to this day.

To my wonderful partner, Shane Krause, for believing in me and in witches, I am ever grateful.

The Republic

The reader may find these terms useful for understanding the different layers of 15th century Venetian society and the bodies that governed it.

Patricians – the hereditary ruling class, comprising around 200 clans; includes such families as, Contarini (one of the most illustrious), Morosini (one of the oldest), Foscari, Canal, Loredan, Mocenigo and Vitturi. Together with the cittadini, they composed a tenth of the Republic’s population.

Cittadini – citizens of the Republic, either by birth (per nazione) or granted through certain conditions (per privilegio or per grazia), such as tax contributions over ten to fifteen years; a middle class that was permitted to vote.

Popolani – the non-citizen majority who could not vote; comprises some merchants, artisans, glassworkers, shopkeepers, fishermen, gondoliers, servants and slaves.

Government and judicial bodies:

Doge - the figure head of the Republic; symbolic prince appointed for life; representative head of the Great Council, Senate, Collegio and the Council of Ten.

Signoria - figuratively, the term employed to designate the ‘government’; is the highest level of government and consists of the Doge, six councilors and the three heads of the Quarantia.

Maggior Consiglio (Great Council) - a large group of patricians who met regularly to vote on constitutional laws and who elected the Senate and the Council of Ten; entry was restricted to those families in Venice’s Golden Book which contained records to ascertain hereditary privileges.

Quarantia (Council of Forty) – an assembly electors, chosen from the patrician class, who could nominate a Doge; a body with both political and judicial functions.

Collegio - an executive branch which directed the daily functioning of the government, including passing information to the Senate; consisted of the Doge and his councilors.

Consiglio dei Pregadi (Senate) – diplomatic and administrative body of the Republic which dealt with foreign relations; composed of the ‘wisest men’ of the city.

Consiglio Dei Dieci (Council of Ten) – a powerful judicial institution operating as an internal police force; a secretive body appointed to oversee the Republic’s security and serenity, its coinage, and morality. It was headed by three judges, called the three Capi.

Procurator of San Marco - second most prestigious role after the Doge; oversaw the administration of the Basilica di San Marco and its extensive treasury, dispensed charity and attended to wills.

Character List

*Historical figure

Antonio da Parma - a Tuscan, schooled in law; highly skilled as an inquisitor

Almoro Donato - member of the Council of Ten

Francesco Visconti - a Milanese artisan in his late fifties

Magdalena Visconti - wife of Francesco Visconti

Giacomo Contarini - a reputed merchant from Castello, late forties; schooled in Padua university

Catarina Contarini - wife of Giacomo Contarini, late thirties; member of the Santa Maria Formosa parish

Lorenzo Contarini - son of Giacomo and Catarina Contarini, enamored of Daniela Moro

Giovanna (Zanetta) Contarini – sixteen year old daughter of Giacomo Contarini and Catarina Contarini

Ubertino Canal - a reputed broker

Guido Canal - a reputed broker, brother of Ubertino Canal

Rolandino Vitturi - a wealthy merchant in his mid-thirties, partner of Giacomo Contarini

Balsamo Morosini - an adept negotiator, mid-thirties

Esteban del Valle - part Catalan, part Ghanaian; a swordsman who lives by commission

Gaspar Miguel Rivera - Catalan condottiere hired by the Venetian navy

Doge Tommaso Mocenigo* (1343 - 1423) - Admiral and merchant; named Duke of Candia; served the Venetian Republic for many years – first in the Council of Ten, later as Procurator of San Marco, then in his eighties, as Doge

(Leon) Battista Alberti* - a young banker who helps Antonio da Parma

Blanca Canal - a prostitute

Daniela Moro - a Jewish young woman; sweetheart of Lorenzo Contarini

Laura Rivera - wife of Gaspar Miguel Rivera; an Aragonese from the Kingdom of Sicily

Abram Elia - a Jewish physician

Malek - a mysterious sword master

Maffeo - an Armenian slave and gondolier appointed by Francesco Visconti

Luca - a Slav gondolier appointed by Catarina Contarini

Angelo - friend of artisan, Francesco Visconti, who regularly cleans the Visconti atelier

Margarita - a prostitute from Ca’ Rampani

Other historical figures mentioned in this novel:

Anselm Turmeda (1355 - 1423) - writer from Majorca who studied in Bologna and later migrated to Tunis, where he became vizier (political advisor); he wrote in both Arabic and Catalan.

Filippo di Bartolomeo Dardi (died 1464) - a fencing master who opened a fencing school in Bologna in 1412.

Bernardino di Siena (1380 – 1444) - a Tuscan monk known for his inflammatory and homophobic sermons in Siena, during the early 1420s.

Carlo Zeno, Admiral (1333 - 1418) - Venetian admiral and hero of the Battle of Chiogga.

Fiore Dei Liberi (1340s – 1420s) - 14th century Italian knight, diplomat and fencing master.

Francesco Foscari              (1373 – 1457) - served as Venice’s Doge from 1423 until his death.

Petrarch (1304 – 1374) - 14th century Italian scholar and poet; the “Father of Humanism”.

Pietro Loredano (died 1439) - popular patrician and admiral, known for making Venice a dominant power in northeastern Italy; defeated by Francesco Foscari in the 1423 Doge election; later murdered, possibly by Foscari’s son.

Rolandino Roncaglia - a Venetian man and self-confessed cross-dresser, known to have been charged with sodomy in 1354.  He was burned to death.

Sebastiano Ziani - Doge of Venice from 1172 - 1178; he built the second Ducal palace, also called the Ziani Palace, after the first was destroyed by a fire.

Vide attraverso il mondo interno

e il mondo esterno,

a destra ea sinistra,

sopra e sotto,

prima di lui e dopo di lui.

PART I

Antonio

A Dream in La Serenissima

Journal of Antonio da Parma

19 December 1422

He dreams on a gondola as it glides in silence. Sound asleep he lies, beneath a fiery dawn, while the palace’s Eastern wing rises above and casts golden shadows upon his face.

This is how I may have appeared to my guide as I drifted off, while he strained with the oar, drawing us closer to the Ducal stones, closer, beneath the towering Campanile, closer to this monstrous Republic of galleys with its islands and canals, into the heart of this lagoon fortress gilded by the sun’s first rays and past her mansions of Istrian stone, whose glorious facades looked on, across a sea of silk and glistening foam.

Curious, isn’t it? How I saw her.

I would see her differently now.

Daughter of Venus, Venezia, you rose from nothingness. The memory of you…

How could this not be my first diary entry?  For it was that day, as I arrived in Venezia, that I experienced my first vision.

She was standing on the Rialto Bridge. I write, standing, but now that I remember–and it is hard to recall after all that has transpired since–I think, yes... I think she was floating. I swear that I never once saw her feet touch the ground.  I remember the fluttering hem of her gown and the way it thinned into a vaporous mist. I remember that I crossed myself and whispered the names of the saints upon seeing her face for the first time.

She stood alone. She was watching me.

And I, I saw only her.

She seemed to have eluded the vanity of Venetian women. Perhaps she did not live in our times. She cared not for the blonde locks they coveted, had not shaved her forehead in the new fashion and wore no silk, nor jewelry.  Her hair–I crossed myself again–for it was night, and her black locks were like the manes of a strega; insolence upon her shoulders.

Oh, the dark beauty of that face.

I saw, even from afar, the longing eyes beneath their sultry lashes and the parting of her lips as she whispered.  She resembled those Southern women or perhaps those forbidden beauties of Constantinople into whose eyes one dares not stare too long, for fear of some lurking evil.

It struck me at this instant. I ignore how, it struck me that this woman was a harbinger of some fateful event, one that I was soon to encounter, here, in Venezia.

The sun rose, filtering light through the rios, casting flames upon her black hair. My gondolier’s vessel meandered through the lagoon. Light shone on the Canal Grande.

Still in dream, I gazed at her form but she drew away. No, she floated away, vanishing to the other side of the bridge. And as the morning rays bathed Rialto Market, not a trace of her remained.

The loss of her wounded me. Abandoned by the unsettling vision, I rose from my slumber. I awoke to the stern Ducal Palace looming over our gondola.  It lay still.  As silent as its secrets.

Later that morning, I spoke of my vision to Almoro Donato, member of the Consiglio dei Dieci.  He told me what I did not want to hear.

“Antonio. Antonio, you grieve, my friend. But it must end. Yes, don’t you see? You must find a new wife, si?  With so much beauty in Venezia, a man like you—“

“Basta. I am already past the fourth decade. I care not for another wife. It was not her I saw in the dream.  The woman, there was something about her—”

But he interrupted me.  I think he has studied me carefully over the years. I suppose his position demanded it. It was under his recommendations that Venezia had appointed me, a Florentine, for the second time. The Consiglio dei Dieci had a well-earned reputation for respecting nobody’s secrets and my employer was a master spy.  He gave me that look of wariness, that short disapproving glare which I remembered from years before.

“Ah, Antonio, see how you drift again. Your preoccupations always lead you into visions. But remember your place, avogadore.  I will ask you to prepare for your future role within the commune, yes? We will have none of that in the Republic, will we?”

He looked at me again.

“Will we, Antonio?”

I may have shrugged my shoulders but the foreboding manner of his words taunted me, even then.

As we crossed inside the palace’s entrance hall, I waved away my unpleasant feelings. I cast aside my dream.  Already Venezia tugged at my soul but I attributed my ill-feeling to his sermon.

“Tommaso Mocenigo is very ill,” he explained, gesturing gravely toward the Doge apartments to our left. “He has been confined to bed for weeks already. When the New Year commences next March, do not be surprised if the patricians are called upon to appoint a new Doge. It is not known how many months Tommaso has to live but I feel his time is near. And between you and me,” he whispered, “our young procurator, Francesco Foscari, would want this time to be nearer still.” He cleared his throat. “Antonio, the Consiglio would prefer it if you remained in Venezia until then.”

I started. “Until March?”

His eyes narrowed. I understood that I had little choice.

I calculated that I would remain in Venezia until at least the commencement of Lent.

And the realization struck me.

Carnivale is upon us; diabolic days where madness surges and unfolds, unrelenting. Where the masses of Venezia, the popolani, forget themselves into debauchery and descend ever deeply into the odious core of their fettered being. Carnivale, a season of obscene songs and erotic dance, when the masked rival for attention while making believe they are free.

I never long so dearly for the rolling hills and scented valleys of Tuscany as when I find myself in the Republic during the infernal period of Carnivale.

I refrained from sharing my thoughts and moved inside the Consiglio dei Dieci gathering room for my briefing.

It was after my visit to the palace, when my gondolier had led our boat through the nation of Santa Croce, that I encountered the first abomination.

The Mask Maker of Santa Croce

I think it is where it all began and at the time, I saw it as yet another manifestation of the baseness of Carnivale. I did not heed the veritable meaning of what I saw.

My gondolier had followed the Canal Grande and entered into the San Polo sestiere. We skirted the already buzzing Campo San Polo to our right and turned into the rio just prior to Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio. I was eager to arrive at my lodgings which thankfully were only a few blocks away. But as we passed one of the wooden bridges in nearby Santa Croce, I noted a curious gathering.

The first thing I saw was that there were five princely gondolas moored in the canal at the foot of an old two-story edifice. Those gondolas of the sort that shame the doge, or if you like, those that brave sumptuary laws, with gilded framing and billowing awnings– the entire structure decorated in the most ostentatious manner so as to announce to all those less fortunate that wealth and power are parading by.

I squinted.  In the center of the nearby campo, a curious scene unraveled before my eyes. The proprietors of these alluring vessels stood around an old man with long gray hair. Furious shouts carried to my ears. I gestured to my gondolier who oared with renewed fervor toward them.

As I stepped onto the courtyard, a hostile band of young patricians in bright red calza and black pleated tabards, turned to me. I counted seven of them but did not wince.

Why is it that men when they gather before injustice grow paralyzed, or else turn to their basest impulses? Baseness was what I witnessed on that day.

Ignoring the youths, I observed the five merchants, for that is what they were, silken dressed in their princely cioppa, save for two of them who went about in their pristine doublets and embroidered linen shirts. They did not see me. Their attention remained riveted toward the old man who cowered before them.

I whispered questions at passer byes, but the little I derived only frustrated me.

“It is Giacomo Contarini and his partners,” expressed a sour faced banker as he hastened past, his nose half-buried in his books.

“Giacomo who?”

“Giacomo Contarini,” repeated the man in a hushed tone, waving me away. By his manner, I understood that the said merchants possessed influence and were not to be thwarted. Still, the band of youths eyed me from afar, standing proud, in a show of their manhood.

One of the youths stepped forth, striding with a certain arrogance.

“Who are these merchants? Can you name them?” I asked.

The young man gave a mocking smile.

“See the handsome one? The signore with the black silk mantle and the pearls on his hose– that is Balsamo Morosini, Giacomo’s nephew and one of the best negotiators in Venezia. And, the skinny dark one with the bauta mask, that is Rolandino Vitturi, Giacomo’s partner.”

“Who is the fat one?”

“Ubertino Canal...and in the scarlet hose, that’s his brother, Guido Canal. Brokers.  Two of the best in Venice.”  He gave an insolent stare in my direction. “And you, Signore? What is your affair, here?”

I glowered at him. From behind, two of the youths dug a hand into their doublet and I knew that they would soon reveal a weapon if I were not careful.

“I am only passing through,” I replied.

I observed the merchants with a growing weariness, wondering what torment they would wage upon the old man. Ubertino’s egg-shaped head glistened with sweat. He looked angry.  The old man had buckled to his knees.

“Someone should stop this,” I found myself muttering under my breath.

“Why?” asked the youth, ogling me with depraved eyes.

“They will teach that Milanese a lesson!” spat another.

I resigned myself and paced toward the merchants.

Seeing me approach, the old man turned.

They had called him the Milanese as though he were vermin. And I knew from the tone in their voices that it was not so much the man’s origins that bothered them, but the bitterness they nursed toward strangers. Strangers who differed. Perhaps the Milanese never went to church. Or perhaps unlike the men of the parish, he did not take part in yearly ceremonies.

Francesco was his name. Francesco Visconti. Days later, when it was too late for me to come to his aid, I would understand that he was the kindest, most soulful man in Santa Croce. But now, what did I know of him? I had only just arrived in Venezia.

He was still on his knees.  I could discern from the gold paint on his fingers and shirt that he was an artisan by trade. But I paid no heed to it. Not yet. What did I care for masks and trinkets on this unsettling moment?  Instead I stared into his face, hoping to unveil something to make sense of the dishonor of that day. In full light, I stared. I am ashamed to say I wanted to know if Francesco was the brute who might deserve such trashing before I decided to step in.  The Saints help me, I wanted to know if he deserved my involvement before I gathered my courage, pitiful avogadore that I am.

As the proud Giacomo towered above him and dispensed chilling threats, I stared, paralyzed at old Francesco.

You know that emptiness in a man’s eyes, when they are tired, when they have known loss, when all they have loved has long been taken from them. Once they sought for help, and realized there was no one at hand. So they have long stopped seeking it.  It is the same light I saw in gray-haired Francesco on that afternoon.  His tender eyes welled with tears, yet the tears never fell, because he was out of breath from fear.  Because as he pleaded, pleaded for more time–and by that, I knew, he owed ducats, so many ducats–Giacomo signaled to the corpulent Ubertino.

At this, a cry rose from the old man.

“I promise you… I promise you I will pay soon! I promise!”

I stared in disbelief.  Age is sorrow and sorrow is age. Ubertino sent a merciless blow into the artisan’s chest.  Francesco buckled in sobs.

I did nothing.

If one is a wealthy merchant in Venezia, one has arrived to certain underhanded powers, you see. And the five men who jeered and gesticulated were such powerful men.  I could tell from their hosiery, the weave of their fabrics, the expensive make of their clothes, even the sound of their heels on the courtyard.  All these warned me that I should remain still before this matter. In truth I was timid because I knew not which senator was in league with these men and sought their influence among the ruling Venetian elite. So I did nothing.

The dark Rolandino was now speaking with the youths who eyed me with increasing contempt.

Perhaps someone, in the darkest night could denounce this merchant, this Giacomo Contarini and his friends, by slipping a denunciation to the Consiglio di Dieci. But here? Outside? In the daylight? Would I have interceded when the course of event was already set in motion?

“How much?”

It was my voice.  I had dared to speak up after all.

The merchants did not answer. The Canal brothers looked to my direction with scowls upon their faces.

“How much does this man owe?” I repeated, mildly comforted by the law vested in me. I sought to initiate a discourse and perhaps dissipate the fury that had overcome these men.

“You would do well, Signore, to keep to yourself on this matter,” came Guido Canal’s sly voice. He did not even look at me as he spoke. He gestured in my direction with a warning finger.

“Does the signore have a name?” intoned the sinfully handsome Balsamo, from afar. His long chestnut mane shook as he spoke. He eyed me with near erotic disdain, awaiting my answer.

“Antonio da Parma.”

“Da Parma,” sang Balsamo. “Da Parma, Da Parma…” He had recognized my Tuscan origins. “We have not yet sorted our affairs with the mascheraro,” he mocked.

He had a self-assurance that I found grating, one that had no doubt arisen from his privileged background and a long string of successful negotiations.  Still I discerned a certain rashness in his character.  “You may wait,” he added, admitting no retort.

I felt the anger mount through me but could only stare. I knew I had not seen the worst of these men. Something about Balsamo’s tone told me he spoke for Giacomo, or else he would not have dared voice their common intent.

Wait for what? What could these men seek from an old man?

All this time, their leader, Giacomo, did not once acknowledge me.  What I saw of him was the back of his fur-lined mantle. He had fixed a brooding gaze onto the mascheraro.

The aged man lowered his head. He waited, his eyes downcast, his shoulders hunched forth, as though in shame.  I saw at once that he was broken. Or perhaps something which he had sensed was to come had broken him.

Balsamo paced around him, clicking his heels like a fierce Andalusian horse.  He chewed at his cheek with a provocative pout and occasionally fixed me with venomous intent. I had a sense that Balsamo felt himself aroused at the thought of being watched, no matter his disgraceful behavior. The Canal brothers seemed to be waiting for a sign. Giacomo stood still.

A menace hung over the courtyard.  A black crow flew overhead. Its croak cleaved the wretched silence.  I grew more agitated and stepped forth.

“Signori, my name is Antonio da Parma.  As avogadore, it is my conviction that this matter can be settled with the respect owed to the signore.” I had gestured toward the mascheraro, who upon hearing my words, slowly lifted his head to face me.  For an instant, I glimpsed the gratitude in his eyes.  I cherish that moment.

“Signori, it is full daylight,” I continued. “Have you no consideration for the people of this humble parish? I entreat you to desist, at once.”

Ubertino pounced forth, gloves in one hand. Before I realized what was happening, the violence of his blow left a red mark on Francesco’s teary face.

“Signore!”

My protest had no effect. Ubertino showered another two blows at the artisan. Giacomo Contarini still had not faced me.  But now, he raised a warning finger in my direction, as though to silence me. I was startled by a glimpse of his masked face. There was a flaming determination in his eyes. It burned with a rage that I could not fathom.

“Antonio?”

It was Rolandino. He strode toward me, a condescending grin on his mole-dappled face.

“Antonio da Parma, yes? This man, this old wretch, he owes me, he owes us all. It is the gold on his masks, he says, the pretty gems and the feathers.  Lies! We know better. I know he deals with the Jews. Ten percent here, fifteen percent there.  He is getting fat on our ducats.  What do you think, eh? Has this old goat eaten up our ducats? Or is he mocking us? I tell you, it is best you leave now, Antonio.”

“I will not—”

A thunderous voice resounded. “Antonio!”

It was Giacomo. He had spun round to finally face me, the irritating Tuscan stranger. His regal mantle of Alexandrian velvet made his powerful shoulders seem twice their size. He observed me carefully. There was a mad glint in his hooded eyes. I could see now that he wore a gold Volto mask.  Beneath, was an unsettling wall of hatred. Yet just as suddenly as he had called out, his voice instantly softened.

“Antonio, I don’t want to offend you,” he said in a genteel manner. And then he stopped short. He nodded to the youths. Without hesitation, the seven young men stepped toward me. Four of them had seized a dagger.

Rolandino smiled at my distraught expression.

“You are not from here,” he observed as the youths approached. “But you are not haughty like that Milanese. The old wretch thinks he is superior to us all. Playing with our generosity, like we are fools. Days become months and months become years while we wait for this wretch to pay. I tell you something, Antonio. Rolandino does not like to be taken for a fool.  The mascheraro, he makes a fool of me? He pays.”

“What will you do? Will you vow to abide to lawfulness?”

“Rolandino does not promise anything,” he said. Then he gestured to the youths.

“You will find the sbirri at your doorstep if you—”

I could not finish. Two young men had seized my arms and begun to drag me away.

Rolandino laughed.

“Avogadore, this does not concern you,” he called out. “Don’t look so worried, Florentine!”

Then he laughed again.

I wrestled to free myself of the youths, but a menacing dagger was thrust upon my face. Four men gripped me, forcing me into a narrow calle. Avoiding the busy thoroughfares, we descended into several empty alleys, down a small flight of steps, then past a campo and into a tiny courtyard strewn with refuse.  I no longer recognized this part of Venezia. When we had reached the darkness of a gritty sottoportico, the youths released me.  I felt a painful thud as I was pushed violently against a filthy wall.  A sharp blow to the stomach folded me over. I gasped. Further blows came down until I fell unconscious.

Hours later, I rose to the peal of bells in the distance and to the distinct taste of blood in my mouth.  The youths had decamped.

I staggered out of the sottoportico, reeking of urine. The youths had played a vile trick upon me but I had not been robbed. They had only sought to frighten me. Fumbling in the near darkness, I somehow found my way back to the courtyard where I had witnessed the merchant gathering.  It lay deserted. Even the princely gondolas had disappeared. The only sign that these men had at all been here, was a faint trace of gold paint where the artisan had once knelt.

A Cry in the Campo

I slept badly that night.  I stirred, awakened at intervals by the sounds beneath my lodgment in S. Maria Mater Domini’s campo. Voices and whispers carried from the old church.  I had been warned of these and of the nearby meretrice district of San Cassiano but my agitation well into the night arose from a different source.  I contemplated that the following days would see the first nights of Carnivale before it officially opened after Natale. I told myself that I ought to find a different apartment, perhaps one in the Cannaregio nation, near the foundries, where it was much quieter.  It would mean longer gondola rides to San Marco but at least I would be away from the tumult of Rialto market and from the tyranny of the upcoming nights.

I drifted into a sleep that came at last, after I had sighed one more time at the memory of Francesco’s saddened, haggard eyes.

Later, when I found my dreams anew, when I had deserted my sleeping body and flown over to San Polo, I found myself alone in the Campo di Rialto, listening for her, waiting for her.

I gazed past the silent shops lining the bridge, hoping to see her face. I wandered off the Ponte, my solitary footfalls on the pavement where echoes of the moon glistened against stone. The market place lay deserted, bereft of day life. It seemed to await the first calls of morning trade, draping me in its forbidding muteness.

Venezia lay in the dark, lit only by moonlight and the flickering flambeaux of the taverns and whorehouses of Calle Rampani.

Until the silence was broken.

Murmurs breathed through the cold air. I crossed into Campo San Cassiano, enlivened by jasmine scents and intimate voices. There, a masked patrician stepping off a secret gondola, here, a man and a woman coupling in the church’s recess, their roving hands groping with hunger.  Here, a gleam of an exposed breast, impudent and ripe.

Leaving the torch lights of Campo San Cassiano, I made toward Santa Croce until it grew darker.  In my dream, I traveled fast, traversing the calli and their twisting alleys, never once touching the ground. I flew, even. I flew over the canal, leaping over bridges, surmounting campaniles and church domes. I had soon found myself back at my lodgments, a tiny room atop an old atelier, where my form lay still, clutching my journal in deep sleep.

My flight drew to its end. I cast my eyes to the Virgin on the doorway of S. Maria Mater Domini and stepped back into the campo.  I had no sooner touched the ground when a sound tore through the night. It was her! Her sobs, they called for me. They drew me near.

Enraptured by her cries, I ran. In my frantic quest to near her, I lost myself in the sepia glow of Santa Croce and soon, its narrow streets were tossed into a deafening blackness. An icy gust singed at my face as fear enveloped me, and yet I ran.

Where was she?

The peals of nearby church bells joined in unison but the streets remained empty, steeped in the resolute night.  I entered a courtyard and there, I came to a halt.  Near the well, the heart-wrenching sobs rose in pitch.

I saw the lady once more.  The lady of the bridge.

She was huddled at my feet, resplendent in a purple velvet gown, mystical behind the lace that veiled her downcast eyes. Emotion knotted my throat. In a vision that took my breath away, she leapt, unfurling with a frightening violence.  I clenched my heart, startled by her rising form. Her dress no longer touched the ground. It clapped against the draft, like the wings of a giant raven, casting its shadow over me.

Hideous.

Where was the beauty I had glimpsed over the bridge? Where was the enchantress who had courted me in my sleep? Now her traits had deformed into something demonic and vile. Her lament had veered to rage. The soft black strands I had longed to touch in that first vision, had lifted about her face. Like menacing tentacles, they whipped the air, until she resembled a medusa in flight.

A horror seized me. I stepped back and gave out a cry. The giant form rose above me. She seemed tormented. Her body writhed in mid-air as though claws gripped at her, tore through her, inflicting such pain that I saw the veins on her temples bulge as though they would burst. Angry red blood seeped from underneath her mask, streaking her cheeks to crimson.  Her face began to shrivel to cinders as though devoured by flames. She gave out a harrowing, inhuman moan that chilled my bones. And as I looked to her neck where dark blood glistened, I saw the thickening mass encrusting her rue pendant.

I could bear no more.  I waved my hands at her, wishing her away, gasping, gritting my teeth, soaking my bed.

Such was my night. The night before the masquerade began.

Murders in Venezia

Journal of Antonio da Parma

21 December 1422

I fumble to write this entry.  As I recall I was not appointed to Venezia to engage in a murder inquest, or even less to dabble with the Consiglio’s net of spies.  But on this day of the Winter Solstice, only two days following my arrival in Venezia, the ugly task has befallen me and there is no turning back.

Early that morning, it is odd that even as I crossed the Piazzetta and reached the palace molo, the Marangona’s chime clouded my thoughts. I recall turning, raising my face to the Campanile, my line of sight crossing the two granite towers, and I remember thinking that all I knew of Venezia may be a lie.

I breathed in that curious moment; a moment suspended in time, time marked by the morning bell, time spent in haste by the money changers at the base of the bell tower, time halting for a political whisper between the masked men of the Piazzetta. And no sooner had the Marangona ceased to ring, than I had a wakening sense of the doom that would soon overshadow the city.

I decided to think no more of it.  I told myself that if I pleased Almoro Donato, I may eventually seek a post as avogadore to the Consiglio dei Dieci. I traversed the molo, making my way past the many taverns and I entered the Palazzo Ducale.

Almoro Donato had no sooner received me in the entrance hall, than he began to insist I assume the inquisitor role he had long praised me for.  His gaze was uncertain and his felt footsteps seemed more hurried than when he had first greeted me.

Was I imagining it, or was Almoro Donato shaking with fear?

“Yes, yes, I understand that investigative work is not what you had envisaged, Antonio, but a serious occurrence has come to pass.  It is a crime of such sinister nature. Please sit,” he said and gestured to a high back studded chair. I reached for the seat, my mood as dark as the black of my tabard. Almoro seemed agitated as he rifled in his drawer.

“The Consiglio is taking this very seriously in light of Carnivale,” he began. “Morality, you understand? Morality must be upheld for the peace and continuing order of La Serenissima.  There is one problem.  We’ve already much on our hands with the upcoming election and now with the rebuilding of the Ziani Palace.  Admiral Pietro Loredano is keeping us on our toes.  He is far too popular.  Senator Malipiero is being his bitter self at every Pregadi session.  It never ends. Francesco Foscari may well win the next Doge election and we must, you understand, we must be prepared for any changes to the Consiglio... Antonio, are you listening?  I need you to take on this case. We have a good moment before the Collegio holds its next session. The Doge is still to arrive, if he has awoken at all.  Please do sit.”

I sat still, unconvinced. I had slept badly again, haunted by the wailing woman, and the sudden turn of events disoriented me.

“The Ziani Palace?” I asked, confused.

“Mocenigo has asked that it be rebuilt. I, for one could not agree more to the Doge’s motion. The place is in shambles since the fire a few years ago. It has been decided that the Western wing will be expanded toward the Basilica. There is this, and there is the refurbishing that you no doubt noticed in the Southern wing when you gazed upon Guariento di Arpo’s fresco on your first visit. The inauguration of the new Sala di Maggior Consiglio draws near.  There is much on our hands. And now we have…” His voice fell back.

I was ill-prepared for Almoro’s next words. He leaned across and looked into my eyes, before continuing in a hushed voice.

“A Venetian merchant of the name Giacomo Contarini has been murdered overnight in San Marco.”

I started.

“Giacomo Contarini! Murdered?”

Almoro’s eyebrows met with force.

“At the unfortunate period preceding Carnivale, yes. The circumstances of his murder are of such a nature that I was convinced you would be the most suitable person to hold an inquest.  Your contribution to the arrest of the harelip murderer, several years ago, did not go unnoticed.”

“But Almoro, I’ve not held the role of inquisitor for some time now since my marriage.”

He waved a hand in my face and resumed.

“It was a difficult case and you persisted. I have spoken highly of your merits. You will report to me at all times. The Consiglio must be given the opportunity to interfere at any time depending on your findings. Antonio, are you willing to take the case of Giacomo Contarini’s murder?”

“You said Giacomo Contarini?” The patrician’s cruel eyes flashed in my memory.

“A merchant from the Santa Maria Formosa Parish. What is it? You know him?”

“I...well... Murdered, you say? Signor Donato, that is remarkable. Only two days ago I met this man in Santa Croce. Saw him as I see you, strong as a boar and…”

He stared back at me for a long moment with slight irritation.

“Coincidences, Antonio, and nothing more.”

He presented me with a leather case filled with loose sheets of Fabriano paper.

“Here are his books and accounts, if they at all help with the case.”

“Yes, but what I meant to say, Almoro, is that…I saw him and his trade partners...”

“Men of repute and highly respected in all Venezia. The matter is obscure, Antonio. Three of Giacomo’s partners also met their deaths last night. Listen to me carefully. The signori di notte have found five cadavers in one night.  Five. It seems four men and a young woman attended an evening banquet and none of them returned home.”

“How is this possible?”

“Most unusual, wouldn’t you say? I suspect you like these coincidences.  But this is not a game of chance. La Serenissima is at stake.”

He sighed before lowering his voice.  I felt his tight grip on my arm as he reached across.

“Antonio, honor me with this one favor, I beg of you. I know that inquisitor work is your strength even if you’ve long tired of it.  I can count upon your attention to detail and your remarkable intuition to advance this case considerably. What am I saying? Just…do be careful of those voices in your head. That is all I ask.”

“You say the matter is obscure, what do you mean?”

Almoro seemed pained.  I knew that there was much more.

“Early this morning, the signori di notte presented their report. They have made three depositions.”

Almoro stood.

“The first such deposition is that a certain, Rolandino Vitturi, Giacomo’s primary trade partner, has been arrested for the murder of Giacomo Contarini.”

“Rolandino?”  The dark man’s aghast voice echoed in my mind.

“The second–please do not interrupt, Antonio–is that Giacomo’s young daughter was also found dead beside her father’s cadaver. We posit strangulation, but the Contarini family has refused that her body be defiled to test for organ poisoning.  No matter what the physicians discover, Rolandino is being accused of both murders. As for the other three deaths...”

He interrupted himself before turning to me again, his gaze more stern than before.

“There is a certain madness in this case, Antonio. Something is not right and the Consiglio will stop at nothing to reach the heart of it. With your help, I hope.”

I reflected.

“What is the third deposition?”

“They have found the other three bodies– two brokers, brothers I am told, and a young negotiator with a promising career. I can make no sense of these findings. Evidence thus far leads us to suspect both Giacomo and Rolandino.  The disorderly circumstances of these murders, the locations where the bodies were found and the state of the cadavers–all of it is here, in the files.”

There was a fleeting annoyance in his voice. I suspected that Almoro knew something of the case that unsettled him, something he refused to share.

I took to my inquisitor role without a moment’s reflection. Now that I recall, it was something Almoro had always suspected I would do.

“What are your intuitions, Signore?” I asked Almoro.

“If it was just for the murder of Giacomo and his daughter I could give you my impression.”

“Please.”

“As his primary investor and partner, Rolandino stands to inherit Giacomo’s trade. Giacomo’s wife has her own dowry, an astounding sum of four thousand ducats, which Giacomo’s estates will repay, as per the terms of their marriage contract. Their son inherits the rest. Those are the terms, look into the accounts. Evolving from this and upon first observing the case, I say Rolandino is guilty. He murders the father and is found out by the daughter whom he murders in turn, to conceal his crime.”

“Simple explanation.”

“It is too simple. I told you, if it were just Giacomo and his daughter, Rolandino would be my first suspicion, yes. But the problem, Antonio, is that there are too many dead bodies and nothing to account for their deaths. That is your task, now, avogadore. Remember, keep me informed of all your discoveries.”

And at this, he lapsed into silence and looked upon his desk, bracing himself against saying more. I took this as a cue and departed, promising to inspect the files as soon as time permitted.

Stepping out of the Palazzo Ducale, still immersed in thought, I found myself standing in the middle of the Piazza, amid raucous laughter and discordant lute tunes. All round, the childish rituals of Carnivale were set in motion.

My non-festive expression was soon remarked, spurring the less inhibited to games of provocation. Two men in giant gold turbans and monstrous feathered garments laughed into my face, showering me with a spray of red and purple confetti. Ignoring them, I meandered through the crowd and hastened toward Canal Grande.

A hot burst of air made me wince. An obnoxious fire blower standing upon stilts had stooped to my level as he blew flames into my face.  Startled, I stumbled against two teens– two red-heads behind silver masks their manner as stiff as dolls. The girls peered into my eyes, their heads tilting, questioning my intrusion. Now they spun about, barring my way with their hands clasped such that everywhere I turned, I could not escape. Such was I, locked within Venezia’s embrace at the most unfortunate time of the year.

It did not press upon my mind, not yet anyway, that my irritation had stemmed from Almoro’s cloying insistence and the oppressive feeling of finding myself at the whims of the Consiglio dei Dieci. I had no choice.

To hell with the gondolas, I thought. I hailed one of the few horse carriages.

“To the Rialto markets. Trample on the crowd if you must.”

The coachman tilted his head with a grin.

“Si, Signore.”

And I plunged into the files on my lap.

***

I had acquired the dubious reputation of inquisitor almost three years ago. I had just turned thirty-eight and graduated from Padua University with high honors.  I came to Venezia as a highly recommended intern and found myself at the service of the Consiglio dei Dieci. At this time, a wave of macabre murders had seized the Republic. The signori di notte found women as young as fifteen, lying dead, their bellies cut open and their insides spilled in a pool of blood. It was evident that the peste was not at cause. By what Almoro had described as my remarkable intuition, I examined the women and determined that their murderer had use of his left hand. He was a sinestra. A wounded witness had later reported his attempts to duel with the masked man, one with a confounding talent in swordsmanship. Tearing off his attacker’s mask, he had noted a harelip upon his face.  The unmasked had fled the scene.

The murderer’s peculiar traits left him with nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. It was my inquisition which had soon delivered him into the hands of the sbirri. The mysterious man had been hurriedly hung for his vile crimes. He was not given a trial. And yet the case had haunted me. Even after questioning him for days, I had learned little of the Albanian. I had watched him at length and saw only a madman.

Aside from vendettas and crimes for profit, Venezia suffered few murders, if at all. La Serenissima's numerous guilds and parishes were bastions of morality, while the overseeing Consiglio dei Dieci guided the Republic’s moral principles with a firm hand. What had driven this man to madness?

To abandon oneself to such brutality, he would have had to exist in the shadows; a silent outcast, without family, without a parish, unguided by guilds and well outside the social order of La Serenissima. At last, I had come to reason–to have wielded the sword with such skill, he must have been, in all likelihood, a foreign mercenary. But when I pursued this idea and enquired into his background, I could discover no file with his name upon it. Not even the signori di notte came forth with further information. From whence had he come?

I had confabulated on this for months but Almoro had pressed me to desist. This was the moment when he had first shook his head and asked me if I were not driven to obsession by my delusions.

Ever daring in the advancement of my ideas, I had persisted with my research, even if I did not share my findings with Almoro. I returned to Tuscany to work as a teacher and marry, leaving behind the darkness I had seen in Venezia.

And today, here I was, faced with the death of three wealthy merchants and their leader, Giacomo Contarini.

***

It was believed that after a sumptuous banquet at a private party held by the marquis, Giacomo Contarini had taken to a balustraded balcony with his daughter, Giovanna.  Witnesses had watched him follow her as the evening drew to a close.

The servant had presented Giacomo with a drink but the signore had flatly refused. The servant recounted that Signor Contarini had a mean pout on his mouth as he stepped out into the night behind his daughter. It was, he said, a chilling contrast to the smiling row of pearl teeth which dangled from Signor Contarini’s mask.

All this I learned from the marquis who then promptly invited me to question two of his servants before excusing himself for a courtesy visit to the Signora Contarini.

“Where was Rolandino at that time?” I asked one of the servants, as I took notes.

The servant fumbled with his memory. Signor Vitturi? He had spoken to no one on the night. He brooded in contempt in a corner. His betrothed, the delightful Giovanna, had attempted to cajole him many times before fleeing to the balcony in tears. She fed him cakes and flounced around him like a child but Rolandino was in no festive spirits. No doubt he plotted to murder both father and daughter.

“Ubertino. What about Ubertino?” I asked.

The servants looked at each other.

“I think he died of food poisoning. Shell crab, it was, Signore.”

“Or the devil’s work,” said the other, crossing himself twice.

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“They found the bloated body of Ubertino Canal shoved between silk cushions on a divan. We thought he was asleep but he was dead. A physician took him away to have him examined for blood poisoning. You should visit him, Signor da Parma. The third street down the San Lorenzo Church in Castello. A Jewish doctor–he won’t make a mistake.”

“Si. I shall see him. And, what about Guido Canal?”

“Guido, drunken Guido,” one of them chuckled.

The other servant gave an indignant huff and shrugged his shoulders.

“He was an embarrassment to the marquis. A man with no breeding. Intoxicated quite early in the evening. Drunk himself to death,” he replied.

I stared at them for a moment.

“Could he have been poisoned?” I asked.

“No, Signor da Parma. Guido was drunk.  He fell into the canal and drowned.”

So simple, I thought. Two simple, unrelated deaths that Mother Nature engineers while a man commits two other murders on the balcony. Why had Almoro Donato boasted of obscure circumstances?  Is Nature’s simplicity too unsettling for the Consiglio that it should frown upon it? For a fleeting moment, I surmised that Almoro knew something that I did not.

“And, what of the fourth dead man?”

“Balsamo?”

I nodded.

There was a moment of hesitation as they looked at me, unable to speak. At last, one of them spoke, appearing a little flustered.

“Balsamo Morosini left early, Signore,” he said sheepishly.

“Do you know what became of him?”

At first, they refused to answer, eyeing each other with concern.  At last one of them broke the silence.

“He took to the brothels in Carampane,” he whispered in my ear, before standing back and looking sternly the other way.

I frowned.

“How did he die?”

“I do not know, Signore. You must see the Jewish physician who examined him. He will tell you,” he answered, smiling forcefully.

His voice was light and high-pitched, a tone I’ve often glimpsed in a lying Venetian. He handed me a card with the doctor’s cabinet address. I took it in silence, not understanding their sudden reticence to speak.

“You say Balsamo took to the brothels. Which was it? Did one of you order a carriage for the Signor Morosini?” I asked as they escorted me out.

“I will take you to the place where he was found. Tomorrow. I bid you good day, Signore.”

I left the marquis’ home much perplexed.

For now, these deaths were in want of motive. The simplicity in Rolandino’s presumed murders, the unconcealed nature of his crime and its location–a public place out on a balcony, surrounded by guests–seemed to me an improbable proposition.  No man in his right mind, that is, assuming that Rolandino was in his right mind, would endeavor such a feat without being sent to a certain death by the three Capi.

Once back in my Santa Croce apartment, I wrote notes in my diary:

Visit the dottore, Abram Elia.

Visit the carampanas.

I shuddered, unnerved by the imposition of this case and its brutality on my senses. The Tuscan hills seemed faraway.

With a sigh, I added what appeared to me the most evident duty:

Question Rolandino in prison before his trial.

And finally, I took it upon myself to enrich my notions of the Contarini family.  The files spoke of a son, three and twenty– Lorenzo Contarini. The funeral would not be held until days later. Perhaps he would not mind speaking of his sister and father.

It dawned on me that Lorenzo, in classical thought at least, was a suspect.

I mused on that thought. A son would inherit all from his father’s wealth if the latter and his primary partner were eliminated. Was Rolandino Vitturi a victim of circumstances, perhaps?

I hailed a carriage and took to the Contarini estate in Castello.

The Testimony of Lorenzo Contarini

When a son is asked to mourn his father by a society as hypocritical as the said father, I am convinced it is justifiable to laugh in society’s face and decline.  I would rather much expose my father for who he was, than lament upon his death. This I will do gladly and hope it profits the avogadore in his inquest.

Antonio da Parma has asked me to write down, as my deposition, everything I know about Giacomo Contarini and the circumstances of his death.  He has promised he will burn the letter before me as soon as he reads it and that it will never be seen by any member of the Consiglio dei Dieci. He will, however, relate as he sees fit, those ideas that serve his investigation.  This letter is to remain between us and the only reason I bring such a volume of words to paper is to give me enough time to recollect all that has transpired between the eve of Carnivale and the murder of my father and my dearest sister, Giovanna who I prefer to call Zanetta.

I have always scoffed at this popular pastime we Veneziani seem to have–of keeping diaries, of recording every idiocy that has amused us in a given day.  It seems that the citizen of the Republic believes that what he does or says is of such importance that it ought to be noted for generations to ponder over.  As for me, I never lay my deepest thoughts onto paper.  If I open myself today, it is only because it will aid in Antonio da Parma’s investigation.

And so I write.

On this morning, Antonio presented himself to our home. My mother was upstairs, nursing an eternal headache. She has no tears left for my father, having cried already for twenty years of marriage. I invited him into my new apartments, in the adjacent building.  I explained that the Contarini casa joins another via a marble and brick arch; that this arch, adorned with our family coat of arms can be seen to group the Contarini estates. He agreed to cross to the other edifice, so that we would not unsettle my mother in her mourning period.

As we crossed to my apartments I gave him the Venetian welcome. That is to say, I spoke of death, of old age and naturally, of our very ill Doge Mocenigo.  If I at all mentioned Doge Mocenigo’s illustrious time as an admiral, it was to point out that my grandfather had served under him at the Battle of Chiogga. We made small talk and Antonio shared that he had always been a great admirer of Tommaso Mocenigo since his earlier years as Doge, when he chose to make peace with the vanquished Saracens at Gallipoli. I asked Antonio if he had been to Constantinople and he replied that he had not, and had never ventured further east than Venezia.

I offered him a tray of almond sweets, laced in sugar coating. He graciously declined and instead took some grapes. I took note that he baffled at my high spirits especially given the tragic circumstances. How one could eat sweets at a time like this, was the question I read upon his face. It would be deemed more proper if I adopted a miserable countenance even when forced to work at this testimony. The ways of society are twisted indeed.

Antonio da Parma, meet Lorenzo Contarini. Yes, I am a happy man. You will frown at my joyful disposition and you will judge me and scorn me and entreat me as my mother does to shun Carnivale and the merry happenings of this period while I am a mourning son.   But I tell you that from now, until the next year and the year after that, when this state of affairs is long forgotten and the soul of my sister is close to our Lord in Heaven, just as the memory of her angelic laughter brings a smile to my face whenever I think back to her, I will be a happy man.

And you do well to ask me why, Signore, because I burst to tell you.

Do you want to know why, Signor da Parma?

Because I am a disciple of Petrarch. I am a man who loves.  I am passionately in love.  Courtship is all I think of, night and day and the scent of her enflames my soul, even when she is not by my side.  And this love, this dear treasure that I hold near, she who haunts my nights and delivers arrows to my bleeding heart, I would have had no recourse but to tear her own heart to shreds had my father, Giacomo Contarini, lived today.

But this is all too much for you, Antonio, may I call you Antonio?  Your distant eyes tell me you are not a man who has loved the same way. What would you know of the passion burning in my blood? Forgive me, but you remind me of those priests who revile the flesh and expect women to lie still, waiting for their husband’s seed.  But what do I know of the signore? Forgive me. We, Veneziani, are a little coarse, at times, with our humor.

I think you will need to understand how it has been for me–the heavy burden of being Lorenzo Contarini, the only son of Giacomo Contarini.

For five years, this honorable merchant has plotted away my life to reap the profits of a marital alliance. He has betrothed me to a woman that I do not love.  What care I for her ample dowry and the rings on her fingers or the jewels that encrust her many silk dresses? What care I for the galley fortunes our alliance will secure? I do not even remember her name. Be her, Morosini, Canal, Contarini, or from another of our best patrician families– what care I?  It is my Daniela that I love. I would kiss her bare feet if she were destitute.

What care I for the fortunes to be made from a marriage between a tedious patrician and my unfortunate self?  Must we breed children in a loveless marriage and squander this life for ducats?  I have seen enough of my mother’s tears to choose this same torment. Giacomo can forget the family ducats. His son will marry Daniela. And now there is nothing Giacomo can do to stop him. Because, when he lived, how he tried!

“Lorenzo,” he once told me, “I allow you to further your education with the Moro girl”–this is what he called her–“but nothing more! This marriage will take place.”

“It will never take place, Father,” I would answer, always quietly, but with an assurance that never failed to displease him.

I dispensed retorts without a thought, because I knew how easily angered he was.

It was always the same. As I prepared for my night outings, perfumed with scented oils, a sonnet in my pocket for my beloved, Giacomo glowered at me. He knew where I spent my evenings.

“Daniela Moro will never be a Contarini!” he thundered.

And then at dinner, after a good meal, he would find other tortuous ways to dampen my devotion by sullying the very people I had learned to cherish.

“Artisans,” he would say, as he fed morsels to his spoiled terriers. “I ask you. What do they do for the Republic? Signor Moro does not even paint. A true painter is an artist, one who creates masterpieces. Donatello! Now, that - that is an artist.  None of this dabbling at paint, splashing about on canvas while his daughter writes. What does she write? Poetry? Humph.”

“Poetry, Father. She also teaches.”

“What is it with Venetian women these days? Writing? What kind of a woman who has never raised children or suffered the pains of childbirth can write? I ask you. Lorenzo? Where are you going? Lorenzo, I am not finished speaking. You will remain seated!”

As he shouted, even the terriers at his feet set off to bark at me.

You know what we say, here– ‘relatives, toothache’. Yes, such was my father.

And sometimes I did not bother to respond to him. And he would venture into yet more malice, stinging at my heart with all the venom this Republic encourages.

“It is not just the pitiful dowry, fio mio. Do you forget her Jewish descent? Do you want your children to be little bloodsuckers?”

I shall spare you the venom of his ways.

Yes, Father. Unlike you, I can forget. I am in love, you see? In love.

But Giacomo Contarini had other designs.  And we, the children of Giacomo Contarini, we were only pawns in his game and he saw fit to move us as he wished.  It would have pleased my father to see our Zanetta married off to that lout, that imbecile Rolandino.  What a splendid little arrangement if his own daughter could be married off to a primary commerce partner.  The genius of Giacomo!  How befitting that the dowry would not leave the Contarini coffers. What does it matter if his daughter inherited a toad for a husband?

They want me to grieve, but I rejoice, Signor da Parma.  In death, I know my sister is safe from this boor who would have never loved her for as long as he remained enslaved to my father.

So I come, now, to the question of Rolandino. Because this letter has in it much rejoicing and you will frown at me and accuse me of such and such. You will deduce that I, Lorenzo Contarini, lover of Daniela Moro, is guilty of murder.  For who else has much to profit as I, since I am blessed with free will and shall do as I please now that my father is dead.  But I have nothing to hide.  I will tell you what I know, Signor da Parma. And you will make up your own mind.

Rolandino is owed many ducats. My father played him for a fool, but I do not think Rolandino knows it. Deep down he may, or at least, he suspects. But what can he do?  For months, he was trapped. On the one hand, there was Zanetta, whom he very much wished to marry–much as an imbecile marries who will have him–and on the other hand, there was the sum of one thousand ducats he had lent to my father and expected in return with forty percent interest.

Forty percent. Even the Jews my father called leeches do not lend for that price. But these are the Vitturi dealings. It is not for nothing that we, Veneziani, say money is our second blood.

So what I know, is that five days ago, Rolandino was at his wit’s end.

“It does not add up, Giacomo,” I heard him say, as they peered into my father’s account book.  I remember feeling amused.  Like my father, Rolandino keeps two account books– one for the tax assessors and investors, and the other with the real figures.

I heard my father’s voice soften and knew, already, that he was fibbing.

“Rolandino, I know there were three ships. But only two of them returned. Shall I plunge into the Adriatic and retrieve the merchandise for you? Is it my fault if the mercenaries of the muda cannot do their work?”

“Useless! They ought to have caught those Saracen pirates! Now I am ruined!”

“Rolandino, Rolandino! Calm yourself.”

There were muffled exchanges and then I heard Rolandino’s whiny voice through the door.

“You told me it was a safe passage and that I’d nothing to fear. I invested all the ducats I had. I had faith in you, Giacomo! And look at me now.  Everything I pay is through letters of credit.  I cannot continue like this!”

“I know, Rolandino. I know. Patience. You will have your money.”

They continued for hours and when they emerged from the room, I noted that Rolandino was in a sour mood.

As I passed into the kitchen, my father saw me and lowered his voice, but I heard him whisper something to Rolandino about visiting all debtors in Santa Croce to put both their affairs in order.  He patted Rolandino’s hand before embracing him. That seemed to settle Rolandino a little.

I come to the end of my deposition now.

You will ask me to think back and to remember what happened before the banquet at the marquis’ house. Did Rolandino appear disposed to committing murder, perhaps?  Was he at odds with my father? No. No, I can offer you nothing there.

I have thought long about this. Maybe I have missed a meaning that you might understand, Signor da Parma. So I will tell you everything.

I will tell you about that day.  The day Rolandino murdered my father.

I will start from the instant my mother presented the morning’s banquet in the main living room downstairs, to the moment when my father, his four friends, Giovanna and myself, headed out for the marquis’ home.

What I remember, of that morning, is seeing our friends’ gondolas outside our house.  Early. All of them.

I can see into Rio del Pestrin from the top of my bedroom and as I looked down, the first person I saw arriving was Balsamo in his black and gold gondola, the drapes of his felze in brocaded velvet, emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Morosini–the entire gondola fitted and trimmed so as to best make an appearance as only Balsamo knew. I was furious at my father for refusing to invite Daniela. I longed to join her, but I knew I could not absent myself from the marquis’ salon until later that evening. And so I had little patience for Balsamo’s antics and his airs.

Soon afterwards, as I dressed, there was a loud noise beneath my window. I leaned across, in time to see Rolandino’s rowdy Nicolotto gondolier take to our water door. Shouting to some other Castellano gondolier who had refused him passage, he was qualifying this one’s mother with all the nouns he could pronounce. There was much blasphemy downstairs as Rolandino tried to shut him up for good.  Rolandino was still fuming when he entered our casa. I heard the bull terriers bark at him and he responded in kind.

The Canal brothers came soon after. Only Ubertino seemed happy. Ubertino was always excited at the thought of a meal. He pressed my mother with his nonsense, kissing her hand and marveling at her toilette. No sooner had he parted from his mantle, that he ambled in the kitchen, hassling the servants. Ubertino had an appetite for everything. I knew well that he’s had his hands up one of our maids’ skirts. And I knew he was fondling more than fresh bread from the ovens, when I heard him squealing about. I’ve often wanted to report him, just to be a nuisance. Eight days in prison for his crime against our household would have taught him some manners. Of course, I knew the only thing he’d really miss was his food. Glutton that he was.

He emerged from the kitchens and strode toward my mother, sniffing her with inflated nostrils.

“Signora, what a lovely hint of damask rose. Si, si, I noticed it. Is it new? So lovely on you, Signora,” he said with a wink as he kissed her hand once more. She seemed to welcome his attention but I wanted to retch.  As though Ubertino knew of anything else but to load his plate.

Guido did not say anything.  He had a gruesome wound on his knuckles and did not look to have slept at all. My father greeted Rolandino and the two left to talk affairs in the adjacent room where we stock the merchandise.

At this, Balsamo flicked his hair and pointed out with his customary lazy nonchalance that there was a courier downstairs from the compagnia dei corrieri.  I said, no, that it was not from the compagnia. I said that it looked to be a gondolier carrying a set of cases. My father, in his usual irritable humor, shouted at me to go to the water door and ask him what he wanted. So I did that, even though I resented him for indulging Balsamo’s superior manners. I placed the cases in the lounge for us to open later.

At this, Ubertino rubbed his hands together and said, ‘let’s eat’.

I believe we all ate the same fare.  I can testify that my mother’s cooking cannot be blamed for the illness any of us may have suffered in the later hours.  But I will leave nothing out. Let’s see if I remember.

It began with a garlic and bean soup.

When everyone had finished, the servants brought along an assortment of little pies. There was, I think, baby eel pie, squid pie and even pork in lemon juice. Ubertino said that eel made him ill and he abstained from it. This was then followed by the main dish, my mother’s Sarde in Saor which I cannot praise enough. The sardines were large and fleshy and looked appetizing under their bed of onions. There was also plenty of raisins and pine nuts in the sauce, the way I like it.  Call me precious but I believe the sauce should neither be too sweet nor too sour otherwise the sardines do not taste the same way. But my mother’s varying mood seems to render her heavy-handed with the vinegar and I usually find her Sarde in Saor too sour.

And that completes our early meal. All this was served with delicious breads from our ovens and a soft cheese delicacy from Candia. I forget the name. I can attest that the meal was fresh and none of us were ill afterwards.

Again there was nothing exceptional about the morning or early afternoon. In the later hours, we spoke of this and that. The ailing Doge was a favorite. My father said that he could not wait to see Francesco Foscari’s face minted on Venezia’s coins. At this, Balsamo said he would miss Tommaso Mocenigo’s generous ways when this one was gone.

“Generous? More like a foolish old admiral,” replied my father.

“He is a good man,” retorted my mother. “He was the only one willing to pay up the thousand ducats and he did it for the good of the Republic, the good of Venezia!”

“He ought to have given those ducats to the poor,” spoke Ubertino. I remember rolling my eyes to the ceiling. I am certain Ubertino would squash a mendicant under his boot if he could.

“Our most honorable Doge behaved righteously!” continued my mother.

“He seeks the glory. All of it is pride,” said my father.

“Glory, indeed. When has Doge Mocenigo ever done anything for his own ambitions? He is a man of honor.”

“Honor, you say? Women are so naïve. He remains a merchant, like all of us. Long before he was procurator, he traded in wine and fabrics with Damascus.”

“And who was it, Giacomo, who led eight galleys into the Bosphorus to rescue the King of Hungary from the Saracens? It was Admiral Mocenigo! There is none as noble as he is and you ought not to speak of him in this manner.”

“I’ll welcome the day I no longer have to see his old face on my gazzetta!” said my father.

And so it went on.  I wondered if he might be vexed at my mother’s adoration for the Doge.

The famous one thousand ducats. For years there was a decree imposing a penalty of a thousand ducats on anyone who dared speak of rebuilding the Ziani Palace. But a few months ago, Tommaso Mocenigo spoke up before the patricians and the Council. He offered to pay the sum in full and said that we should and ought to rebuild the Ziani Palace; that surely it was a sign of God’s displeasure that the Ducal edifice had been devastated by fire and that better construction was demanded by God to befit the state and glory of the Venetian dominions.

It was the talk of the city for weeks. The old Mocenigo, it was said, was rebuilding the palace for his successors! He had prophesied that his own death would come before he could benefit from the reconstruction. But that did not stop him from presenting the state with ducats from his own fortune.  Hence my mother’s loyalty to a dying man…

In the thick of this conversation, Rolandino meandered upstairs and endeavored to catch Zanetta’s attention, but she protested that she would not come down until she had finished dressing. My mother scorned her for spending too long on the balcony catching the sun’s rays. I heard Zanetta protest that her hair looked too dark and my mother sighed.

There is only one thing I remember, now, Signore. It is the moment after Rolandino had brought in the delivered coffers, when my father and he exchanged muted glances.  I saw my father frown.

Guido sat up, hardly breathing.  And I know, that when he saw the cases, he covered his mouth with his hand.  He had not eaten anything. I thought perhaps he was ill.

At this, my father lifted the puppy terrier to his lap and began to pamper it.  All along, I saw him eye the sealed coffers. There were five. Each of the same size, and each signed with an artisan’s seal.

Someone gave a happy squeal.

“Masks!”

It was sweet Zanetta. She was tottering about on her cork platforms. Such a fool, I was. I laughed because they were the steepest velvet-covered wedges I had ever seen. Still, they were pretty and very up-to-date with purple lace frills and beaded silk. One of our maids held Zanetta’s hand as she walked proudly toward us. It was mid-afternoon and my sister had finally chosen to make an appearance. She looked lovely. Rolandino sat up and meekly offered his arm. I know he was very proud.

“Oh, you look precious as a blossom, Giovanna!” said Ubertino. Rolandino gave him a warning glare.

My mother began to tie Giovanna’s silk ribboned sleeves, all the while chiding her for being so late. When I remember how fondly she gazed at Giovanna’s blue velvet gown, and the pride on her face, it stings at my heart.

“What will you wear, mamma?” asked our Zanetta. To which my mother replied that she was not feeling well and would rather sleep early. Ubertino gave a dramatic cry in protest, and even Guido attempted to dissuade her from remaining alone at the casa, but she laughed and said that my father would enjoy himself for both of them.

During all that time, my father had not said a word. He eyed the sealed cases, and then Giovanna. I knew he was deciding on whether to open them or not, seeing all of us already owned a mask for the evening.

I stepped up to the task. I lifted the first coffer and opened it.

“Bellisimo!” cried Zanetta.

I beheld a white and gold bauta mask of infinite beauty. The center of its forehead was adorned with a spray of gold and silver reeds. Large white feathers were arranged along the top of the mask to crown the wearer’s head.  Above the cutout mouth piece was an almost sinister detail. It was a row of dentiles. Teardrop shaped pearls, gilded to resemble gold teeth.

I quietly noted the seal on the packaging. I had not seen the artisan’s name before.

My mother brushed past me and lifted the second coffer. This time it was a mask crowned by garlands of fruit and leaves to evoke autumn hues. There were mock grapes sewn in purple and green.  It seemed to have been fashioned to honor the God Bacchus.

“Giacomo,” she said, in wonder, “you did not tell me that you had ordered these. Look at this one! Beautiful work.”

My father did not reply. Again, I witnessed his muted exchanges with Rolandino and I wondered what the two plotted.

Zanetta proceeded to open the other three cases. I was not the only one curious. We all noted the craftsmanship of each mask.

“How much did you spend on these, Giacomo?” asked Rolandino. He looked to my father and I could not read whether his expression was that of concern or reproach.  I do not recall the response my father gave, but he had a calculating glimmer in his eye, one I know well.

Giovanna lifted the sinister dottore della peste mask. The hooked beak, where real physicians blend herbs, was gilded. The mask itself was red and white with gold inlets. My sister was now the only one of us absorbed by the artwork on the table. The rest of us eyed my father. After a moment, he let out a roar of laughter and slapped his thigh.

“Who does not like surprises!” he cheered.  “It is Carnivale!”

“But Papá, it is not till days away!” protested Giovanna.

“We can have fun now, can’t we, carina?”

All the while my father smiled, but I could see that he was not happy. I understood that he had never ordered the masks.

Still, it was decided that they were too precious to not be revealed at the banquet.

Ubertino had soon chosen a plain leather bauta in flaming red. He said the mouth cutout would allow him to stuff his face all night, with minimum hindrance. Given Guido’s love of good wine, no question was made as to who should honor Bacchus. Pouting to himself, Balsamo happily placed his dottore della peste mask upon his face and Giovanna laughed because she whispered to me later that he looked like a girl for doing so.

My father, at first, did not want to exchange his old mask for a new one.  But Giovanna insisted. So he kissed her hand and held up the first white feathered mask to examine it.  Then he held up a card from the case and read it out loud.

“Il Mascherari. You have heard of that compagnia, Lorenzo?”

I replied that I had not.

“Did the gondolier say anything?” asked my father.

I explained that I had tried to engage the gondolier but that he might as well have lost his tongue.  Either way, it did not matter.  We agreed that my father would wear the mask as it was too good to leave behind.

That left Rolandino.  Giovanna’s betrothed was in no mood for feasting. As we looked on, he made a sour face and reached for the black velvet volto.

With the exception of Balsamo who wished to make an eye-catching late appearance in his outlandish gondola, we departed by carriage. In one carriage sat my father, Guido and Rolandino and in the other, myself, Giovanna and Ubertino.   I had brought with me a costume which my father had never seen, and it was my intention to mask myself as soon as we arrived at the marquis’ mansion, at which time I would be planning an escape to Daniela’s home without, or so I hoped, my absence being noticed. I was tense with anticipation. I admit that I was secretly worried the effects of my cinnamon mouthwash would wane before I could kiss her.

Moments before we arrived in the San Marco nation, Ubertino pasted his mask upon his bloated face and declared right then and there, that he was famished. Giovanna laughed. As the horses pulled up by the side of the marquis’ casa, I glimpsed the flambeaux and the insipid crowd outside and announced that I was not feeling well and that I would join them later–a simple ploy to don my costume in private. I left them at the marble steps, at which my father waved at me until Giovanna whispered something into his ear.  He gave me a stern nod before following the odiously dressed marquis inside. That was my last encounter with him.

Did I ever believe that I would never see him alive again? I never reflected on that last moment. I was much relieved to see him up those steps and I thought only of Daniela. My sole regret is not to have held my sister to my heart before I left.

If you had seen how beautiful she looked on that night! Fair browed to the tips of her golden hair, bright eyed with life, her sweet lips tinted pink and her cheeks all crimson. Like an angel, she was. Her satin skin shimmered beneath the blue velvet of her high-waisted dress. I still remember the way I smiled in the darkness of our carriage when I spotted her little nails gilded to the tips.  I should have held her one last time. I ought to have inhaled the innocence of orange blossoms and rose petals before the very flower of our casa had withered. My heart is broken, for she was an angel. An angel, Antonio.

But men of the law oft do not believe in angels. Perhaps then, you are the sort of person who only sees demons in the faces of men.  That is another thing I see in your eyes, Signor da Parma.  I fear you will not believe the true reason for my happiness. I fear you will look elsewhere where simple answers lie before you.

But I have told you all I know and hid nothing of my anger toward my father because I am innocent.

God bid you grace,

Lorenzo Contarini

The Third Body

A letter from Antonio da Parma to Almoro Donato, Consiglio di Dieci

Almoro Donato,

You will find attached to this letter, a condensed version of Lorenzo’s deposition, signed by him in my presence.

Lorenzo remains a primary suspect in this investigation but all this might change once I have spoken with Rolandino tomorrow.

Signore, I will relate to you my encounter, on that same night, with a certain Abram Elia, one of the best physicians in the sestiere of Castello. It is fortunate that Venezia did not expel Jewish physicians as it did its Jewish bankers in 1395. Abram Elia comes highly recommended. I am advised that before the Elia family expulsion from France in 1394, Abram’s father, who taught him everything, once served the French courts. He excelled in surgery, herbal healing and astrology. He spoke in the Venetian and Florentine tongues along with French, Castilian, Hebrew and Arabic. Abram has followed the same course.

Dottore Abram Elia was summoned by the marquis to carry away the bodies of the Signori Ubertino Canal, Guido Canal and Balsamo Morosini. Exactly as you said, Signora Contarini forbade that her husband and daughter’s bodies be touched.

Abram Elia washed and examined the dead merchants with the careful attention expected from a man of his skills. His account will astound you.

I shall begin with Ubertino.

The broker’s bloated body was well covered. The physician lifted the linen. I noted the gruesome expression on the obese Ubertino’s face. In death, his bald head seemed to have acquired enormous proportions and resembled a giant egg. I neared the work bench. At once, foul vapors assailed me, and I pressed a scented cloth to my face to escape the stench.

Abram Elia apologized for the offensive odors, attributing them to an imbalance of humors. He explained that he had found evidence of shell crab in Ubertino’s stomach and that his blood, mingled as it was with black bile, did look to be poisoned. He then declared that none of these factors appeared to have caused the death.

“What is your meaning?” I asked him.

“Signor da Parma, Ubertino Canal has died of rupture of the stomach. See for yourself.”

As I gazed down into the folds of Ubertino’s belly, I was seized by a sudden urge to empty my own stomach.  Abram replaced the cloth.

“Could a blade have caused this rupture?” I enquired, still recovering from the inflamed cesspool that I had witnessed.

Abram observed me. My question did not arise from ignorance. You will observe, Signor Donato, that I was still possessed with the thought that perhaps these multiple deaths were not coincidental and that the dead merchants had found themselves victim of some planned assassination.

The old Jewish physician shook his head and lifted a finger to instruct me.

“In certain circumstances one may account for this rupture by the presence of fire inside the stomach, or, should there be a poisonous substance, we could infer that some noxious gas had pushed upon the stomach membrane and caused it to burst.”

“Are you certain there was no wound on Ubertino?”

“I am absolutely certain.”

“Very well. Continue.”

“Signor da Parma, Ubertino consumed enormous quantities on the night of the banquet. Did you know him to be a gargantuan eater?”

“I can confirm that he had a solid appetite,” I answered, remembering Lorenzo’s account. “But... Are you suggesting that Ubertino’s death did not arise through poison?”

The physician nodded.  “The stomach is strong, Signore. But not that strong. Shall I show you all that I found in Ubertino’s body?  Perhaps you would like to see for yourself and leave no doubt in your mind as to the cause of death. ”

At that instant the thought of Ubertino gorging himself to death appeared to me somewhat senseless.  I gave a nod and stared at the physician as he motioned toward a door. I was not prepared for what he was about to show me. He entered a smaller room and stood beside what appeared to be an enormous covered jar. He tugged at the cloth and I saw at once, the repulsive content of that glass jar.

“That is impossible!” I could not believe it.  “He swallowed it all?”

Abram grunted. He stood by the jar, tracing the mottled glass with his fingers.

“You will see here and here, the blood from the accident.  Yes, yes, everything.  It appears, Signor da Parma, that Ubertino was a very hungry man. If only he had shown some discipline.”

I think that was his attempt at wit but the gruesome sight had stripped me of humor. I waved at him, hoping that he would promptly replace the cloth, which he did.

“Ubertino dies of a stomach rupture and loss of blood,” I pronounced, brandishing my parchment. “Will you, dottore, sign this deposition?”

He appeared unwilling to do so.

“We will now proceed to Guido Canal, younger brother of Ubertino,” he replied, ignoring my request.

I followed him to the first room where for the second time, he presented me with a covered corpse.  As he removed the linen, I immediately shielded my face.

“Drowning, Signor da Parma. That is clear. Guido fell into the Canal. The stench of alcohol fills his lungs and they, in turn, are filled with water from the lagoon. That, I can assure you, was the state of his body when it was retrieved near the Rialto on the steps of some citizen’s water door.”

I grimaced at the bluish bloated corpse. Again, I presented the physician with a parchment and asked him to write a due statement and sign it. But he frowned and looked to his feet in silence.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“Yes, yes.”

“Dottore, I shall need your signature. If we are to rule out murder of these two signori, your professional contribution to the case is necessary.”

“I am not certain that you would wish me to make this deposition, Signore,” he smiled almost apologetically, “once I reveal to you the unfortunate circumstances of the third signore’s death.”

“I do not doubt your abilities, dottore,” I replied as he grew even more unsettled.

I watched him bite his lips as he looked away, evading my gaze.

“Signore,” he whispered, “you may doubt in my capacity to advise this case, once you learn more of Balsamo Morosini’s condition. Certainly, I can attest to my honesty and the verity of what I am about to say. But...are you, yourself, Signor da Parma, a man devoid of prejudices? Will you, when you have heard it, question my judgment?”

“You would do me a great honor, dottore, if you could lay aside your fears. The man who stands before you is more open on matters of the metaphysical than you would believe... I shall will myself to listen to what you have to say.  I will not question your diagnosis of Balsamo’s death. If you say it is, then I will write it as you say it. Even if I do not understand, which is evident, considering my humble background, I will defer the medical summation of this man’s death to your solid judgment. You come highly recommended, dottore.”

As I spoke, I felt the intensity of his gaze.  The sagging skin beneath his eyes trembled.

“But what if, Signore... What if what I have to say lies not in the sound judgment that one would expect of a physician. What shall you say to that, Signor da Parma?”

“How do you mean? You mean, you are not certain?”

“Oh, no,” he shook his head, “I am certain, Signore. I know the cause of Balsamo Morisini’s death.”

“I am relieved, dottore. Shall we continue, then, since you have nothing to fear?”

“On the contrary, Signore.  Let me explain. The medical diagnosis is clear. There is no question of the matter. What is not sound, or rather what eludes me, Signore, is how. You see, Balsamo Morisini is–how shall I say it…”

I hung on his every word but Abram Elia suddenly fell silent. He looked askance to the third cadaver.  I shuffled past him, preparing to lift the linen.

“Do not! Do not...lift it,” he warned.

By now I was growing impatient.

“If we are to proceed with this case, dottore, we cannot continue to speak in riddles. I desire to know the exact cause of Balsamo’s death!”

I said this, even as I buried my face in a scented cloth, deeply unsettled by the third cadaver’s stench.

“Please, please...” he said, taking my hand and pulling me aside.

“Enough of this, dottore. I beseech you to tell me at once. How did Balsamo meet his death?” Upon these words, I motioned toward the cloth. But the little man squeezed between me and Balsamo’s body to bar me passage. Then he glowered at me.

“French disease,” he hissed. “His body is severely decayed.  Do not come closer.”

“French disease? Is there such a thing?” I asked. I gathered my courage and shoved him aside, reaching for the linen.

Abram’s voice thundered.

“I would not lift that cloth if I were you, Signore! Balsamo is covered in pustules. His skin has fallen off in shreds.”

I stepped back in horror.

“Covered in pustules? Are you certain?”

“Red and gorged with the foulness of pestilence. Do not touch him!”

“His skin? Fallen off?”

“As much as to reveal bone. Si.”

“What I meant was, are we speaking of the same Balsamo? Balsamo Morosini?”

“My patient, the very same.”

My mind raced. Balsamo Morosini… Youthful patrician, handsome, fair complexion of the finest grain, his skin smooth and shiny from olive oil lotions, dandy in dress–not a blemish on the negotiator’s hands or neck, not a pustule on his face when I had last seen him pout with insolence. Surely, the physician was mistaken.

“There may be two Balsamo Morosini in Venezia... It is not an uncommon name. If the dead man is disfigured as you say, then you would not know the difference.”

“I recognize my patient’s rings, Signore. I took his pulses four days ago.”

“Four days ago!”

“And I can vouch that he was as fit as a young stag. Signor da Parma, I have been Balsamo’s physician for years. He was sensitive and vain. He despised all ills and dreaded signs of ageing. The very idea of Carnivale and the eventuality of catching cold, or other disease during this festive season, was what drove him to me.  I gave him herbal potions and oils. I prepared him and his vanity. That is all.”

“And you are certain that he was not ill when you saw him, then? If he had, what you call, French disease, could he have hidden it? Could he have treated it himself to conceal the symptoms?”

Abram shook his head.

“Only one remedy is known. It is an ancient Arab ointment called quicksilver. It is highly poisonous. Even if Balsamo had known of it, there is not a stain of quicksilver on his skin. He was not ill four days ago.  I know my patient.”

I remained skeptical that the body was that of Balsamo. Abram regarded me with contempt before raising his voice.

“I can assure you that there was not a blemish on his skin. Nothing.  I have said it before, but I will repeat it now. Balsamo Morosini died of the French disease which he did not have when I examined him four days ago. And I believe that if he attended a banquet, then there is not a chance he would have shown himself in public if his vanity would have suffered from it. I know my patient. No, Signore.  Balsamo’s illness seems to have accrued in a single night and his death has resulted. Simple and clear.  This is my medical report. You ask what and I tell you the cause. But if you ask me how, how– this, I do not know. I leave it to you now, if you wish to accept my deposition.

I stared at him. I watched the sweat trickle down his forehead.

“I believe you, dottore,” I said at last.

We shuffled away from Balsamo’s decaying body. I presented Abram with the parchments to sign. He leaned toward a quill on his desk, dipped it in ink and prepared to write.

While he did so, I reflected some more.

I recalled that I, too, had seen Balsamo and the other merchants settle a debt incident in Santa Croce on my arrival. There was nothing, I am certain of it, nothing to indicate that he suffered an ailment that would leave him ravaged... And surely not ravaged by the following night? It was unthinkable. My mind latched onto an idea. Yes, certainly the medical symptoms were those of a horrendous illness, but might those symptoms in fact result from a poisonous substance? Or something that Balsamo had ingested...

“Might Balsamo have encountered a malicious substance while in the presence of the carampanas? Or perhaps a person who wished Balsamo some ill may have crossed him during the banquet…a jettature?”

The physician glared at me.

“Are you still considering, Signore? About this deposition?”

I relented. “Yes, yes, please sign it.”

He muttered something under his breath before scribbling furiously.

After which I bid him farewell.

And this, Signor Almoro Donato, completes my account.

It would seem there are two deaths that bear no relationship with our case. They appear to be accidents born of the victims’ poor manners– gluttony and love of drink.

But I am not convinced of the same for Balsamo.

Antonio

***

Letter from Almoro Donato to Antonio da Parma

Antonio,

As perplexing as these sudden deaths are: stomach rupture, drowning and disease, it is my deepest conviction that they may lead us astray in the resolution of these murders.  Do venture into Ca’ Rampani and question the women, Antonio, but leave fanciful medicinal conjecture to our Jewish doctor.  For now, I will accept his deposition at face value.

But understand, that Balsamo’s perfidious coupling that night leaves me no doubt as to how he contracted his mysterious illness.  Fornication with a multiplicity of women may have only furthered the spread of this devilish disease on his enfeebled soul. Our religious clerics would be in much agreement with me on this matter. Had Balsamo’s night been spent in prayer or fasting, he may have met another fate.

You will recall, according to the documents I gave you on your first briefing, that Balsamo remained no less than six hours with courtesans, during which he spent a staggering one hundred ducats. One hundred ducats. Might one not conclude that Balsamo coupled with every whore in Venezia for this ludicrous sum?

But yes, if you must, Antonio, speak with them and find what you can. Remember also, that what you find in this brothel may demand the immediate intervention of the Consiglio dei Dieci. Keep me well informed, Antonio, on the matter that you know well is the Consiglio dei Dieci’s duty to oversee.

I concur with your judgment of Lorenzo as a suspect. One thing, Antonio, which surprised me in your investigation is that there is no evidence that all those masks existed.  Lorenzo makes mention of several masks, masks that according to the account you sent me, are of much value.  We know only of Giacomo and Rolandino’s mask.  Giacomo was wearing his when he was stabbed by Rolandino.  It has been removed and burned.  So too has Rolandino’s mask. What of the others?

I should think that if Lorenzo is indeed guilty of harboring murderous intent, then he may have embellished his deposition somewhat. Could he have confectioned this little tale of masks to lead us astray?

Find those masks, Antonio, and be certain that every detail in Lorenzo’s account can be verified. While Rolandino remains our primary suspect and has admitted to stabbing Giacomo, we cannot, a priori, rule out Lorenzo’s involvement in the murders.

Above all, Antonio, keep your mind clear of superstitious thoughts of any sort.

We will see what your encounter with Rolandino brings us. Rolandino’s mind is much clouded. Invite him to believe you are his friend and do not burden him with complicated questions.  Either he will hang for murder, or he will hang for his accomplice role. Rolandino is marked for execution either way. Use him as you must to determine if Lorenzo is guilty.

Yours in God,

Almoro Donato

In the Prisons

Journal of Antonio da Parma

22 December 1422

My hand shakes as I write this entry in memory of my encounter with Rolandino.  The task of an inquisitor is laid out before him and he must not wither at the austere walls of the darkest prisons.

It is said that it is better to be buried alive than to dwell in the damp Wells beneath the palace’s Southern wing. But of the prisons on the upper floors, those where the accused were detained before judgment, one could only say that they reeked of fear.  Without the familiar’s torch and the guiding moans and echoes resounding in the darkness, it was impossible to know where I was headed. Where the immense Sala di Maggior Consiglio, in the adjacent Southern wing, would eventually measure dozens of feet in height and more in width, here, the cramped confines and the absence of light, belied that one was at all in the Palazzo Ducale.

After passing rows and rows of bolted wooden doors, including one female ward where miscreant women, previously held in monasteries were now incarcerated, we came upon Rolandino’s cell.

It was colder here than outside the palace, yet the shiver I sensed, as the masked familiar unlocked the prison door, seemed to have come from deep within me. I heard a distant moan, like a chant, as though someone inside were fervently at prayer.

The ever silent familiar hung a flambeau to the wall and left me.  In the near darkness, his footfalls pounded on the wooden floorboards, until he was faraway and I could hear nothing, save for Rolandino’s curious chanting.

Slowly, I advanced. The stench of nearby latrines assailed me but I had quickly adjusted to the dimness. I saw Rolandino. Rather, I glimpsed the figure I believed to be Rolandino, cowering in the corner of his windowless cell. In this place, with nothing but a stool and a wooden box where the prisoner may retch and use as he sees fit, no rays shine and one is left with no choice but to smell all and hear all. And if one is predisposed to hear voices in one’s head, it is worse. Was Rolandino chanting to calm his spirits?

Rolandino’s doublet had been removed. He shivered in a torn camicia stained by blood. It hung loose over his dirty hose.

I took a step forth and he turned instantly.

At the sight of him, my heart thumped in my chest. The merchant’s face was wracked with fear. Even in the cold, sweat glistened on his temples as he stared.  The chanting had ceased and the light of desperation shone in his eyes.

“Rolandino Vitturi,” I pronounced in a sonorous voice. “I am here today, as your inquisitor and I will demand of you, that you tell me all that came to pass on the night of Giacomo’s murder.”

“Antonio?”

“It is I.”

“Antonio da Parma?”

“Si, we have met once, Signore.”

“Avogadore, I am pleased to see you.”

His voice came at me in the dark. I hardly recognized it. What had befallen the haughty merchant I had met in Santa Croce? A plaintive quaver escaped from his lips as he spoke of how grateful he was of my visit.

He had crawled forth a little. He evinced a weak smile, staring wondrously at me.

“Rolandi—”

I could not continue.  A disturbing sight had caught my eye. I raised my torch.

The frightened man had etched crosses upon the wall. Even now, I discerned the whiteness of his clenched fist and saw how he still gripped a flint in his dirty fingers. There were a dozen etchings behind him. He had sat so near them, that at first, I had not taken notice they were present. I recollected myself.

“Will you confess to me, Rolandino? Will you confess of what you know?”

“Anything you wish, avogadore. Anything! I am so glad to see you.”

“Is it true that you killed Giacomo?”

“Signore, I had to! I could not but kill him.”

“What of Giovanna?”

“Zanetta,” he emitted in his Venetian accent. And then he forced a cackle.  Before my eyes, Rolandino suddenly turned grim.

“I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say, Signor Avogadore.”

“Men have died on that night, Rolandino. And something is amiss. If you tell us, we may yet spare your life. Do not waste time, Rolandino.”

“You lie. I am a doomed man, avogadore. You can do nothing for me.  Still, I will tell you all I know. Though you may not like what I have to say, it is the truth.”

And as he began to speak, I took notes in my journal. I scribed as much I could in the darkness of the shivering cell. I tried to never interrupt, though it was difficult. The once fierce merchant had descended into a semi-mad state. He choked on his words, took pains in voicing each sentence, and there were even times when he would stare into empty space and move ever closer to the crosses etched on the wall.

Did he believe his prison might be haunted by spirits, perhaps? I cannot say. But as I neared my torch to the wall, I saw that I had not mistook the markings. They were crosses. Rolandino feared for his soul.

But now I will relate Rolandino’s testimony. As though it had been written by him.

***

The deposition of Rolandino Vitturi

The first thing I remember from the night of the banquet was my anger. Guido was in a rotten mood and had, much to the horror of our host and to more gentile Venetians, chosen drink over social pleasantry.

Ubertino did not leave the dinner table. He was sunk deep in a velvet divan, his pudgy fingers upon his fat lips. He ogled the banquet table as though he’d never set foot in Catarina’s kitchen this very afternoon. The marquis is fortunate to own a roasting pit in his courtyard, and so Ubertino lost himself before the enormous dishes of roasted pork, lamb and fatty mutton, laden among roasted pumpkin, turnips and cabbage. I watched him salivate as a servant brought forth a platter of pork and quail, impaled upon skewers.

As for me, oyster soup was all I could stomach on the night.  Yet now that I famish in my cell, I remember there was a wholesome mound of lard beside a dish of spiced ravioli. It was sprinkled with an odorous grated cheese. The smells caught my attention. Even now, I can still smell it.  There was also a dish of rice and raisins, served with ginger-scented chicken and dates - some as large as my thumb. I regret not tasting it. Knowing the expense our host had gone to in serving rice, I was wary of Ubertino.  The ill-mannered glutton would surely insult the marquis.

But Ubertino was contenting himself elsewhere. He had found a heaped porcelain bowl, the quality I guessed to be from Catay. It contained none other than a rich rice-thickened soup where seafood swam in abundance. Towering over this enormous bowl, as though they were still trying to crawl out, were large pink crayfish and other hideous creatures from the lagoon, fresh from the fishermen markets. Antonio, I swear it, I had never once seen Ubertino’s eyes shine as they did.  And glow, they did.

I noted, too, that Lorenzo, after a cold glance toward his father, had left us early. I cringed at the thought. I knew Giacomo would not be happy. But I chose not to mention it. There was already enough animosity between the two of them.

I also felt that Giacomo behaved strangely from the time we entered the dining hall.  At first, he fired reproaches toward Giovanna. They were cruel. They put her off guard from the start.  He told her she was wearing too much perfume and that her bleached hair stank of urine.

Avogadore, I will explain to you why I thought this was out of character. Giacomo loved his daughter and I had never once heard him speak to her this way. I had my own grudge toward him, we all did. But the Canal brothers–Ubertino and Guido–they were not betrothed to Giovanna. I was. I took Giacomo’s tirades as an insult to me. Never once had I heard him disgrace his own daughter in public, and now the man... I hardly knew him!

About midnight, Guido had consumed too much wine and was beginning to feel ill. I jested that he ought to retch into the canal and spare us the spectacle of his diseased liver. He fumbled outside, belting out disgusting couplets to all who had the ill luck to pass him. I never saw him again.

But Giovanna’s disquiet troubled me.  Of course I could not know if she was crying, the poor signorina, because her face lay hidden behind that gold mask.  But I saw, in the way she ceased dancing and the bitter pout on her lower lip, that she was close to tears.  And all the while, Giacomo ranted.

“It’s no use,” he said. “I can still see your freckles. On your neck, also. Si, even with all that white powder make up. That is the price you pay for staying so long under the sun. What is wrong with brown hair? So much time spent in getting yourself ready when all you end up doing is looking like a puttana from the Ponte delle Tette!”

Such is the coarseness of the Venetians, you Florentines would say. But Giacomo had gone too far. It was wrong of him.  Giovanna soon began to feel out of place. And she was not the only one. The more Giacomo taunted her with his denigrating tirades and the more he scorned her before their hosts, the more I felt the anger rise inside me.

I began to fume. The last week’s events churned in my mind. I had not once forgotten that Giacomo owed me a considerable sum of money and now his behavior was deplorable. I was torn. Was I to step in to protect Giovanna’s pride and shield my future bride from her ill-tempered father, or was I to remain the stoic partner and let a father speak his mind? And then...

Avogadore, I told you before that I did not like to be played for a fool. And Giacomo behaved so strangely that night that I thought he was playing with me. Playing with me by hurting his own daughter. But I was wrong.

No sooner had Guido staggered outside than I saw Giovanna storm out to one of the balconies. She had removed those atrocious zoccoli and was bare-footed on the tiles.  Giacomo said nothing. He stood. Without a word, he followed after her. Now they were both on the balcony and I eyed Ubertino who had somehow managed a fifth serve of roasted meats. I was nervous. I had had enough of this.  I rose from my couch and pursued father and daughter onto the balcony.

And then I saw it. Under the bright moon. I saw the anger flashing behind Giacomo’s mask. His monstrous hands were upon my Zanetta who wept and squirmed.

What tragedy on a night such as this! I saw a father setting out to strangle his own daughter. But you see, it was not his daughter. Giacomo was mad that night. He had lost all reason.

There stood his own angel, his own precious daughter, but Giacomo–I swear–he could not see her. All he saw... All he saw was... I still do not understand.

She was pleading with him.

“Father, Father, it is I! It is I! Rolandino, make him see! Make him see!”

But Giacomo, he could not. He would not listen. I yelled at him. I menaced him with my dagger. I pretended to take a swipe at him. Not once, did he notice me. For a split second I had managed to loosen his grip on her but he seemed possessed by a demonic will and shoved me brutally aside.  Then he lunged toward her.

“I will kill that witch! I will kill her!”

My heart thumped in my chest. I realized that he meant it. There was no stopping him.

“Have you gone mad? I swear to you, Giacomo, if you do not release her at once, I will kill you! Don’t make me do this! Let her go!”

“You will leave my son alone! Jewess! Whore! I will kill you, Daniela!”

I took a step back in horror. Had he said Daniela?

“Father! Please...”

And that was her last sob. A tear pearled down, taking with it a stream of lead paint from that angelic mask.

And that was the end of it.

What do you say to this, avogadore? What do you say if I tell you, that in his mind, Giacomo did not murder his daughter? He murdered Daniela. But when it happened, so suddenly, I was too horrified to think of it or explain it. A rage, more furious than the last, surged through me.

“Giacomo!” I screamed. And still, I stared at him in disbelief.  I think the last thing I said before I struck him off his feet, was, “You murderous whore’s son!”

Then I stabbed him. I knew not how, but I did. Once, then three, then ten times. I could not contain my rage. I came at him again, even when he lay inert and his blood had soaked my hose and tabard.

I wanted to slash at his face but his mask was not easily undone.  So I carved at his chest. Raging tears streamed down my face, blending with Giacomo’s splattering blood. I knifed him, because… Because it pleased me! I could not...I could not end it, Antonio! And the joy I felt, it frightened me! How it frightened me!

Avogadore, you may not know this, but Giacomo was opposed to his son’s choice of a wife.  The woman he set out to murder was not his daughter.  In his mind, it was her! It was that artist’s daughter–a Jewish woman. Her name is Daniela Moro. And now she lives. And Zanetta, my sweet Zanetta, is gone.

There is no more to say. But know this. Know this, Antonio. My death will follow. You cannot help me. I will die before they hang me.

***

This marks the end of Rolandino’s erratic deposition. He had receded to a corner. He lay his head on the wall, one palm pressed against the etched crosses as though he felt safer near them.

“You must rest, Rolandino,” came my voice.

At once, he raised his head and turned at me in disbelief.  Fear deformed every line around his eyes and lips as he shook his head. I thought he would weep.

“It is too late. He will come to find me. We will all die, avogadore. I tell you today, that my death will follow.  He will have his revenge! I know this, Antonio! They have told me about what happened to Ubertino...to Guido...and to... He killed them all! It was him!”

“Him? Who? Giacomo? Who do you mean?”

He never replied. He cradled his head in his trembling hands and began to chant anew.  And nothing I could say would bring the man comfort, nor bring back his reason.

His sobs haunted me long after I had deserted the dark prison passages.

***

I met Almoro Donato outside the Sala Gradenigo. He advanced toward me with a curious expression.

“And how did you find our prisoner, avogadore?”

“It seems that he has been badly treated.”

“You think so?”

He seemed genuinely surprised at my reproaches.

“The man is ruined,” I pursued.  “Not the haughty Rolandino I once met. It is an unfortunate happenstance of applying The Question.  His testimony will be all the more incoherent...”

Almoro Donato turned to me with a frightening violence.

“The Question? Rolandino Vitturi was not tortured, Antonio. I can vouch for it.”

I must not have appeared convinced. Almoro gripped my arm, his eyes bulging until I had to take note that he was as perplexed as I was.

“Antonio, there was no need to apply The Question.  He confessed!” he spit.

A chilling wave filled through me. Almoro recomposed himself.  With a reluctant air, he shuffled to another Consiglio session while I took to Piazza San Marco, immersed in conflicted thoughts.

Here was a man, who upon murdering a fellow merchant, had resigned himself to the accusations against him and chosen to confess.  Yet, I pondered, a man who truly confesses is almost always relieved of his guilt.

I crossed to the noisy Piazza.  I paid no heed to the reveling crowds. Strange figures writhed before me in all the splendor of their youth, spraying color and gaiety behind their ridiculous masks. Leather straps, feathers, lace, towering turbans encrusted with gems–they were mere illusions after the reality I had seen. Did none of these festive fools even comprehend that beneath their feet, nay, beneath the Carnivale merriment, there lay the state prisons, places of agony and terror; the Republic’s Wells.

I froze.

A notion struck me.

I had delved too closely into Giacomo’s murder. What if Rolandino were guilty of something else? No. What if all these men had precipitated their deaths through the reckless consummation of their guilt.

I remembered Guido’s intoxicated plunge into the canal. Why anyone would venture close to the waters when his senses were no longer his own could only be accounted for in moments of great foolishness.  Drinking to death...yes! As foolish as it was soul-destroying! Eating to death... Now there, there was a pastime that would be incomprehensible to most had it not been for Ubertino’s desperation to escape guilt.

I might be near the truth.

These were, then, the absurd notes I scribbled in the middle of the Piazzetta:

Ubertino and Guido died of guilt.

But guilt from what?

I had written without thinking. I had listened to a voice deep within. I was sure of myself and altogether ignorant of the reason that had compelled me.

It was midday when I finally cast aside my notes and walked out of the Piazza.  Behind me, I felt the cold specter of the two granite columns– Saint Theodorus and the lion of San Marco, towering over me.  Rolandino was destined to die and there was nothing I could do.

But more chilling was the memory of what I had seen. The terror on Rolandino’s face.

He had spoken of Him. He believed that God would punish him...

He has confessed and yet he remains haunted.

Haunted by what?

Haunted by…

And now, as I sit in my room, writing these notes, I realize that there is another confession I need to extract from Rolandino Vitturi.

There is no running away from the festering prisons. And the scourge of the inquisitor is to find himself again and again, at their threshold.

Reluctantly, I promised myself that I would return there as soon as I could.

Carampane

After midday, exhausted from lack of sleep and little time to eat, I had no choice but to meet the marquis’ servant. Together we ventured into the jasmine-scented Rampani district, where the lecherous Balsamo Morosini had met his grisly death. After leading me to a narrow calle, the servant left.

For a moment, I hesitated.  I was persuaded that these pleasure houses would be hostile to an avogadore.  Yet my appearance did not cause a stir.  The women had seen it all.

The Madam seemed to hark from the Battle of Chiogga.  She was sniffling from cold.  Under her heavy shawl, she wore a coarse woolen dress marred by the latest artichoke weave and several gold rings on her plump fingers. She was all sleeves, bosom and layers. A sheer muslin veil hung upon her headdress, like the relic of her long lost chastity.  She greeted my every question with a nonchalant air, tossing her heavy head about so violently that I feared her horned headdress might fall off.

“How many girls did he want? Five? Six? What do I care, Signore? The man has ducats. He is clean. I look at his clothes, I like what I see.  Strong, gazelle of a man. He tells me, ‘Maria! You bring me the wine and the girls. Make them come to me. Tonight, I am king. Not the shy ones tonight,’ he says. ‘I want puttane, real puttane!’ So I gave him what he wanted and he paid me. The Morosini was a generous man when he was up, let me tell you.”

“In this room?”

“No.” She gestured to the end of a corridor. “That one. They came to him after midnight. Stayed right up until the sunrise and until...”

“Until?”

I followed her morose silence as we entered the room in question. She left me standing at the door.

“I need to attend to my books,” she sniffed. “I will let you talk to Margarita.”

“But I...”

“Margarita! Bring yourself down here. Come, dolcita. There is a man from the Consiglio dei Dieci who wants you to tell him all about the Signor Morosini. Make haste!” She turned to me. “Avogadore, she will be down soon. Let her dress.”

Then she added in a dry tone.

“When you are done, you leave, avogadore. This is a respectable place. All the foreigners come here and they are never dissatisfied.  I count on you to save us from trouble.”

I was stunned by the sudden sharpness of her gaze. It was clear that she ran a profitable trade under the auspices of the Signoria.  Preserving chaste wives from the perversions of their husbands was one of the aims of such houses, but the Consiglio dei Dieci also encouraged unmarried men to frequent the carampanas, in the hope they would refrain from quite another vice.

A few moments passed and then my eyes were drawn to the golden locks bouncing into the room. Soft, bare shoulders of the purest nacre were wrapped in a gauze shawl of yellow, the mark of the prostitute by law. Their owner was a sultry donna of no more than twenty years.  Tired years, still.

She gave a half-mocking gaze as she entered the room, undulating her hips in a lusty sway. Her voice was like a cat’s breath, velvet and dark. The voice of one who knows more about Venezia than the entire Signoria combined.  A voice that could speak against the senators and tear their families apart if it so desired. There is darkness in this voice because it keeps quiet.

“What does the avogadore need?” A smile.  I knew from that first moment that this one knew more than she would tell.

She swirled her tongue in her mouth, slowly, her red lips apart. She calculated perhaps; what she could do to me, the avogadore who sweated and quivered as she passed, resenting her. I saw that she had tucked a red flower into the folds of her partly exposed breasts.

I was not impervious to Margarita–the forbidden curves she flaunted, the scent of her jasmine ointment, the treacherous damp pit I knew was buried in her thighs and which she offered to those who paid ducats–all these things, they set my pulse to quicken.  Men who risked gossip and ill sayings coursed daily through Venezia to taste of this sin. How I envied them. I envied them as much as...

I found my breath and wiped my forehead. In the dim candle light, I made a renewed effort to examine Margarita.  Despite my desire, I noted the tiredness in her eyes.  Now she was smiling, beckoning me to shower her with questions.

“You are one of those women...” I began, clearing my throat. “The women who took with the Signor Morosini.”

Another smile. “That man!” she said. She looked up, as though to better remember the night. A glow of malice flicked across her face.

“What can you tell me about that night, Margarita?”

“Signor Morisini was a very very...able man. He took us, four…no, five of us on that night.”

And then she observed me, her eyes lingered to where my calza ended beneath my tabard. She made a mocking pout, sucking in her cheeks while in deep thought. Her voice came at me in a whisper.

“Avogadore, he sought a man, too! But I know that you won’t tell anyone, will you? Morisini liked it better with another man. I always suspected it. No women were enough for that stag. I should show you the bruises he gave me...” She bit her lips as though she could barely contain her own pleasure.

Again, that mocking glare. The taunting in her eyes, when she noted how I trembled. She saw through me, saw that I had not been with a woman since my wife had died.

But she was mistaken in her summation of me.

“Tell me about his face.”

She was surprised.

“What about his face?”

“Was he well? Did he suffer from a fever? Was he... Margarita, I have learned that Signor Morosini died of some mysterious illness that left him without a nose and much of his face fallen off. I came to enquire about the how of this curious death. His physician assured me he was in good health before that night.”

The seductive gaze had faded. Margarita shrugged. But I saw through that. She thought she would live forever but I had reminded her of mortal flesh and of disease. I had reminded her that her soul was corrupt and that the man she had bedded was now a rotting corpse.  It was her turn to resent me.

“Signor Morisini wore a dottore della peste all evening. We never saw his face. He removed the ugly hose, the doublet and the shirt. We gripped onto every part of his body and I sunk my teeth into his bare ass so I can tell you that it was a healthy stag we had in bed with us. I can tell you that his limbs and chest were smooth and oiled. There were no sores. That is…right until he slept. And in the early hours of the morning, one of the girls awoke.”

She paused.  She bit her inner cheek and took a deep breath.

“She saw him...lying there. She is a brave girl, but even she was horrified.”

A veil of disgust clouded her face.

“There he was, the signore–not the same man as the night before–rotting away with his red sores leaking all over the sheets.  He was dead.  We do not know when he died.  Perhaps during the night when the other man left.  But the physician saw us afterwards, Signore. None of us are ill. I am not ill. None of us are. This is a good whorehouse, this one. All the girls are clean.”

“Perhaps he was already ill and you had not noticed. Have you thought of that?”

“I am not a foolish woman, avogadore.  I know it if a man smells ill. The Morosini did not. What does it matter, now? Morisini parted with his ducats and his life. He made a choice. You look pale, avogadore.”

“It is nothing. I am not accustomed to these dim lights.”

“I will fetch you some milk. Please sit.”

I had sensed what I felt was a phantom. A shadow had, for a moment, invaded this very room and I felt its presence, so close, that my heart leapt in my chest. A flicker of gold passed before my eyes, until I raised my head and realized what I had seen.

And there, hanging above the bed, was the most hideous mask I had ever laid eyes upon. As grotesque as it was beautiful–the dottore della peste–with the hooked beak of a gold vulture.

Margarita had returned. She presented me the milk.  I drank. My heart raced at the thought of that mask.

“Is this…is this the mask that the signore wore before he died?”

She nodded.  She looked a little apologetic for having kept it.

“We did not think anyone would want to claim it after what had happened. Who would want an object of such augury? We left it here. It was awfully stained that morning.  The pustules had—”

“He slept in that mask? Why would he do that? Was he afraid of revealing his face, you think? Perhaps he believed you might be frightened by something on his face?”

“You really want to know? The Morosini was in a spirited humor. He wanted to play games, play at being our physician. At first he remained masked because he thought it would frighten us. He liked to thrill the ladies. It was all good fun. You ever tried bedding a woman with a mask on?” She gave me a beckoning smile. “There is a girl here, a Sard from the Kingdom of Sardinia. She told us of the cheeky pagan ways of her village. She said that up in the mountains, the men still fashion themselves into beasts during yearly pageants. Their women love them for it.  I tell you one thing, handsome signore, the more beastly the mask, the more pleasure a woman will feel when she is taken. You listen to Margarita, she knows about these things.”

She emitted another audacious smile. And then it, too, faded.

“Avogadore, let me remember something. You asked me…before, if the Signor Morisini had something to hide…and if that was why he kept to his mask. I don’t think so. I tell you again, that all night, I never saw a healthier, happy man. And all night he was at us. He waved his parts at us and told us to get in this way and that, to run our tongues there and over there. He took me front and back and in the way, you know, is forbidden. He did all that. I had never seen him grow so wicked. It was all good fun.  He took us one after the other until he grew very hot.”  She gasped. “Now… Now, I remember.”

“What is it?”

She gave a soft grunt almost as though she were dismissing her previous thought.

“What is it that you remember, Margarita?”

“He did it once. He tried to remove the mask...”

I could see that she wrestled with a memory. Something had unsettled her. The heaving of her breasts betrayed her even under that dim red light.

“What happened? Did he remove it? Did you see his face?”

There was a frown and a veil of sadness.

“No.”

“So you never saw his face? Not once?”

“No, avogadore. None of us did. Because, you see...none of us could remove the mask.”

And suddenly she emitted a shrill laugh.

“Poor Signor Morosini! How he struggled at first! Twas as though…the mask had eaten his face! And then one of us climbed on top of him and in the end, he forgot all about it. A naked animal, save for that gold mask. Ha! And we were all too drunk to care!”

***

I knew pleasure that night. Bathing in the dim red torches of my dream, I flew back to Ca’ Rampani and went to Margarita the whore.

I heard the thousand echoes of her voice drawing me near, calling me to her.

“Antonio! Antonio!”

A darkness descended upon me as I reached for her skin.

And it was I who inhaled the perfid musk of her flesh and bruised her thighs. It was I who wore that hideous dottore mask and who gripped the curves of her hips. It was I who guided her, again and again, to my throbbing manhood.

Fearless, I glistened with the sweat of my sin. I gritted my teeth as desire tore my soul asunder. With every brutal thrust, I gazed upon Margarita’s quivering lips, upon the wandering whites of her eyes and I cried for joy at the sight of the thrill I stirred.

I took that joy. Like a godless pagan, as though fires danced within me, I let it fill me until I could take no more—I had to have her. I needed to feel free.  In the only way I knew, the way that was forbidden.  Obeying the urgent throb between my thighs, I tumbled the willing Margarita, face down. And as she arched herself to take all of me, I had made her tender mount my own, forcing myself into that tight, forbidden slit until we had both tasted of its most delicious secret.

When I awoke, dripping with humors, my sheets soiled by the odious fruit of my passions, I clenched my heart, detesting myself.

What was I?

I could not answer. An unbearable solitude ran over me in the silence of my shame.

Another sleepless night stretched its canvas over Venezia.

The Mascherari

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Almoro Donato

Signor Donato,

The last two days have shed no light on the patrician murders.

I wish to once again speak with Rolandino in his cell.

I have thought of Lorenzo’s deposition whereby he claims that the masks delivered to the Contarini family were signed by a certain “Il Mascherari”.  Attended by members of your sbirri, I scoured the entire San Polo and Santa Croce calli, in the hidden labyrinth of artisan streets and beyond.

I have with me a list of all the mascherari known to the city of Venezia and I can assure you that none of them answer to the name “Il Mascherari”.   Further to this, I know of no such guild, since as you know, the mascherari of Venice do not, as yet, belong to a guild body. Might this “Il Mascherari” be a false signature?

I put to you my other suspicion. I suspect that none of the men who wore these masks knew of whence they had come and by whom they had been fashioned.  It is my suspicion, albeit from intuition alone, that the Signor Contarini never purchased those masks. According to his son, he fretted about the delivered coffers. He only consented to their usage in the spirit of Carnivale.

Further, I put to you, that of the five deaths I have so far attested to–that of the Signorina Giovanna Contarini who was strangled by her own father, that of Giacomo Contarini who Rolandino has admitted to stabbing to death in a fit of rage, that of Ubertino Canal who died of stomach rupture, that of Guido Canal who was found bloated in the canal, and that of Balsamo Morosini who, imbued with health and beauty one day, inexplicably suffered a deadly pox overnight until it consumed him in a manner never before seen by most respectable physicians–yes, of those five, not one, but two deaths possess a curious happenstance relating to a mask worn by the victim.

Primo: Rolandino attests that when he tried to stab Giacomo’s face, he could not remove his mask.

Segundo: a woman who attended the Morosini also attested that neither she nor others could remove his mask.

It is my belief that some ill-design was fated upon those victims. Might the masks they wore on the night have been laced with some nefarious substance? One that would cause live skin to adhere to leather but also, much like the belladonna, induce visions and a form of madness? I think of it, yet I know of no such ointment.

Better still, could this be the dark work of a powerful jettature? Someone who blended in the shadows during the evening and who might have cast a curse upon each of these men during the banquet?

All it would necessitate for malediction to take effect, is a compliment from an ill-intentioned person.  In the spirit of the night, an appreciative remark made about another’s appearance would arouse no suspicion. But who? Who in the marquis’ list of guests would possess such powers?

I now draw your attention to our prisoner, Rolandino. In my encounter with him, he spoke of being doomed.  I mistook him to be broken by The Question and committed the error of dismissing his fears.  But now I remember that he was terrified.

It is my intention to visit him this afternoon with your permission.

Antonio Da Parma

***

Letter from Almoro Donato to Antonio da Parma

Signor Da Parma,

You do well to inform me of your latest affairs. The Council of Ten must have ears of all your goings to and fro.

Continue to direct these missives to my person as you proceed with this case. Or better still, mark your letters with the sign we both know and slip it as any citizen would, in the bocca you know, so that I may recognize from whence it has come and so that no palace courier may touch it.

But now, to the matter of those masks and to the cause and effect you so feverishly advance.

I see by the color and verve of your correspondence, Antonio, that you are not changed. Even when you were lauded by Padua University scholars and referred to us years ago, there was mention of your dubious tendencies.  That passionate Tuscan who despite excelling in law, philosophy and research, remained fixated upon his flights of fancies–I see he dwells among us today. Why have you not banished him?

You remain the same young man your professor once remarked had one foot in this world and the other lost in the nether. You choose to deliberate over fanciful ideas to evade your reality, Antonio, because this reality does not please you.

Remember that you have lost a wife and are therefore in danger of bitterness. But you must remain firm, Da Parma. Your future role as an avogadore, attached to the Council of Ten, hinges upon your demonstrating that you have acquired a finesse of mind which resists moral weaknesses.

Superstitions are not the domain of the Signoria. We already have at our service the finest astrologers in the country. Beyond this, Antonio, we do not converse with the devil.

Stand firm, therefore, and do not invite superstition into your mind.

It chagrins me that you resorted to the precious time of the sbirri on the pretext of concocting an exhaustive list of artisans. You have not only abused of the secret police, but you committed the grave error of arousing the interest of the community.  We must remain elusive.

It vexes me, as it does the entire Council of Ten, that due to your clumsiness, all Venezia will know and that the word will spread like wildfire, in the calli, over the pontes and beyond. We must never underestimate the chattering mouths of this city and the ensuing harm to La Serenissima.

Remember your place, avogadore. Let us contain this case.  Murders they are–and already, Venezia is in the throes of speculating over these murders, indulging in its propensity for gossip, that in which it seems to thrive. But let us leave this vice as it stands and let us not encourage it further.

We shall return to speak of that vice and the harm it has caused, at a later moment. For there is a pertinent matter I shall mention—it concerns the reputation of Giacomo Contarini.

For now, I press you, Antonio.  Do leave the question of these masks aside. Might you consider for a moment that Lorenzo’s deposition is inaccurate and that this, “Il Mascherari”, does not exist for the simple reason that it exists only in the imaginative mind of an impassioned patrician?

I have suffered this Lorenzo Contarini numerous times and even the members of our Maggior Consiglio find him reckless and rebellious. If, in his blooming forties he were to ever ascend to the Quarantia, or heaven forbids, to the role of Senator, this impetuous young man may well profess to give all Jews the same rights as the cittadini.

I see in him only a chilling arrogance–the arrogance that those young patricians nurture even though they’ve not achieved a single feat to be deserving of their inheritance.  They jeer at the rest of us, in their gold calza, boasting of the clubs they belong to, spendthrift of ducats they’ve not earned, unashamed of their voluptuary nature and the credit they relentlessly seek.

How can, pray tell me, how can such recklessness allow itself to reach the powers of the Senate.  By citizen birth alone?

Having spoken so, I ask you again. What is it today with cittadini youth, that in their conceit, they attest to know all and persist to the bitter ends despite evidence to their lack of wisdom and experience?

You have now to rest this matter of the masks. The Mascherari, or whoever this guild or artisan may name itself, is not cause for two natural deaths– the first, of a renowned glutton who gorged himself to disproportionate ends; the second, of an inveterate drunk.  Again, it cannot have engendered an illness which, more likely provisioned by divine punishment, descended upon the sinful Morosini and sent him to his death.

Do you forget how the body’s symptoms are known to mirror the soul? If, following his orgiastic night, the Morosini had any regret, would it not be befitting that guilt would have ravaged his body, leaving him prey to the destructiveness of the pox? You see, now, where this curse theory of yours finds itself at loss.

Again, this Mascherari, cannot be the cause of Giacomo’s death, a father so intoxicated by madness that he was driven to kill his own daughter. My belief in Giacomo’s loss of reason is one I will shortly explain.

But first, let me speak of you, Antonio, and of your visit to the San Cassiano brothel.  You spoke with a woman–I assume, a meretrice–who affirmed that Morosini was not ill when he came to them.  I have, you understand, corroborated your deposition with two sbirri who it was my duty to assign for your protection upon your visit.

You never saw the sbirri. It was my wish that you never once suspected they were present.  The Council can never be too careful. You do realize that prostitutes employ dangerous bravi–ruffians of ill-repute, well-armed and sure of their weapons.  It would only take one such bravo to decimate our avogadore had we not ourselves assigned men to guard him.

Now returning to this visit, I will ask you, Antonio, and I will ask you only once.  Are you able to confirm that everything that was said, you have indeed reported it to me as it was said?

Has your report been faithful?

Think back, and present to me anything that you may have previously omitted.  Remember to leave nothing out.

Now to the vice I spoke of and the rumors concerning Giacomo Contarini. A month ago, before you were called upon, there were several denuncio secretos made against his name. The denunciations were submitted from several sestieri and at all levels of society.

You may be unaware of our ways, Antonio, and perhaps you are softened by Florentine leniency. But here, in Venezia, the Ten considers sodomy to be the worst sin a man can ever commit. Procreation and the thriving of our families is endangered by it. More so, it corrupts the soul and incurs God’s wrath.  Still, upon receipt of these denunciations, the Council did not yet lend weight to these matters, that is, not until the recent developments of this case.

But I come now to these allegations. Giacomo has been denounced of not honoring his marriage, of mingling with the sodomite Morosini and of himself being guilty of sodomy. What do you make of this avogadore?

I myself was skeptical of this crime. But as goes the saying, if one person in Venezia says it, everyone says it.  Might there be an ounce of truth in these accusations?

I ask that you seek audience with the Signora Contarini. The convenience of her emotional state is not to be underestimated. She is still vulnerable and amenable to speak. She may be in a position to help shed light on her husband’s morality. I wish you to do this soon. Very soon.

As for the allegations against the Morosini, we have sent a sbirri detachment to the Jewish physician. He is to inspect the pustule-ridden body one last time before burial. He will report rupture around the parts amenable to sinning. The physician’s testimony, as to whether the Morosini did or did not engage in the unspeakable vice, will either refute or lend weight to the denunciations.

Once again, Antonio, I ask that all your depositions remain faithful to the matters you find and that you omit nothing.

Yours in God,

Almoro Donato

***

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Almoro Donato

Signor Donato,

The tone of your last letter seems to me reproachful.

While I understand in what fashion our ideas diverge, I am perplexed that in an earlier letter, you would press me to find those masks, yet now that I am set upon them, you wish me to forget them as though they no longer matter.

I therefore surmise that the evidence you sought to discredit Lorenzo’s deposition–be it that the masks never existed and that he is guilty of lying–is no longer of importance.  May I then further surmise that you have already rejected his deposition? Or perhaps that it no longer bears strongly upon this case. In light of the recent gossip surrounding the Contarini name and your vexation toward his son, Lorenzo, who seems to embody all the traits you loathe, I would lean toward the latter.

I am perplexed that you never revealed to me the accusations against Giacomo Contarini.  I understand that it is the privilege of the Council and that it is not befitting that I question the objectives of the Council.  But in light of the Council’s evident concerns, I can confirm, a notion that I previously did not judge pertinent to my report–that Margarita, the meretrice I saw in Ca’ Rampani, did indeed make mention of Morosini’s reputation for practicing sodomy.

Whether or not this practice ever did take place within the said premises and on that very night, I cannot, alas, confirm. I will leave this to our Jewish physician.

I will make every endeavor to see the Signora Contarini promptly and will delay my visit to Rolandino until the following day.

Yours in faith,

Antonio da Parma

The Moor

Journal of Antonio da Parma

23 December 1422

No sooner had I dispatched my last letter to Almoro Donato that I set off to visit the Signora Catarina Contarini. Draped in a thick mantle, I hastened toward Canal Grande. The market still thronged with vendors as I crossed the Campo di Rialto, buried deep in somber thoughts. I had decided to take a stroll along the Canal Grande before finding a gondola that would take me to Calle Borgoloco in Castello.

A brisk walk ought to have brought respite from the turmoil that Venezia had since wreaked upon my mind, but I felt a growing uneasiness with every step. Almoro Donato’s spies were watching me. I now overlooked nothing–every whisper between the ordinarily loud Veneziani, every dark gaze in my direction.  Even now, as I crossed the bustling stalls, I scrutinized faces, glanced upon every shop keeper and paused at intervals to see if I was perhaps being followed.

As I crossed through a narrow calle strewn with refuse, I saw a man standing by the wall.  He was clothed curiously, head to toe in a dark leather and upturned boots made of the same.  As I approached, he spun about and strode to my left.

“Perdonami,” he said, as his shoulder brushed mine. I turned, only to see his angular face peering in my direction. There was an uneasy moment as I gazed upon the scar on his cheek.

Even now, I remember the bolt that ran through me. I think, also, a faint memory stirred from within but I paid no attention to this sentiment. The stranger in the leather mantle walked off, while I reached the other end of the calle.

I found the nearby campo pleasantly empty.

In the renewed quiet, I now thought only of Almoro Donato. I was still stung by his encroaching morality. While I was not guilty of the crime attributed to Giacomo Contarini, there was in my latest dream something akin to his sin.  It unsettled me. And while I promised myself to abide to the Consiglio’s wishes and to visit the Signora Contarini, I was tormented. I found it unpleasant that the poor Contarini widow may have to endure accusations against her deceased husband.

Immersed in my thoughts and lulled by the sweet scent of oven breads from the nearby homes, I now ambled toward the lagoon. Not finding a gondola on this idle siesta hour, I ventured to walk further down the canal.

My felt boots tapped hurriedly along the stone paving.  Again, I felt watched. I drew my black mantle close over my shoulders and pulled the collar of my doublet to level with my ears.  Was the iciness in my limbs due solely to the vanishing sun, or had a cold fear risen within me?

As murky clouds cloaked the sky, I had a vague notion of the red bricks ahead, turning to pale rose. The market voices left me, or rather I had long left them, as the events of the last four days churned in my mind.  I ventured into an alley.

In this narrow passage abutting the canal, little light shone. And there, beneath the stone arch adjoining two casas, a man in a full-length mantle stood tall, barring my way. He seemed to have been waiting for me. I suspected he had followed me all the way from San Polo.

“Signore! Who goes there?” I called out.

He advanced toward me. In silence, still.

My eyes adjusted to the dark. I discerned the sheen of a blue velvet cioppa beneath his cloak.  His well-formed legs were clad in tight black hose and an ominous foreign rapier hung at his waist.

“You shall let me pass,” I warned. My hand had neared to a poisoned rondel which I always slip through my belt.

“Not till we have spoken,” boomed the voice, whose owner now raised his giant hand and, there, before my startled eyes, flashed my own gleaming dagger.

In disbelief, I felt round my waist. But where I’d hoped to find my only weapon, there lay only emptiness.

“How have you...?”

“We’ve not much time for pleasantries.  Retrace your steps, turn to your left and sit yourself in the black gondola at the end of the calle.”

Again, the voice commanded me. Having sized up my opponent’s limbs and height, and determined that he would have good use of his rapier, I could only obey.

He pushed me to a dark recess along the canal and began to loosen an old gondola, still pointing the blade at me.  His movements were decisive. There was, in his silent countenance, something polished, regal almost.  Beneath his ample mantle, the silk of his garments were of such refinement, that it was difficult to believe that I, Antonio da Parma, was now the foolish hostage of some dangerous bravo.

“Signore,” I began, uncertain of my claims but trying to appear unfazed, “you ignore who I am, it is certain. I should like to advise you that the sbirri will not be far in my footsteps and you shall soon find that the Wells of this city are not near as accommodating as this pungent alley.”

“Esteban.”

“Pardon?”

“My name, Signore, if you wish to make use of it. Now row.”

I eyed the oars foolishly. I had no doubt that even if I tried to leap out of the gondola, this bravo would have soon caught me. Resigned to the circumstances, I clumsily set about to stand on the stern as I had seen the proud Arsenalotti countless times and proceeded to steer our vessel as best I could along the canal.

“One would think you had been a gondolier all your life,” mocked my foe.

“Where shall we row to?” I asked.

“Where do you wish to go?”

“Castello.”

“Then row to Castello,” he intoned.

It seemed like a sensible suggestion.

So I pulled the oar and did what I had seen the gondoliers perform so well.  But maneuvering a gondola is harder than it seems. The brute eyed my pathetic attempts until we emerged from the dark alley...

And I saw his face.

Until then, I had already noted that he wore a white mask, cut off at the mouth. Beneath it, his lips were fleshy and firm, his gaze black and proud.  I had mistaken him for a Castilian on account of his name. But I was wrong.  A foggy mist blanketed our gondola, but I could still observe him as I oared toward Castello.

Above the rim of his gloves, I could distinguish the ebony of his skin.

Dark as night.

“Signore, this can all end in your favor or mine,” he began, in his distinct accent which carried neither Florentine nor Venetian flavor.

“You waste your time, Esteban.  I have neither money nor possessions. You may kill me and appropriate my clothes. I see you have already taken my dagger. The rest should not be too difficult. But if you could spare me a savage death, I would be indebted. I only ask you to spare my face, so that my identity may be ascertained and that I may be buried in my native Tuscany.”

At those last words, he glowered at me with a cold fury.

“Do you even know who I am?” he asked.

“A coarse ruffian, no doubt. I am resigned to it.”

“Signor da Parma, you are mistaken.”

“And I see that you know my name. So you are a ruffian who employs spies.”

“It is my affair to know most people in Venezia. I am paid for it.”

“Ah, yes! Murder is the mean of astute merchants. And it does help one finance these fineries,” I said, as I signaled to the white ruffles of his sleeves. “But all the lace and silk cannot hide one’s true nature. What you choose to conceal beneath your mask and gloves are those very traits that compel you in your actions.”

He stood back to observe me. I could see he was amused at my discountenance. All the while I spoke, I wrestled with my stubborn oar, wiped my brow and puffed from the effort.  He was reflecting upon my words. I understood by his composure that he was not an impulsive man. He was the sort to act only after deep calculations.

“You do me great injury, Signor da Parma,” he replied. “And here I was thinking you might have that rare sensitivity which my old captain possessed.  These garments are my own, Signor da Parma. Shipped from Barcelona, long before he died. And yes, they were paid for by my master. It was the least he could do after I all but gave him my life. But these galley days are long past. Gone with his tragic death, are his merchant enterprise and the privileges we both shared.  Foolish Catalan.  Like a father to me, he was. But he sought a new life in this vile city and he paid the price. We both did.”

“Were he still alive, your master would die of shame.”

Esteban regarded me with a haughty glare.

“Venezia is unkind to men like me and I repay,” he boomed.

“Unkind? I may not know the story of your life, Signore, but I know this. You trample upon your master’s grave every time you set your rapier on unsuspecting victims. You have me by the throat like a common foe. ”

“Signor da Parma, I have observed you for days. And not once did it spring to my mind that I could skewer you with my blade. It has come to my attention that your employer is not to be trusted. Let me put it clearly to you. The men you serve are my enemies. And they are my client’s enemies.”

I looked at him with surprise. Esteban’s jaws were crisped taut. He lowered the blade and crouched before me, the injury in his eyes unmistakable.

“Signor da Parma, men such as you may see me as a savage without mercy but know this, know that in this untamed body that you so revile there is loyalty to only one man. The Señor Gaspar Miguel Rivera, my savior and friend, betrayed by vile conspirators. I vowed to leave no stone in Venezia unturned until I have restored his honor. For now, this spirited life of bravo is befitting. Venezia has stolen from me, and as I already have for the last six years, from her I shall thieve and on her I shall prey. But fear not.  These are not my designs for you. I do not wish to take your life, unless you betray me…or my client.  If it came to this, believe me, there is nothing that will stand between us. But enough of this discourse.”

He stood.

“I must tell you this truth, Signor da Parma. The men you work for, this Consiglio…”

“I entreat you to never speak of the Consiglio dei Dieci with evil designs in my presence.”

“Evil? Such an inflated term! Think you, that one such as I would know more than they, about evil? You fool yourself. Esteban del Valle has lived here long enough to understand. Dare I say, Signor da Parma, you are still a naive Florentine in their eyes. In your short visit to Venice, you have grown confident. You believe that you know her well? But are you prepared? Are you prepared for the evil of Venice?”

I stared at him, pondering over his words. What evil did he speak of? What had fate done to this Moor? His voice became suddenly grave as he fixed an implacable gaze upon me and continued. “The Consiglio dei Dieci, these men–they have for some time, been a curiosity to my client,” he said.

“I suspect your client has little to do with me. You are wasting your time.”

“That may be so but I am to watch you nevertheless. And you, Signor da Parma, you should watch yourself. No, I mean that. ”

“I am here to service the Republic. The matter I am investigating is not of your concern.  The Consiglio’s affairs are not for scrutiny. And certainly not by a ruffian such as yourself. You carry an Aragonese weapon. How do I know you are not a spy? For all I know, your client may well be employed by the King of Aragon. You entreat me to doubt the integrity of my employer. I shall do no such thing.”

“Yes, you shall. Because I have some profitable news for you.  But first, you must know a thing about me. Think you that I clad myself in fineries to impress the dead? My soul has been wretched and torn ever since my master passed to the next world. In my grief, I would better dress as a mendicant and wallow in the Wells of this city. But I’ll not let grief betray me of my right. Besides, the wealthy patricians who pay for my services expect certain form and that is the game I’ve since learned to play. All is appearance in Venezia, is it not? La bella figura, is the rule of the game.  Be grateful that my reputation as a reliable bravo has risen among high circles and that through my disguises, I have come upon some pertinent news that concerns you.”

We had neared Castello and he returned my blade which I slipped back around my waist. I eyed him expectantly as he stood, hand on his hilt without stirring.  A row of white teeth flashed at me as he smiled.

“Are you ready to listen?”

“I am listening. Be that as it may, I will not put faith in what a bandit such as yourself has to say.”

“As you wish. But would you suffer the bandit before you if he told you that a certain Lorenzo Contarini is soon to be murdered?”

At these words, I stifled a moment of surprise. Esteban neared me to better whisper.

“Not by me. But a certain patrician that I can alas, not name, desires him dead. You have met with the Contarini youth once, I believe. A suspect of your investigation, Signore? Or a victim...”

“What do you know about Lorenzo Contarini?”

“A young, rich patrician if ever there was one. But he is different.  He is bold.  I hear he leans toward certain ideas... I ignore the reasoning behind their fear of him.  But I have lived in this city long enough to understand that the senators believe change is not good for Venezia. As always, nothing ever changes in Venezia except the passing of goods. Now I don’t know what you believe, Signor da Parma, but something tells me that you do not want to see this Lorenzo murdered.  Your sense of justice, perhaps?  And after one pays one’s gazzetta every morning, like every good citizen, one hears many things in the campi. And one of these, is that there are already too many murders in the Contarini family. Am I right? Ah, here we are! Castello.”

He seized the oar from my hands. I said nothing, vexed as I was by the torment of the previous hour. He had expected that I would not believe him, so he strode to the edge of the gondola, leaving me to ponder over his words and to wrestle with my own doubts.

In that instant, I had dismissed his claims and did not buy into any of his conspiracies.  I watched him as he set out to moor the boat with his agile sailor movements. He knew better than I how to steer that cursed gondola. I stared at his adroitness while rubbing the blisters on my palms.

As disheartened as I was by my misadventure, I remained mesmerized by this Nubian. He seemed to be equally adept at inhabiting two worlds at once. I noted the strength of his calves as he leaned forth and wound the rope to its anchor.

When he had accomplished his task, he stepped off the gondola, leaving me standing there, speechless, and still gaping at him. With a grand gesture, he unfurled his fur-lined mantle over his broad shoulders so that I may see him in all his splendor. The white bauta on his dark face suddenly struck me as poetic while he spoke.

“You have reached your destination, Signore. This ruffian has taken too much of your precious time. But do not despair. He will find you another day. Count on it.”

He pressed his large hand to his heart and gently inclined his head.

“Goodbye, Signore. And think of what we spoke.”

Then he spun on his heels and ran into the crowds, his dense mantle swelling behind him like the spread wings of an albatross.

Before long, his form had vanished in the thickening damp mist. Before long, Venezia would know rain.

I heaved a sigh. I dared not believe what I’d lived through for that last hour. I stepped off and headed to the Contarini estate, brushing dust off my clothes as though they had been soiled by my encounter.

A Woman’s Secret

I had reached the dimly lit courtyard on the other side of Rio del Pestrin. Before me, stood the imposing marble façade of the Contarini estate, flanked by its patrician neighbors. The large green door was ornate with a bronze door handle in the shape of a Moor’s head–a common practice, but it tasted of irony. I tapped.

The entrance door swiveled open.  A young maid of barely fourteen recognized me and startled.

“Signor da Parma?”

“I am here to see Signora Contarini,” I said. “It is important.”

She blemished.

“The signora is not here. She has just left,” she said, with an evasive air that I felt, presaged nothing good.

“Left, you say? But this is a pressing matter. It cannot wait. I am here at the behest of the Consiglio dei Dieci. I have come to speak with the signora on a matter that concerns her late husband.”

“I am sorry, Signor Avogadore. She should not be absent for too long. She has gone to the markets to purchase spices.  I believe...she is walking there.” She seemed flustered.

“Which way to the markets?”

The girl gestured toward Campo Santa Maria Formosa.

I frowned looking intently into the young girl’s eyes.

“Tell me, the signora took to the streets alone?”

She shot me a wary glance before replying.

“Forgive the signora. She is not the same since Signor Contarini passed away.”

“How might one recognize the signora?”

“She has set her red hair in a braided coil, high upon her head. Her face, you will not see. It is hidden behind a black veil.  She is clothed in a scarlet velvet dress gathered at the sleeves and a wine cape with ermine trimmings. You could wait for her return, Signor Avogadore... I am certain that she will not take long.”

“You are right. I could. But it is rather late and the skies are darkening. I fear I should set off before I am soaked by rain. I will return another day. Shall I seek audience with her tomorrow, you think?”

She hesitated.

“Tomorrow. Si, avogadore. I will ensure she keeps this appointment.”

“Tomorrow in the morning, then.” Saying so, I pressed a hand to my heart and retreated from the doorstep.

She forced a timid smile and curtsied before closing the large doors.

It is never proper conduct for a patrician woman of well-bred Venetian society to venture outside alone. Patrician women ought to keep to their homes and remain secluded unless duly accompanied. Yet for reasons unknown and much to the evident shame of her own servant, Signora Contarini had shunned social conventions and set off alone.

Such were my thoughts as I ambled toward Canal Grande. But when I was certain the maid had re-entered the Contarini mansion, I secretly retraced my steps toward Rio del Pestrin. I had set my mind on following the path taken by Signora Contarini. Quickening my pace, I crossed the bridge over Rio del Pestrin and continued toward Campo Santa Maria Formosa.

Having reached the church of Santa Maria Formosa, my footsteps came to a sudden halt on the paved square.

The fetid air was moist with the rising vapors of the lagoon and already, a mass of gray skies swelled above the islands. The shops lining the far edge of the campo had shut their doors, their owners retreating into darkness. Here and beyond, parishioners scrambled to their homes and locked themselves away to the sound of green shutters.

A stray pigeon flew at my feet. I sensed that I’d soon be soaked if I remained outside but a growing curiosity possessed me. Where was the Signora Contarini?

The signora was not here.

With the impending rain, even the markets had shut.

I ignore what came over me on that afternoon before the storm.  Perhaps my unfortunate encounter with the bravo had confused my senses or perhaps the strange sepia glow enveloping the campo spurred me on, cradled me in its eerie light and impelled me to abandon reason.  One does odd things on the approach of a full moon.  The cloying atmosphere hanging over Castello did little to calm my urges.

The closest other market was in Campo San Lorenzo, near the Basilica of San Lorenzo. It was in this direction, by way of the busy Ruga Giuffa, that I now hastened. Along this path were numerous merchants and tradesmen returning home from the Rialto.  To shield myself from unwanted attention, I hid in the darkness of a sottoportico and paused, before emerging onto Ponte dell’ Arco.

Before long, I had found the Contarini widow.

I recognized her among the thinning crowd. Red coils, even beneath an opaque veil of black, are a child’s game to discern in a Venezia so preoccupied with blonde locks. I noted her smooth, gliding gait. Her haughtiness was set off by the close-fitting velvet, espousing her slender figure. The heavy trail of her dress swept the marble paving with every step.

A gathering of black-clad patrician men stood by, taking their last merchant notes for the day. Having glimpsed the signora in her red mourning clothing, they nodded in her direction, whispering among themselves as they watched her pass.

She remained firm. Neither the scorn of gossiping tongues nor the prospect of ruining her reputation could dissuade this woman from her errand. It could only mean that her purpose was close to her chest. Something of tremendous importance had seen Signora Contarini defy customs and take to the streets alone.

Despite the inclement weather and the muddy calli, the lady had not worn high shoes—another indication that she did not wish to be attended during her errand. She kept her advance, ignoring the patricians who had soon turned into another street.

An uneasiness in her steps. Was she prey to guilt? Had she plotted in the murder of her own husband? On occasion, I glimpsed her gaunt jaw as she turned to inspect behind her shoulder. But it was all I could see. The lady disappeared into Calle Larga San Lorenzo.

I took the same narrow calle, pausing at the corner. I watched Signora Contarini cross over Ponte San Lorenzo. With every step, she appeared suddenly to be a regal entity, marching to some sorrowful fate.

She was headed for Campo San Lorenzo.

But Signora Contarini had never sought to visit the markets. Just like Campo Santa Maria Formosa, Campo San Lorenzo remained desolate.  At the far end of the campo, its decrepit church loomed over the white paving and the lonely parish well.

Not even a pigeon in sight.

Then to what designs had Signora Contarini ventured here?

I crouched behind the arch of the bridge and stared across the rio.

Before me, stretching out underneath dark skies, was the empty campo and its imposing church.  Before me again, her thin scarlet silhouette and the absence of a shadow onto the stone. Before me, what seemed to be the most treacherous woman in Venezia, now advanced toward the church.

She looked over her shoulder, toward the bridge. I shuddered. The lady had worn a black volto mask. It covered her entire face, save for her lips and eyes. It could only imply that she did not wish to be recognized.

What are you doing here, Catarina? I whispered to myself. What are you doing?

When she had neared the church, Signora Contarini came to a halt. She seemed to stare at the side wall as though deciding.  And I knew instantly.  As heavy rain drops splattered on my felt boots, an idea surfaced, taking away my breath and stealing all my senses.

I had known Venezia long enough to understand that the wall before her was no ordinary wall. It was built of Istrian stone and attached to one of the most beautiful old churches in Venezia, but that is not what made it special. At four feet above the stone pavement, one could see that the Basilica wall had been especially carved for the purpose of framing one of those treacherous slits through which many signed denunciations could reach the Consiglio dei Dieci. It was an opening that some had begun to call, bocca.

It was before one of those sinister stone mouths that Catarina Contarini, wife of the late Giacomo Contarini, now stood, alone.

Catarina slowly reached inside one of the sewn pouches of her mantle.

I held my breath.

Her gloved hand resurfaced and there, she held a folded parchment. I watched her press it to her lips as though she were deliberating.

My mind raced.  Signora Contarini contemplated the bocca, parchment in hand.

What was written on that piece of parchment? Was it a sorrowful admission of her own part in the murder of her husband and his trading partners? Or perhaps, in a fit of rage against the murderer of her husband and daughter, the signora was taking law into her own hands and denouncing anyone she had once held in contempt, if only to assuage her anger and better mourn her loss. Such wrongful accusations had taken place before in Venezia. The slanderers had been punished for the very deeds they had wrongly attributed to their victims. Surely Catarina was not so foolish.

I calculated that denunciations required the signature of two witnesses. What accomplices did Catarina possess?  Was she capable of such misdeeds? I did not know. I knew nothing of the signora.

The gloved hand was raised. It motioned toward the bocca.

But Catarina was uncertain. And still, raindrops descended at more frequent intervals, darkening the pavement. In this interminable instant, the parchment remained suspended in her trembling hand, always within close distance to the bocca but never to be set free.

It seemed the signora was held hostage by a great burden. A burden that was too much to bear and would not let her speak out, would not let her reach out, not let her tell others of what she knew.

What did she know?

I was startled by shuffling footfalls on the stone. Catarina became aware of the same noise and she, too, stiffened. She draped herself in a mantle and stepped back, retreating from the bocca.

I deserted the wooden bridge just in time to glimpse two tradesmen returning from their long day at the Arsenal. Slinking into Calle Largo San Lorenzo, I hid my face and peered into my journal, feigning to be occupied with notes. The tradesmen traversed the fondamenta, ignoring me as they passed.

When they had gone, I regained my hiding spot behind the Ponte San Lorenzo. My eyes ran wildly to the cold wall where Catarina had remained standing. Had she seen me? What had passed a moment ago? Had she delivered her denunciation?

Now she stood perfectly still, one hand raised to her heart, almost as though she counted each beat.  She kept her back turned toward me but I understood that she had not yet parted with the parchment.

Her fist tightened.

The force she had applied to suddenly crush that parchment, stunned me. There was in it the mark of reproach and self-loathing. Had I imagined it, or was Catarina scorning herself for having attempted to speak out? The reviled parchment had soon disappeared into her velvet mantle.

Catarina spun round and shuffled rapidly toward the bridge.  As she neared, I feared that she might see me, but she merely stared wide-eyed into the emptiness surrounding her, as though she were lost and had suddenly woken from a nightmare. She raised a trembling hand to her face but though her mouth parted, though her hand remained to drown any noise, still, no sound came from her lips.

I was captivated by this strange widow, this distraught figure standing in a daze.

But as rain poured into the campo, the afternoon spell was broken. The signora gathered her train and made for a side calle, running as fast she could, away from the bocca, away from the Basilica and far from the torrential waters of Venezia.

Blackened skies smothered the church of San Lorenzo until the last pink light on the Istrian stone became charcoal and the lagoon waters turned to darkness.

Rolandino

Journal of Antonio da Parma

24 December 1422

The day after the storm, the lagoon waters had swelled and turned brown.  Its levels, inflated as they were by the full moon, lapped fiercely onto the edges of the canal.

It was the day preceding Nativity and despite the upcoming festivities, a thick cloud of apprehension hung over the Rialto.  About mid-morning, a commotion stirred near the Rialto markets.  A disheveled youth ran in a sweat, brandishing a leaflet and calling out to all who would hear.

“Listen, gentle people of Venezia! The latest news! The latest news! One gazzetta for the news! Come listen to the news!”

I hailed the young boy and slipped a coin through his fingers. A crowd had formed round him to listen to his animated delivery.

“Rolandino Vitturi, broker, and partner of the late Giacomo Contarini, who he shamelessly murdered, has disappeared this morning from the Wells. The Consiglio dei Dieci have reported last night that he has gone missing.  Listen, gentle people of Venezia, the murderer Rolandino Vitturi roams the calli. The Consiglio dei Dieci advises the gentle people of Venezia to remain vigilant.”

A horrified murmur rose from the crowd. Women crossed themselves while their husbands held them close. A coachman attempted to ward off the sudden surge of eager passengers.  Pushing through the indignant crowd, I signaled to him and flashed my papers in his face.

“To the Palazzo Ducale! Make haste!”

“Si, Signor Avogadore.”

***

On my arrival, the Piazzetta thrived with gossipers. I stepped inside the palace, the sound of my boots resonating loudly in the entrance hall. I found Almoro Donato much occupied with two inquisitors. I pushed through, my eyes flashing with contempt.

“Ah! Signor da Parma,” he said, waving toward me. “One needs not ask the purpose of your visit. Unfortunate news, I know...”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Almoro noted my anger.

He quietly gestured to the other inquisitors who departed at once.

“Follow me into the Consiglio dei Dieci chamber, Antonio,” he said.

“When I met with Rolandino Vitturi, he lay in a holding cell on the third floor of the palace. He was never in the Wells.”

“That is so. But the Consiglio made a discovery on the night before and that discovery found him guilty.”

“Guilty of what?”

He lowered his voice. “The crime of sodomy.”

My jaw dropped. “Unthinkable.  And according to what evidence?”

“Have you not read my last letter, Antonio? The Jewish physician gave us his final report. Balsamo Morosini had, it appeared, engaged in acts contra natura before his death. The Jew’s examination was confirmed by two of the best physicians in Venezia. Rolandino himself was then examined and found guilty. The rest, you know.”

“Examined? Rolandino? Under my inquisition? Why was I not advised?”

“The matters of the Council remain with the Council. Hold yourself together, Antonio! Have you gone mad? Rolandino was initially sentenced to death as befitting his crime. We had him moved immediately to the Wells. The prisons are overflowing and unfortunately he had to be transferred to an older cell. The storm…”

“Signor Donato, this bears no relation to the murder of Giacomo Contarini. And why move Rolandino to the Wells without consulting me?”

“Antonio. Antonio, your behavior is improper. Now, I have been on your side with this. I have let it be known that you would see Rolandino’s treatment with the wrong eye. I made many attempts to dissuade the others but…” He pursued in a whisper. “You have no case. Rolandino has twice confessed. And now, you must calm yourself.”

“Calm myself? Almoro Donato, you have pressed upon me to hold an inquest and solve these murders. But I find that every course I have so far undertaken, is not only stifled, but you and your Consiglio, you all come at me, yes, at me, in the shadows, without my knowing and you set out to direct matters in another course!”

“I have understood you, avogadore. But in the light of this new evidence, you have no case. I have made it clear, in my previous letters, as to how the deceased came to their ends.  As for Rolandino, it ought to be evident why we should suddenly consider this matter closed. Sodomy is a serious crime! It is proliferating in the Republic at an unfortunate rate. There are certain clergy men who consider it the very cause of the plague epidemics we are still battling. All those inculpated in sodomy are to appear before a trial run by the Consiglio dei Dieci. In these circumstances, the Consiglio dei Dieci takes precedence and there is no more for you to say.”

I could scarcely believe what he was telling me. “Forgive me, Signor Donato, I have further to say on the subject. The methods you have employed have shed little light upon this case. Do you deny that you have tormented Rolandino? You’ve applied The Question, forcing him to confess a crime that arose out of nothing but malicious gossip against another man. And now you scorn me for my fanciful delusions? How do you explain all this, Signor Donato?”

“You are wrong. Rolandino was not tortured. No sooner was he confronted by the physician’s findings, that Rolandino confessed his crimes against man and against nature. Do not find this improbable. His guilt bears down upon him. You saw it yourself. He lay in sorrowful state. We feared that he was losing his mind. We deliberated over the matter and saw to it that he was pardoned by commuting his sentence to life imprisonment. Don’t you see? In our decision to cast Rolandino to the lower dungeons, we spared him from the flames. Do you forget that sodomites are burned alive?”

“He lied. He feared for his life. You ought not to have admitted his confession.”

“How is it that you, of all people, would presume to reproach the Council for the work it has pursued for over a hundred years? Look to the facts, Antonio. In 1354, long before you were born, a man going under the name Rolandino Roncaglia was tried and sentenced by our judges to die for the crime of sodomy.  Roncaglia was also a merchant. He used to trade in the Rialto. But! He had a secret. He was known for dressing as a woman, hiding his member as though he were a woman and going in the backs of other men to be with them for carnal pleasure. Like a mere prostitute! Profiting from his vile crime.  He did this for seven years until he was brought to justice. And much as our Rolandino did, this Signor Roncaglia also confessed to his sins. He did not even do this under torture! Guilt, Antonio. Guilt delivered him to justice. And he was burned for his crime. You should study these precedents.”

I sensed my frustration grow with every word he spoke.

“Almoro Donato, I do not presume to reprove the Consiglio dei Dieci.  But as a member of justice, I must be heard.  You say that I am wrong, yet I believe that the Consiglio has made a grave mistake. Rolandino is being arrested for a crime he has not committed while all along, you are choosing to ignore his real crime–the crime of murder and the reasons for this murder! You are closing a case that has not been fully understood!”

“Do not abuse of your privileges, avogadore. Remember your place. By law, the Council will not enter into discussion of its decisions. You know this well. And for all your concerns for our prisoner, you seem to have forgotten one thing. Where, pray you, is he now? He’s escaped.”

“I do not believe it, Almoro. Just another tale you have spun to conceal his murder.”

Almoro gave a regretful sigh.

“No, Antonio, we have not murdered Signor Vitturi. I had thought you were master of your senses and did not give weight to rumors about the Consiglio dei Dieci. I repeat. Rolandino cannot be found. Ah, but on the evening before his mysterious disappearance...he left something for you. A confession, I believe. It changes nothing of his sentence. In fact, it only strengthens it. His confession is beyond our jurisdiction.  It lies in the hands of the priest. You may see him downstairs. It is a gruesome admission, as you will find. But there is nothing we can do in the daylight. There is enough gossip in this city as it is. The signori di notte will be dispatched, tonight, to ascertain the facts in Rolandino’s admission. You will see for yourself, what I speak of. And now…”

He moved to his drawers and retrieved a sheet of rough paper whose purpose I knew well.

“I believe this is the last we convene on this matter, Antonio. I will have you sign this deposition. After all, as avogadore you are assigned to oversee that all lawful procedures have been duly followed.” He presented the paper to me. “If you are satisfied...”

I shook with all my being. I could not believe the audacity of the Council. Satisfied? Not one ounce of justice had been applied. My arms had remained bound from the beginning of this inquest and right to the end. I had been fooled and now, the only remaining witness to this case had been take away from the hands of justice. I fumed from within.

Almoro’s black pupils constricted as he noted the flash of anger in my eyes.

“It was I who demanded you look into these murders. I take responsibility for your vexation. But if you inhibit the Consiglio’s work, Antonio, your future role as avogadore di commune will not see the light. Help me, help you. Sign here.”

I had reached the limits of propriety. I could pretend no longer. I stormed out of the Consiglio dei Dieci’s chamber and ran downstairs. Behind me, Almoro’s voice rose in indignation.

“Antonio!”

I ignored his calls. I raced out to meet the priest. I would not sign a paper so vile.

***

Before my visit to the Contarini estate, I unfolded Rolandino’s confession. To my surprise, I realized that he had addressed it to me.

And I shuddered at the mad tale he recounted.

Antonio,

I am broken man, Antonio. I tried to keep her away from me. But she is there, always.

She watches me.

At night, I pray to the crosses on the wall. I press my head to them. They are my salvation. But what salvation is there for a man who has killed?

Will you be my confessor, Antonio? You were there, remember, on that day and no one will know of what I speak, save for you. No one will understand.

They are all dead now. And I am the last. I was doomed ever since I looked upon her face.

I tremble as I write.  The light of day seeps into my cell, but soon, the Consiglio dei Dieci and their familiars will drag me down to the Wells.  They will take me to the depths of Hell.

Oh, but I welcome it. I welcome being with others.

No matter how many of us cramp in the damp cells of Venezia’s underworld, I will have company there. May my body rot with every ebb and flow of the canal waters in the lower dungeons.  She will not find me.

Antonio, when I lashed out at Giacomo, it was anger I felt for what he had done to her, to his own daughter, my future bride. I confess my rage. But since my imprisonment, I have thought about this rage and about what else gave rise to it. And you know how I once told you that Rolandino does not like to be played for a fool? Well I have been played for a fool. But Francesco Visconti never played a part in it. Giacomo did.  It was Giacomo who tricked me.

It is too late now. The deed is done. And I have suffered for it. Because she has haunted me since.

You want to know what happened, Antonio, when Giacomo’s relatives dragged you away from Santa Croce? And when you left us there? You want to know what we did to the old man?  You remember the old artisan? Francesco Visconti, the Milanese.

We killed him, Antonio.

Every ruse and defamation that his old body could withstand, we applied. We defiled his naked body and set out on his face and eyes. We used the blood sputtering from his severed limbs to paint on his plastered face and...Antonio, there is much worse. What we began, out of mockery and anger, Giacomo urged further and soon, I tell you that I began to loathe this old man. I wanted to wreak misery on him. And with every protest, every sob that he uttered, I felt revived.

What did we not do to Francesco Visconti on that evening?

Nothing.

The atelier became a chamber of murder and torture. We defiled and savaged, until our masterpiece–the torn, shredded, bloodied mass that was left of Francesco, lay there, at our feet.

I now remember that I stood in my bloodied shirt, panting and sweating.  What had I just done? Ubertino had sunk his mass on a stool. He had dug his fingers in a jelly of glittering sequins and he gazed at it with cloudy eyes. Guido had punched a hole into the wall and he stood still with his face against it. And Giacomo… Giacomo was scribbling notes in his diary with a quill dipped in blood.

I stood there. I was horrified by it all.

I stumbled back, wiping the blood off my face. I saw the portrait on the wall. And there she was. Black hair down to her breasts, eyes like a demon and she was looking straight back.

She glared at me. I spat at the portrait and muttered the word, “Strega.”

Giacomo went mad. He suddenly turned to me. He leapt at me. He struck me then and there.

I never understood it.

Before midnight, we left. We left Francesco as he was.

But wait. That is not all. She…the witch, she has followed me since. I saw her the next morning when we visited the Contarini to break the fast. I saw her again, in my carriage, before we arrived at the marquis’ casa. I saw her twice eyeing Ubertino at the evening banquet. Do you think I am mad, Antonio?

I told myself, “Rolandino, this is bad. This is very bad.”

I knew I was cursed. We were all cursed.

Don’t you see? They have all died, Antonio.

Rolandino is dead to the world now. The forgotten of Venezia find their ends in the Wells and none exist to mourn them. But you, Florentine, you will not fail me. I understood from the moment I met you in Santa Croce that you were afraid for Francesco Visconti. You feared that something would happen to him.

I can tell you that no horror you imagined or feared for him has not already come to pass.

If you truly are a man of justice, you will see for yourself.

You must find his body. Find his body promptly. Bury him. Bury him and end her wrath.

Your fool,

Rolandino

Catarina

Journal of Catarina Contarini

24 December 1422

The avogadore is an intriguing man.

He is not like the self-important patricians one meets in the Piazza San Marco. Nor is he of the sort one finds whispering in the Piazzetta–those disciples of the Signoria, enveloped in black mantles, avid for power and who lurk round the palace with their grave airs.

He is past forty yet still handsome. He has the soft curls of the Florentine and wears his dark brown hair not too long, barely touching his shoulders. He is rather tall and elegant, almost noble beneath his blue mantle. He does not allow himself fancy dress and keeps to a carmine silk shirt beneath his velvet doublet. His olive skin is a darker shade than that of the white haired patricians.  I take it he has come from a country breeding.

All his manner denotes calm, yet he has a piercing gaze beneath thick eyebrows and often that gaze can frighten a little.  He is often silent. There is much he does not say.

During his visit, he was exceedingly observant. He spoke fast without the mirth of the Venetian, without the excess frivolity of gesture. He has not mastered our nonchalant gaiety, our joyous affectation and he is like an open book, at times.  One can read him well. Too well.  Yet he has an economy of movement that was impressive.

There is also, unless I am mistaken, a certain sadness in his eyes which makes him somewhat endearing.

When he entered our internal tiled courtyard, he seemed distracted almost immediately. Now that I remember, the two adult dogs howled loudly upon his arrival and I had to hush them before I could attend to my visitor. I think, as with all foreign visitors, the avogadore was also taken aback by the confined spaces of this cold house. It is always misleading for foreigners. They are ever so enthralled by the oriental beauty and sumptuousness of our Venetian casas and their apparent wealth when seen from the canal, only to realize, when they enter, that we are practical souls at heart. Too practical at times.

“Avogadore, welcome to my home,” I said. “Please forgive my absence yesterday. I had a pressing desire for confession.”

“There is no need to apologize, Signora Contarini,” he said with a quick bow.

We remained awkwardly silent for a moment. I for one, was cognizant that I had not greeted a man alone since my marriage. A moment of vanity struck me as I wondered what he must have thought upon seeing me. I had worn my mourning dress and in red velvet, I know that my face must have seemed older, perhaps older than he expected.

In the days following Zanetta’s death, I had not even bothered to pluck my brow and today, faced with the unsightly pores along my hairline, I had chosen to drape a turban along my forehead.  At least the coils of my hair were tightly wound and respectable.

The avogadore had not said a word. He continued to examine the family gathering room as I ushered him inside. His eyes lingered over our regal lounge chairs and the Persian rug from Constantinople.

He noted with great curiosity the thick velvet drapes, heaped on the table. I rushed to gather the fabric and placed it on a divan, away from view.

“It is tradition,” I explained. “These red drapes are part of the mourning ritual. They are to be hung on the windows of every room.”

He gazed around him and I understood his preoccupations at once.

“If you think this place is a dark place, avogadore, then I must tell you, it will soon be darker still.”

He nodded at my solemn declaration. He seemed to understand my distress at such a time. His roving eyes rested on the green garland that I had made the day before. I explained that Zanetta was a virgin when she died, and this garland would be wrapped around her neck tomorrow, during the burial ceremony. The bodies of my husband and child would be paraded through the streets, their faces and feet bare, while I howled openly to show my grief. And beneath the marble stones of our church, the corpses of Santa Maria Formosa would be once again stirred to make way for the members of my family.

The Florentine said nothing. Even if he found it appalling that we should bury our dead under our very churches, he did not say so.

“Do you wish to show your respects?” I asked, offering to bring him into Zanetta’s room upstairs where the bodies lay, draped in silk. I had gone into that room so many times already. I could not detach my eyes from her. I could not let her go. He read into my eagerness but shook his head.

“No. That will not be necessary, Signora.”

“Will you come to the procession? I know all this must seem at odds with your…inquest, but I gracefully extend you this invitation, avogadore. You will see that we are a good family and what has befallen us is unspeakable.”

“I would be honored. But I do not believe it would be appropriate.”

“Nevertheless our parish would welcome you, avogadore.  Forgive me, to which parish do you belong to?” I asked, as I poured rose water into his glass.

He seemed rather confused by my question, so I reassured him.

“Forgive me, I do not know how it is in Firenze. Here, everyone can name their parish. Your parish is your home and pride. Almost five hundred years ago, there was a parish in each little island of the lagoon. Si, si, if it were not for the bridges across the Rivoaltos it would be as though we each lived in our own separate island.”

I went on to explain that in Venezia, we all know quite well to which parish we belong and that our communities are closely knit and that we hold processions as part of the parish. It was only pleasantries. I was terrified of his silences.

The avogadore replied that it was a most honorable tradition and mumbled something about his own church in Tuscany, but he spoke so fast, that I forgot the name.

I ventured to ask him if he was truly a Roman Catholic, which was my way of jesting, as he did not seem in the least preoccupied by church attendance or parish affairs. My humor is dark at times and I thought I had gone too far and offended him. Strangely he did not look in the least offended.

His answer took me by surprise. “My father used to say that I could not verily belong to the Christian Church.”

“And why not?” I asked.

“On the day of my baptism, the priest collapsed with chest pains.”

“Oh, Signore! What grievous news.” I crossed myself. “Did he live?”

“Unfortunately not. He was taken ill for two days and, as he was not replaced for weeks, my baptism could never be completed.  My parents thought the deed was as good as done and they soon forgot about it.”

He noted my discomfort.   “I hope this revelation does not displease you, Signora. What is it? Have I shown disrespect?”

I could not look into his eyes.

To hide my turmoil, I turned away, seizing two porcelain plates from the servant. I then sent her back to the kitchen. He regarded me with such insistence that the platters rattled under my grip. I emitted a brief smile.

“I am sorry. It is nothing.” Could he hear the quaver in my voice? “I pray that your soul is saved, Signor Avogadore. As for your baptism…you must know that we have a belief in Venezia. We say that those whose baptisms are left unfinished…can see the dead.”

As I said this, I recovered from my previous emotions. A vague sense of pride overwhelmed me, as I placed the plate of sugar-dusted fritoli and the almond milk on the table. I expected my Florentine guest to marvel at our delicacies or to compliment me on the beautiful ware imported from the east, but to my surprise, Antonio Di Parma had stiffened in his seat.  He clutched the armrest and stared cautiously in the distance as though pondering over something.

“I hope you like my fritoli, Signor Avogadore. You came at the right moment,” I said with a tinge of irony. “It is a specialty from here during Carnivale. This is my mother’s recipe. I soak the raisins in syrup long before frying the dough. Zanetta used to love them. She was always fond of cinnamon.” I was near tears as I spoke.

But he did not hear me. The avogadore seemed unaware that I had spoken at all. He was not even seeing the plate before him.

Then he emerged from his thoughts and sunk his spoon into the almond custard. Almost immediately, he replaced the almond dolci on the table as though finding it disagreeable that we should eat sweets in a time of mourning, and he gave me one of his forceful glares.   “And what about you? Do you believe this, Signora?”

“Believe what?” I asked.

He gazed straight into my eyes. “That one such as I, that one who has not been baptized, can see the dead?”

His face was flushed. I trembled despite myself. I ignore if he was insulted by my previous remark on the subject of his incomplete baptism or if he sought to test my faith.

“I believe in Jesus our Savior,” came my reply. “But I am a feeble, superstitious soul like all women in Venezia. If you tell me you have seen a ghost, avogadore…” I held my breath.

“I told you no such thing.” His manner seemed cold.

“Yes, but even so, even so. If you confessed as much, I would believe you,” I confided, shaking with fear.

To which the avogadore nodded and evaded my questioning glance. He leaned into his cloak to retrieve a journal where I understood that he scribed notes. I knew he would not speak of the matter again, even though I could see that I had perturbed him before with my superstitious beliefs.

“Where is your son, Catarina?” he asked me, suddenly. He was hurried once more.

“Lorenzo is not here today. He is calling on Daniela Di Moro. She is a writer,” I added proudly.

“I must speak with him, Signora. It has come to my attention that his life may be in danger.”

Oh, that I had not known what I know. The avogadore’s words felt like an ice cold blade through my shoulders.

The loss of Giacomo had been a blessing in its own way. And the relief I feel today will be revealed to none. But if I grieve, I grieve for her. My Zanetta. My poor sweet Zanetta.

And now, the avogadore spoke of Lorenzo…

I was furious.

“Why are you saying this to me?” I lashed out, bursting into tears. “Why do you come here, to the house of a mourning woman, to give me such news? Isn’t it enough that I have lost my husband and my daughter? Isn’t it enough that I am to grieve two loved ones?”

“Forgive me, Signora but I must see Lorenzo. The matter cannot wait.”

“I told you that he isn’t here!” I almost shouted.

He stared at me.

“Catarina…” No words came out. “Forgive me. It is something I must do.”

“Could you not have waited until after the funeral?”

“If it pleases you, Signora. But we must be cautious. What has befallen your family may be part of some political designs. As your son, Lorenzo may be in danger…” He paused.

I think he paused deliberately to see if I would respond. But there was nothing I could say. I rose and took away the dolci in haste, a little stung by his refusal to eat. Everything hurt, even the avogadore’s rejection for sweets.

I disappeared into the kitchen where I remained for longer than I wished, wiping away my tears. I wondered how I would once again face the stern avogadore with the handsome face and not collapse under the weight of emotions. This casa had seen too much. I feared that I could shoulder no further. And yet somehow, I regained my strength and returned to my guest. I found him in the same manner in which I had left him.

“What do you believe, avogadore? Do you think that Rolandino Vitturi was in his right mind when he murdered my husband?”

He was no fool, the avogadore. I understood it by his response.

“Rolandino may have murdered your husband,” he said. “But whatever his motive, it does not explain the other deaths. The other deaths remain a mystery. And you would agree that it is inconceivable that your husband would set out to murder his own child. Pardon me, Signora, but something vile, something wicked is at work, here. It baffles the spirits. The web is large and whoever spun it has grand designs we know nothing of.”

Oh, he was no fool.

Yet I hated him for saying that. It only reminded me that I was alone. I was alone with my fears.

“Signora. There is something else.”

“What now? Haven’t you said enough?”

“Signora…” He bit his lip. I quickly understood that he was about to speak on behalf of the Consiglio. I am familiar with their ways now. Nothing surprises me.

He swallowed hard and gave me a forceful glare.

“I will say this and you must speak of it to no one. Your husband’s name has been slandered.”

“I know. I know what they are saying.”

“You do? His reputation is at stake and through this, your own. If you are protecting him, you stand to be judged. You may even be seen as a willing accomplice. Do you understand, Signora? You have enemies in your own parish who have soiled his name. They have made claims that…about your marriage.”

Oh, that I had not already known what he set out to tell me. The stench of betrayal ripped through me as he spoke those words. I could not believe any of it was happening.

“Listen to me, Signora. Sodomy is seen as the greatest of crimes. Forgive me if I must sound to you like Bernardino di Siena whose preaching is endless and whose hatred of sodomites knows no limit. It is not in my nature to rile against men. What I say now, I say it for your own good. In the eyes of many, sodomy undermines the institution of family.  The Consiglio is firm in this regard and has taken upon itself to prosecute those who defile the Republic with their crimes.  Had your husband been alive—”

“He is not guilty!”

His voice fell back. He looked at me, a little stunned.

I remember that I turned my back away from the avogadore. I wrung my hands, still shaking from my outburst.

“How do you know this?” I heard him say behind me.

Oh, that I had the courage to tell him. But I held fast to my secret. It was too heavy a burden to bare. I wanted no one to know.

He stood closer and gazed at me.

“It is for your person, I fear, Signora. Only for your person. The Consiglio is unrelenting and you will suffer should your name be blemished.”

“Allow me some time, avogadore. I will tell you what you wish to know. You ignore the extent of the suffering that will also befall me if I were to remain silent. I know well what I must do. I will not stand for gossip. I will not be humiliated. You are not from here and so you cannot know how even the slight trifles can spread and grow and the harm they can do. I would rather flee from the Republic than be shunned and shamed by my own parish. But please, allow me time, and I will give you all that you need to preserve Giacomo’s name. The funeral procession is tomorrow. I…” I could speak no further. I had realized an enormous truth.

What had come to pass? Was this Florentine telling me to fear the Consiglio? Was this naïve avogadore trying to warn me, when all along, I knew!  Oh, how I knew!

Oh, that he had known everything and seen through my loathsome soul. Oh, Antonio, my friend. My dearest friend.

I let out a whisper, clutching at the lace on my sleeves. I swallowed the tight knot in my throat.  “After the funeral…when the procession is over, I promise that I will give you everything I have. So that you may present what you will to the Consiglio dei Dieci and save my name. They will listen…perhaps.”

“So then, you have documents? With signatures?”

I refused to look at him. I stared into the internal courtyard.

“No. I have a diary. Giacomo kept a diary for years. And in it, there is…”

“Are you trying to tell me that you have read it? I take it that you mistrusted your husband, Signora.”

He was no fool the avogadore. No fool at all.

“I read it,” I whispered. “I knew of it for years but never opened it until…”

I turned to face him. His face was illuminated by the afternoon sun and he watched me with an expression that I could have almost mistaken for adoration.

And still, even as his dark gaze pierced through my being, I knew that he saw nothing.

For I am more wretched than what he imagines.

Finally he placed his black hat upon his head, in readiness to depart.

“I will be patient, Signora. Here is my address if you care to write to me when you are so disposed to give the proof you speak of.”

“Soon. Await my letter,” I said, showing him to the door.

He seemed satisfied. He inclined his head quietly, stepped outside and turned. Such was his presence that even as he left, I felt as though he had eyes on the back of his head. I remained still, at the doorway, frozen by his words.

When he had gone, and only when I had watched him step out of our calle, did I realize how much I shook. Anger had twisted my face as I walked past the entrance mirror.

It had come to this. After all these years. All my secrets would soon be stirred from the slumber of the past and would return to engulf me. I was trapped.

I stared back into the kitchen, hearing it–that infernal sound.  The din of her charms echoed in the house, gold chains around her neck tinkling in the darkness. I pressed my hands to my ears, refusing to hear anymore.

I had a thought that perhaps it was I, the dead soul of this house, the old Ca’ Contarini with its cold walls, soon to be airless, silenced forever, shut off from the world behind black velvet drapes.

Angelo’s Flight

The Testimony of Angelo

From an entry in Antonio da Parma’s journal

The evening approached fast as I parted from Catarina and sought out Francesco Visconti’s atelier.  I was determined to find him before the signori di notte would. I ventured into Santa Croce, passing myself as a tourist in need of a lavish mask for Carnivale. In my most polished Florentine dialect, I questioned servants and slaves as to where I might find the brilliant mascheraro, Francesco Visconti.  It was not long until I was quietly led to the edge of Santa Croce by a Nubian gondolier. Beneath a sottoportico, a small door with aged cracked wood was pushed to usher me in. Here, I would find Angelo, said the slave. Angelo was a short nimble man of sixty who ran night errands for several artisans in the sestiere. It was known that he worked with Francesco and could lead me to him.  Strangely for days, the slave noted, Angelo had kept to himself, speaking to none.

“Angelo!” he called out as we both entered. “Angelo, this Florentine seeks the Visconti atelier.  Awake, Angelo!”

I stepped inside the miserly one-room home and shuddered.  In the dim light, I could discern empty goblets still reeking of ale. The tiled floor was littered with chewed chicken bones and stale bread crumbs and even in the winter, flies buzzed upon every surface. The smell of despair pervaded Angelo’s abode.

“It is not like this often, Signore,” muttered the slave, pinching his nose. “It must be that he has taken ill. Angelo! Angelo, awake!”

I heard a weak wail from the kitchen and turned.  In the dim light, I saw a form in a soiled white shirt, asleep on a stool.  A head with a wild bunch of gray hair slowly lifted from a dirty table.

“Angelo, you have a visitor,” urged the slave, seeing him awake. “This Florentine wants you to lead him to the Visconti atelier.”

To my surprise, the man he had called Angelo seemed to tremble in the darkness. His haggard, unwashed faced stared at me, its red eyes filling with horror.

***

Angelo’s Tale

If you listened to him sometimes, you know, he talked to them. Yes. Yes. The masks. He talks to them as he paints their faces onto solid plaster. They come alive. They come alive for him. Gold, gems, feathers, the rubies in their eyes; you see them shine, and you know he sees them, just like I see you.  But he sees their souls. And he tells them, “You are the night. You are the jewel of the night.”  So gentle his fingers, a true artist, he drapes them with the silks and when he is finished with them, he smiles. He is not the only mascheraro in Venezia.  But he is the only one who can breathe life into the masks. The only one. I always knew this. Always.

We were friends since, how many years? Fifteen years. I come often, to the atelier, we are friends, yes? Angelo, he says, you waste nothing. I am poor. I have not much to give you. You will work hard he tells me. I laugh. Work hard, I always work hard.

He was happier when she was alive. But Magdalena died soon after the child was born.

They lived in Castello first.  Surrounded by wealth and princely mansions, he despaired. A castaway noble without his riches. He could not even pay the Republic taxes for months.

But she was his strength. And she had all the ideas.

They say never trust the people of Napoli. But Magdalena was no ordinary Napoletana. She was an artist. She was carrying the child in those days. But she was not afraid. To be sure there was gossip at first. A lot of gossip from the Rialto right up to Castello. What is the Magdalena up to everyday in the markets? What is she doing out of the house? Shouldn’t she be at home? And the foolish woman is with child. Come to think of it, I’ve not seen her in Church. Have you? What is taking up her time?

Oh, I know what she was up to. It was a game at first. She told Francesco she could find him a trade in no time. She mastered all the tricks right from the start and she knew the art...I don’t know. Angelo thinks she was born to this art.  When they opened the old atelier it was empty. But days, weeks went by and it soon became filled with pretty things.  She had it all figured out the Magdalena. She learned when to order the metal ornaments, the feathers and beads, or where in Murano they could find and buy the cheapest crystal pieces. In Burano, she found a trader who would offer the most delicate lace and the best price.  She listened to the news in the Rialto, until she understood when the plaster came in and the best days for the paint prices.  She paid a broker who would bargain for the best value jewels.  She parted with hundreds of ducats for that, and for the glitter, the gold and silver leaf, too. There was a time when she asked me to take the gondola right up to the seamstresses of the Arsenal, so that we could hunt down for leftover silk bails.

I knew she was up to something that Magdalena. Being a gondolier makes one silent but we watch and know much. And then two months before the child was born, she called me up to the atelier with a delivery of paints and brushes. Francesco was sitting in front of the most beautiful mask I had ever seen. I stared at it and the Magdalena rose and walked to me with a strange look on her face.

“What is it Angelo?” the signora asked me as I crossed myself. I was still staring at the mask when she added, “You look as though you have seen a ghost in the canal.”

“Signora, it is just… I have never, never in my life, seen such beautiful work.” And it was true. Oh, it was true! Such workmanship. The mask I saw that day! It was crowned with a Moor’s turban in folded silver silks. A red feather, jutting out of a ruby stone, set upright, in the middle of the brow. The eyes peered at me beneath turquoise hoods edged with gold glitter. The right and left cheek were sprawled with notes from a pasted music sheet and the lips were encrusted with gold and crushed jewels.

“You see what I was telling you, Francesco mio? You are improving!” she said. “Try it on, then, Angelo. Please yourself. Put it on, so we can see… Bellisimo!”

And Francesco let me have it.  He let me hold it to my face. I stood before a mirror to see myself so masked. And I felt… Angelo, this is truly madness.

“Do you like it?” she asked, all lashes batting and mouth pouting. Oh, she was so beautiful.

“Oh, Signora…” I could only whisper as I peered into my reflection. My tattered gondolier clothes seemed improper beneath such mask.  She was nodding to herself. Oh, she was very satisfied. And then Francesco spun to a thick velvet cloak resting on a nearby stool. With a big grin on his face, he had me put on this heavy garment so that we could all see the mask against a purple cloak. Such splendor. I’d never looked so dashing.

I felt myself blush.

“You make these, Signor Visconti, and perhaps more like this one, and the whole of Venezia will come to your door!” I chirped. I eyed myself pleasantly from head to toe, enough to make the Magdalena smile. I forgot that she was with child because there was much excitement in her face. She was not at all tired as one would expect from her condition. She had this passion about her and her dark eyes glistened wildly whenever she spoke. And in her voice, was life.

I remember this beautiful day because I was made to feel part of their family, the Ca’ Visconti. She placed her arms around Francesco and kissed his cheeks.

“You are ready!” I heard her say. “I will teach you all I know; all I know, Francesco.”

I felt dizzy, and for a moment the turban was heavy on my head.

“I shall remove it now.”

The Magdalena smiled again. I thought she looked like an angel then and I know Francesco thought so too. It was the way she had reached for the mask and then with her other hand was rubbing her belly with content. Was there ever a happier woman in all Venezia?

I tell you what, Angelo was a very happy man, too, that day. After months of being unsure, I had finally seen the Magdalena’s dream come alive and Francesco was a grateful husband. I liked seeing them both so sure and pleased with themselves. Is there anything happier than hope when a man and a woman are joined to raise a family? And happier still if one can create art such as that the Magdalena was capable of. And Angelo does not lie. Truly it was a glorious mask as the one that I was made to wear in the atelier. I remember that my poor heart was bursting with joy when I first glimpsed my reflection. I even think that the whole atelier was alight with music; as though there were angels singing and each note rang in my ear, resonating with the laughter of children.

After that day, I worked harder. I wanted to see their trade grow. They hired Maffeo to oar the gondola while I tended to the atelier and dispatched deliveries.

So now you ask me what I was doing in the night before the Winter Solstice. Let me tell you.

For years I clean the atelier at night. Francesco knows me. He trusts me. I never steal anything. Angelo is not a thief. I would have given my life for Francesco and for his little one.

So on that night, the night you want to know about, I come to the atelier when the time is right. It is past midnight. It is dark when I arrive. The canal waters are still. The neighbors lie asleep. The Visconti windows are shut. Only the moonlight guides me. But then I see a glow on the top floor of the atelier.  I look up. This is where Francesco likes to climb when he is creating and wishes to remain in peace.

Ah! Francesco is still in the atelier I tell myself.

But I have to clean up. So I bang on the door but he does not come.  And I think to myself, Angelo, should you enter now and disturb the mascheraro or should you maybe return later? I stand back and look up to the window where my master is at work. So late. And again, I think to myself, Angelo, but how many years has it been and never once, remember this, never once has Francesco worked so late without warning you first.  So I turn, preparing to leave but then I see a black feather. It is hovering around me. Then two feathers.  One settles on my shoe. So I take it between my fingers and I am not sure what to think of this black feather.  I think– Angelo, this feather just flew out from Francesco’s atelier.  Is the mascheraro throwing away his feathers now?  I spin around and I look up to the room upstairs. Devil take me!  What now? Now the shutters have flown open, banging on the outer wall and a light bursts out but, still, I do not see Francesco.  And by some enchantment, I watch feathers, silver and gold dust spray out of the room, painting the sky it seems.  The building glows like gold. Gold, I tell you! Signore, I cross myself.  It is lit as though by that exploding powder from the Far East. It is aglow with the sparkling dust.  And still feathers and swirls of fabrics are flying up in the space above and beyond.

At this, I rub my eyes and shake my head. Are you dreaming, Angelo, I ask myself? It is long past midnight, Angelo, I tell myself.  But what I see, is the vision of a delirious drunk in the early hours of the morning; not one who is sober and has come to clean the atelier as he has for over fifteen years. I feel the hair rise on my head. I stare up again.  The windows are shut now.  How shut? Angelo, Angelo, think. Did one ever stir by the window? No. Did one ever shut them? No. No, I did not see a hand, I swear to you–the window shut as though... And not a sign of Francesco.  Madre de Dios, I am frightened. My teeth chatter in the cold and I can take no more.

So I run. I drop my lantern and run.

That is the last time I have seen the atelier.  I have not returned since.

What I think? You ask Angelo what he thinks. I think, Signore that something has begun. No, no, I cannot say.  The moon saw.  She saw it all. And how brightly it shone on that night, when I was there.  The light on the atelier was gold if ever there was gilded light. Oh, Signore, to return there? Now? No. Never! You would not return if you knew what Angelo saw.

But what was it, Signore? What shone out from his window in the middle of the night, and like this, with all that dust flying around and the feathers? Old Angelo does not know what to make of it. But he is afraid. Very afraid.

Signore, I will tell you, if you do not think me mad.  I believe something evil dwells in the atelier.

In the Atelier

“He saw into the internal

and the external world,

left and right,

above and below,

before him and after him.”

Journal of Antonio da Parma

Eve of Natale

Long before the arrival of the signori di notte, when I thought myself unheard and unseen, I followed a fearful Angelo into Santa Croce and there, he led me to Francesco Visconti’s atelier.  No sooner had we neared it than he ran away, leaving me outside.

Angelo’s tale had chilled me, but I was determined to discover if Rolandino had told the truth. I had at first discounted the merchant’s violent confession, hoping to find Francesco Visconti alive. I gripped to the bronze knob and tapped on the door. Thrice, I was met by a deathly silence.

Across the nearby parishes, midnight bells chimed in unison. I drew a metal pin from my boot.  I had at least an hour before the signori di notte arrived. With the aid of my dagger and the pin, I worked at the lock until it ceded.

A fetid odor greeted me in the cold darkness.  I shuddered. My unsteady torch shone over dirty wooden benches. I saw craftsmen’s tools and to the back, a wall, smeared with large red letters. I stepped forth. Beneath my felt boots, came the rustling of crushed fabrics. I shone my light to the tiled floor. Streams of silks and gauze were strewn at my feet.  Tiny sequins glittered in the dark.  The once faint odor had grown oppressive. Someone was inside.

Distant wooden creaks echoed from above. I started. Was Francesco Visconti still alive perhaps? Was it his ghost that I sensed upstairs? Maybe Angelo was right and I had no place here. Again the rattling sound from above. I felt as though a ghost would claw at my neck at this very instant.

My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and I could see, much to my terror, that Rolandino’s tale might be true. The back of the room had been ravaged; paint and bails of fabric lay on the floor; satin, lace and silks ripped to shreds and stained by paint. A row of hanging masks had been carelessly pulled to the ground. Drawers lay upside down with their contents spilled.  I raised my torch to the red words on the wall, until I could discern their sinister message - “Death to the Milanese.”

Sadness gripped me. Where had such hatred come from? And all the knives, I realized, as a cold chill descended over me, all those cutting implements that an artisan has use of, those things–they were missing.

Nearing the spiral staircase, I looked up, to where Angelo had sensed much evil on that fateful night. He had spoken of gilded rays shining from the upstairs atelier.  But up there, I could see only darkness. Whatever spirit had inhabited the top floor, was no more.

What had Angelo seen? What was it that had shone like gold? Basing myself on Angelo’s account, I knew the light had come alive long after the merchants had already left. Where had it come from, if not from Francesco?

I was startled by a gentle tap on my shoulder.  Paint was dripping from the ceiling. I brushed over the slimy liquid on my sleeve and brought it to my nose. Not paint. It was the smell of death. Rolandino had not lied.

I raised my lantern to the wooden planks overhead.  Blood.

For an instant, my light caught a face hiding behind the staircase.

“Who is there?” I waved my light ahead, feeling my pulse quicken. One glimpse, there! The outline of a shadow beneath the staircase. I froze. A tightness burned my throat. For a chilling instant, I could barely breathe.

“Who is there? Francesco?”

No. Not Francesco.

In that moment, I knew.  I knew with every fiber of my being that even if there was still no sign of Francesco, even if I would find no mascheraro, I knew at least, that she was here, in this atelier.  She was looking at me. The woman from my dream. It was her. I had seen her face in the darkness.

Slowly, I advanced. I peered into the shadows, shining my torch beneath the staircase.

Nothing.

I felt relieved and yet, a part of me was disappointed.

Perhaps Almoro was right and I did suffer from delusions.

Almoro’s words came to me. Because this reality does not please you, he had said.

I looked around the room.  Again, no sign of Francesco.

Because, came Almoro Donato’s whiny voice, the reality, Antonio, is that Francesco is upstairs.

Francesco’s dripping blood on the floorboards above… My jaw tensed at the thought.

Images of slaughter flashed in my mind. I considered whether to go upstairs, or leave, before the signore di notte stormed in. I was running out of time and yet, perhaps due to Angelo’s warning but also, from dread, I could not bring myself to go upstairs.  If the blood averred to be Francesco’s blood, I could not forgive myself.

Already, I was horrified by the madness that had driven the patricians: Rolandino, Giacomo, Balsamo, Guido and Ubertino. Already, I sought for their motives.

But was there even a reason for the savagery of Carnivale? Could the basest impulses ever be accounted for? I recalled my last visit in Venezia. The gruesome spectacle that was the last Thursday of Carnivale.  Every year, in honor of a treaty that had taken place hundreds of years before between Venice and Aquileia, the Piazzetta overflowed with mad crowds and was transformed into an arena for bloodletting.  Animals—pigs and bulls—were chased, captured and mocked under the gaze of Venezia’s noble Signoria, before being cut to pieces and devoured by the crowd.

Up there, in the upstairs workshop, I might uncover butchery of a similar kind.

But why? Why would they kill an inoffensive artisan? Questions ran unanswered until I had no choice.

I ran. I ran upstairs, clutching at my heart, the timber moaning underfoot. With every step, I lived remorse and terror. I regretted that afternoon when I had been forced to abandon Francesco to his fate.

And now, to my left lay the bedroom and to my right…

To my right, there was a light, seeping through a partly sealed door.

Behind the door, a familiar rattling. I peered ahead. Only the wind. The cold wind through an opened window... Perhaps there were no ghosts.

I held my breath. I could feel the quickening rhythm of my heart. Below, lay the magical world of sequins, feathers, silks and paints, the world of a great artist and, here, in this second atelier... there was…

The green door gave way.

Horror.

Abomination.

Blood–black, dried, smeared in hatred onto the walls, painting a horror this room had once known. My knees trembled.

Dismembered. Human limbs ranged where there should be none.

Was this my own voice? Had I cried out? I clamped at my mouth and dared another glance.

Headless, splayed on the wooden planks, in a blackened pool of decay, where humors mingled and seeped through the floorboards–his savagely cut, maggot infested disemboweled form, lay rotting at my feet.

Here was, then, the smell of death! Here, impaled on the leg of an inverted chair, the once noble head of the Milanese. The madness of it! Of seeing his dangling gray strands caked with blood.  Of seeing that his own face was no more real than a mask. And the stench! All the while the stench was unbearable. A cesspit of rot and hell. It painted a memory of such violence, that a cry burst from within me.

“Francesco! Francesco, forgive me,” came my voice.

I tried to look upon his face.

I would have sought to close his lids, to transport him away from this murderous abode, a home that ought to have been his joy and love, the fruit of his art.  But I had long realized that he had no face.  There, the fleshy jaw with its row of broken teeth; there, the torn eye sockets where maggots fed; there, the lacerated flesh hanging off his cheeks...but nothing left of his goodness.  No, not a trace of Francesco the Milanese.

I buckled to my knees as silent tears ran down my face.

And then, something that I cannot explain happened to me, in this very room.

As I tried to sift through the last moments of Francesco’s life, a sudden rage seized me. I asked myself what earthly debt a man could have ever possessed that would lead to such treatment of him. And I formed an answer.

Though it was more like a voice, a seething voice that somehow surged from my lips and echoed in this infernal room.

“He was wronged! Francesco was wronged!”

I felt my lips curl into a rage that I could not control.

“You will pay Rolandino!” I heard myself curse. “You shall pay for your deeds! I shall come to you. I shall find the keys to the Wells... I shall find you in your cell, I...”

And just as it had come, it bolted out of me. I remained stunned by the sound of my voice. I had spoken in an accent that was not my own. I had laid bare thoughts I knew were not even mine! And yet, how they possessed me!

I gasped for air.

In the moment when I had cried out, I had glimpsed a vision of Rolandino. It told me that he had never escaped from prison. Someone had come to avenge Francesco. Rolandino was already dead.

Now.

At this instant.

I passed a hand over my eyes.

Had I gone mad? If I spoke in foreign accents, what would I see now? I had dismissed Catarina’s superstition on the subject of my incomplete baptism. But what if it were no superstition?

I gazed to the ceiling, struggling to calm my troubled spirits. I could not bear to look at the deceased. I feared I may soon see his ghost.

And then I noticed it–the hanging portrait beside the window. The portrait that had plagued Rolandino and haunted him since that day.

Rolandino had smeared white paint across the canvas as though to protect himself from her gaze. And as I stared at it, a gnawing tugged at my chest.

Suddenly I had sprung to my feet. I had reached for the portrait and begun to peal the sullying paint off.  I had never known such urgency. Flake by flake, I worked at the canvas. White curls fell upon the floor as I etched off the paint.

Even then, I knew what I would find. Still, I came at it, gritting my teeth, my breath quickened by a sickening desire to see beneath–an urge to see her face. I wanted to see it. I had to see it because—

Because it was her.

I stepped back in horror.

The woman in my dream, the one I had seen on Rialto Bridge and then later, rising above Santa Croce as she wailed in torment–she was looking straight at me.

The portrait fell at my feet.

I recognized her by the pendant round her neck, black locks framing her oval face, black eyes of such savagery, such raw beauty—and her lips—I shook with fear.

Who was she? Why did she haunt my dreams? Could she have been Francesco’s long lost wife? The Magdalena that Angelo had spoken of? I did not doubt it.

Yet, Rolandino had seen her in a different light.  He had seen her as nemesis incarnate.

He had been terrified.

To the Canal and to the Roofs

While I sat in the deathly atelier, outside, a loud murmur stirred the silence of the campo.  Emerging from a narrow calle in the distance, masked young men and women spilled into the courtyard like phantoms on just another Carnivale night.  The foreboding hum of their voices rose to a shrill.  They ran, wading past the flooded courtyard, splattering the walls of this very house.  They contoured this very edifice toward the canal nearby.

I gazed through the window.

“Why the noise?” I called out.

None of them even looked up. They seemed agitated.

Under the dancing torch lights below, I discerned youths in multi-colored calzas, some scantily clad, their camicias still open from a night of reveling. Their compagnes went unveiled, their long braids loosened provocatively.  They had removed their cork platforms and walked bare-footed. They seemed much reduced in height, the trail of their gowns drenched by the muddy courtyard.

To my dismay, the unruly crowd came to a halt beneath the atelier.  I dreaded what sport had newly taken their fancy.  As though in pursuit of some mischief, they crowded to the moored gondolas.

A terrified voice rose above all others.

“Can you see it? Is it there?”

Then a reply.  A woman.

“It could not be far. I saw it earlier...in the water...”

Then came a shriek.

I leapt. I bolted down the staircase and into the main room.  I heard a further cry of terror and shuddered. What madness, what sport, what game had suddenly taken hold of these youths? I was short of breath from what I had seen an hour before. The rank smell of death festered in this diabolic house and now...

I stepped into the coldness outside, locking the doors behind me.  I feigned to have been stirred from my bed as though I lived here. With a frown on my face, I wiped a speck of white paint off my tabard and advanced toward the youths.

They crouched forth, close to the waters, peering into the dark liquid.

“Step aside! Move away!” I shouted as I elbowed my way through.

“It is him!” whispered a woman still staring into the water. Then she buried her masked face into her companion’s doublet.

“What is it? You have disturbed the peace with your carrying on endlessly at such late an hour.”

Despite my pretenses, I was like them, overcome with a restlessness and the knowledge of some uncanny evil. In truth, I had been waiting for it all night.

“Signore, you must see! You must see!”  The young woman was in hysterics.  She had lifted her volto mask as though she wanted me to see how truly horrified she was. She wanted someone to read her fear and to believe in it.  Her clammy hands were tight on my arm as she led me closer to the water.

“They have killed him!” sobbed a youth.

“They did not! He escaped!” protested another.

I hesitated. I had a sharp sense of what I would see, but in that moment, I dared not believe it.  I took a step forth, feeling my heart thumping.

There was another stir from the crowd.  Torches were raised and voices lifted at the sight ahead.  I noted two large sbirri gondolas and the gleam of a dozen sbirri swords traveling fast toward us, along the dark water.  The crowd emitted further cries.

“They want to hide him from us! They want to...”

“Who? Hide who?” I sensed the anxiety in my voice. There was not much time. I had to see.

“Signore, it is horrible! Guarda qui! Guarda!”

A flambeau was thrust into my hands.

I came close. Closer. I crouched at the edge of the canal.  I dared not breathe as I peered into the shimmering surface.

There!  Surrounded by the murky waters of Venezia, a drowned man–his body covered in filth—stared back at me.  The flames danced in his face...

“It is Rolandino! Rolandino!” they shouted.

Rolandino Vitturi...

I could no longer hear the crowds. I barely took note of the sbirri as they stepped off and ranged themselves before the youth, barring the waters. They shoved the crowd away, one hand resting ominously on the hilt of their swords.  I felt strangely distant, even as the young voices rose around me in protest. They were soon hushed by the relentless sbirri.

Somehow a deafening silence enveloped me. I could only stare. The armed men formed a shield around Rolandino’s floating cadaver. They untangled his hair. They detached his limbs from the two gondolas.  They lifted him out, dripping with slime. They hushed the crowd, warning them—sending them off to their beds like children, after a game that they were meant never to have played.

I saw it.

Unmistakable terror on the sbirri’s faces.

Unmistakable confusion as they gazed upon one another and wondered. Because even they did not know.

But I knew.

I knew everything. Its truth burned my fingers.

Rolandino, I heard myself whispering.  I see your death as though I were in the Wells.

I see it all.

You poor fool. You thought she would not find you but she did. It only took one stormy night. And as the sky thundered overhead, as lightning struck above San Marco, as the waters swelled and flushed the Wells, you dreamed your last dream.

She came for you. She dragged you out of your cell in your sleep and streamed you along, panting for breath in the waters of Venezia.

Deep, so deep in the lagoon. What night you have seen, Rolandino!  Tangled in the black vine of her hair, gasping for life even as she cried for vengeance, cried for the man she loved and whom you murdered.  And how you fought to tear her away, but she clung to you, filled your lungs and took your breath...

And when you died, when your body was defiled by the lagoon and had begun to rot, she brought you to him…like an offering. She tied this cord round your neck to mark you...

I knew not how. But I had seen it. I had felt it all.

The certainty of it stung me as surely as the object that I now held in secret within the palm of my hand.  My wet fingers curled tight round it as I watched the sbirri oar their gondolas away, carrying with them the bloated corpse of Rolandino Vitturi.

Before the sbirri had reached us, I had slipped a hand inside the waters and lifted the pendant from Rolandino’s neck.  The witch’s rue. The one I had seen round her neck, in my dream.  The one she wore in the portrait.

I had claimed it for her.

I receded quietly, moving past the atelier until I spun on my heels and lurched in the dark to regain my lodgings.  I moved past an alley that I had taken previously. I was now well acquainted with the shortened paths through labyrinthine Venice.  The events of the nights flashed in my mind.

Then a blow, fast and sure.  For moments, I remained out of breath, stumbling back to my feet. Two black-clad men, wrapped in long fur-lined mantles, their faces hidden by black bautas, stood there, wielding their swords in my face.

A night of murder had begun.

“Signori, it is late,” I mused. “Have you, then, no lady to serenade with verses on this enchanting night?”

A sneer from one of the men who sprung forth, attacking me from the side. I evaded him.

“Signori, you are foolish to come at me. Do you not know that before you have the chance to skewer me, the most reputed bravo of Venezia, will come to my aid?”

Saying this, I clung, uncertain, to my rondel. An idea had crossed my mind. Throwing my flambeau in the face of one of my attackers, I sprung into the streets, evading the thrust of his blade. They chased after me, the sound of their heeled footsteps pounding against the marble paving.

I scaled a wall and hauled myself on a balcony, leaping to the roof of an adjoining house.  They pursued, undeterred and we took on the rooftops of Venice in a mad chase. The sounds of slamming wooden shutters alerted us to the awakening citizens beneath.  Lights flickered as numerous torches were lit in San Polo homes. And twenty feet behind me, I saw my pursuers closing in.

I tripped, cursing myself.

A raven crossed the night, his black mantle unfurling like wings against the wind. I recognized the proud velvet cioppa, the shapely thighs in their leather high boots. He stood before me, facing the other two men. His heavy mantle was thrust over one shoulder, as he drew out his blade and prepared to strike.  He leapt forth with a savage snarl, his rapier swift, parring every feint, the thrust of his Aragonese blade, unmatched, the glimpse of his dark skin unseen behind his white mask.

I breathed a sigh. But it was disbelief more than relief as I watched him, watched the grit of his attack and the unsurpassed nobility of his swordsmanship.

He drove his blade into the first man who gave out a cry.  The other one took fright and lurched aside, only to leap into a courtyard and disappear in the hidden calli of San Polo.

Esteban kicked the dead man at his feet. The body rolled down the rooftop and splashed into the canal waters below.

I clutched at my side, damning the night. Esteban put away his sword and knelt beside me.

“Are you badly wounded?” he asked, noting the red on my right arm.

“It is not my blood,” I protested. “I think I have torn a limb and my ankle hurts a little but I should be in one piece.”

“Antonio Da Parma,” he said, as he helped me up my feet, “it appears you have made an enemy of the Consiglio dei Dieci. Or at least, one of them disapproves of your actions... These two sbirri wanted you dead.”

I gave a grunt, still rubbing my bruised rib.

“I don’t know what you are harping about, Signor Bravo. These men were hardly sbirri. They were mercenaries. Mistaken identity; that is all. It happens often in these dark streets. I can assure you that the Consiglio dei Dieci is not the scourge of Veneziana society that you make of it.”

“Mistaken identity,” he repeated, mocking my words.  He gave a short flash of white teeth before shaking his head in disbelief.

“Certainly. I can certify that the Consiglio and I are on very good terms,” I said, raising myself from the ground.

“Oh, I can see that. A moment ago, you were being chased by two sbirri who had every intention of murdering you, Signor da Parma.”

“They were mercenaries. Not sbirri.”

He glowered at me.

“You are not observant, Antonio. I have been watching you, from the instant you entered the Santa Croce house and long before Rolandino’s body floated up the canal. The two men you saw, they visited your dwelling early this evening.  They were sbirri. First they entered your room and spilled the contents of all your drawers and when I sprung upon them, they fled. ”

“You broke into my lodgings?”

“As did those two men!”

I tensed at his words, but since I carried all my possessions on me, including the journal where I recounted my notes, I soon recomposed myself.

“Well I am pleased at the situation, however odd. For some reason, you take an obsessive interest in anything I do and have a passion for leaping in dark places where you are not invited...”

“Oh, is that so?”

“…spying on me, like a vulgar ruffian.”

“Vulgar now? I see.”

“Never showing your face…”

“That is my affair. If I am still alive today, it is partly because of it.”

I sighed. I was being unfair. The bravo had saved my life. I had no idea as to what these sbirri were looking for or why they had wanted to kill me.

“Signor Bravo...”

“Esteban. Here, lean on my arm.”

“Esteban, you have my gratitude. There—are you satisfied? But do not expect me to endorse your distrust of the Consiglio dei Dieci.  I cannot share your grievance for the simple reason that I do not commerce with criminals.”

“You would comply with the Consiglio dei Dieci, even as they dispatch men to murder you?” he bellowed. “You are seeing the light, but choose to look the other way. “

His words might have spurred doubt in my mind but at that instant, I thought of nothing else except her.  I had seen her light and I did not want to ignore it. No, not now.

I tied the pendant around my neck and put it aside, tucking it beneath my linen shirt. As I did so, it appeared to me that Esteban stared at me in great confusion. He gaped in silence, eyeing the silver rue with a sudden curiosity. After a while, he bit his lip and said nothing.

“Esteban, you say you know almost everyone in this city. What can you tell me about Signor Giacomo Contarini from the Santa Maria Formosa Parish?”

“A boor.”

“He is tied to the death of the mascheraro, whose home I broke into tonight. He murdered him with accomplices, exactly one day before their own deaths. The signori di notte will soon find the body and when they do…”

“A murder? Ha. No matter how violent our patricians, I did not know that Giacomo Contarini had it in him. Interesting. I may know something and it may or may not help you, Signor da Parma. But if I tell you what I know, will you vow to help me find the papers that are mine?”

“What papers? I do not recall that you spoke of any papers.”

“A contract belonging to Signor Rivera, my master. Before he died, he passed his estates to my name. But the will is of no consequence if the compagnia who hired him will not honor its debts.  The Signoria possesses transcripts of such contracts in their chancellery. That is all I need to confront my debtors. There is only one problem. The documents are in the palace. They are forbidden from such as I.  Only one who knows the ways of the chancellery may be of aid to me.  You must enter the chancelleries to retrieve them. I will ask you, Signor da Parma. Will you help me find this document?”

I contemplated the offer. I would be bound to fulfil a dubious request in exchange for precious insight. As much as I was prepared for anything to understand the Contarini case, there was something about Esteban that I found unsettling.

“If I trusted you, Esteban, I would help you. You have my word.”

“If you trusted me?”

A smile lit his face. It was almost childish.

“How you irritate me, Antonio.  But you find me relieved that there may yet be a way to corrupt you. Very well, it is better than nothing. I will accept your word. Now listen. What is there to say about Signor Giacomo Contarini? He was not so important a man.”

“But he was immensely wealthy, one of the most successful merchants in Venezia.”

Esteban shook his head.

“Look beneath this artifice. Venezia blinds you.  Money, the dead Giacomo had in abundance. He possessed estates in the countryside as far as Milan, where he kept stables and many dogs.  Alive, he governed these from afar, squeezing the peasants dry, tormenting their existence as only a treacherous lord can. But all this is nothing.  It is his wife who has more riches than you can imagine and she is grooming her son, Lorenzo, to become a senator. One foot in the Pregadi and the Contarini trade monopoly is assured. The woman has a plan, a well-defined plan. But for those merciless politicians, she also has an Achilles heel.”

“The rumors.”

“Yes. Foul rumors that her husband did not sleep with her and preferred young men. These rumors could destroy her and her son’s future. That is all they need. Only a complicit woman could conceal her husband’s sin. If she is found guilty, she will be punished by the Consiglio dei Dieci and perhaps even stripped of her wealth. Lorenzo may not even be elected to the Maggior Consiglio. His political life will be over. Lorenzo’s political rivals are counting on it. Of course, they may not want to wait for the rumors to take effect. They may choose to eliminate him. Now, do you understand why his life might be in danger?”

“I must speak with him!”

“What do you hope to achieve?”

“Esteban, I think this family is the key to understanding Giacomo Contarini. If I can discover all I can about Giacomo, I may be able to shed some light on this horrible atelier murder… Perhaps even the patricians’ deaths may be related.”

“Then do what you must. When you have fulfilled your quest, I will require you see to mine.”

“As much as I recognize that you have saved my life, I would never help you, Signor del Valle.”

I expected him to corner me to a wall and point the tip of his blade to my neck, but he merely tilted his head. He gave a quiet smile before finally responding.

“There is a man in a golden mask. He is covered from head to toe in bright crimson. After siesta, during Carnivale, he walks upon stilts every afternoon in the Piazza. This man will take any message you give him and deliver it to me.”

And upon these words, he had vanished.

Left alone, I beheld the witch’s rue in my hand and pondered over the woman in the portrait.

***

Letter from Esteban del Valle to his client

Today may well be the happiest day of my life but for all my joy, I know it is nothing compared to what you shall feel when I tell you that I have found what we have been seeking.

The very same pendant you described to me.

Leave everything to me.

I send my deepest esteem.

Your servant.

Diary of Esteban del Valle

Dearest Gaspar,

Today may be my longest diary entry yet.  But unlike the dim-witted Antonio who loses himself so easily, I shan’t leap ahead until I am certain. So I will resign myself to a few lines. Besides, one cannot very well fill volumes of books when one dwells in four homes and is so often having to hide.  And though this city’s outcasts have long aided me and there exist few that I protect who would hesitate to shelter me, still it would be a loathsome existence to have to carry volumes of prose on my person.

Words to the wind, Gaspar. That is what they are.

And of this existence which I owe to you, there is in it only a single purpose.  Keep my sword animated by your protective spirit, for I feel that we are close.  Not a day goes past that I forget my vow.

Fear not for me, Gaspar, my dear friend.  The days and nights of your waiting have come to an end. And soon, I will deliver that which is dearest to your heart.

EV

Catarina’s Story

Letter from Catarina Contarini to Antonio da Parma

25 December 1422

You have beseeched me to give you the proof that you seek. You will find it in this parcel which I entrust to my servant.

But before you open my husband’s diary or read its contents, I will ask you to read my confession. I have lived in silence for too long. It will do me good to part with this burden.  Often people who have not known each other for long are suddenly thrust into a bond of honor. You, Antonio, I sense, are a man of your word. And so even though I believe you are the Consiglio’s secret inquisitor, I will endeavor to open my soul to a complete stranger. Be that at my own cost.

But first to let you know of my deepest sympathies. I have learned of your wife, avogadore. Women of my parish speak often and too much. Even at the funeral, they resorted to gossiping about you. Forgive us this trait. It is how I have learned that you are newly widowed.

I feel your loss, Signore, as I do mine. You must pine for her terribly. I say this only because your expressions, as during your visit, have seemed to me to be much aggrieved and aloof. It must be difficult for you to set out with such a grim task when the burden of your memories still haunt you.

But I must press on to graver matters.

I will begin. My story.

As a young woman, I thought life would be like a wondrous tale.

I was lucky to be born to a wealthy family. My father had always indulged us with silks and embroidered cloths from as far as the Orient.  We lived in a mansion in the Giudecca, surrounded by groves and olive trees.  My childhood is a tale of love, sweets and the joys of play.  We, Canals, have estates in the islands of Candia and Mykonos and my father’s sugar refinery thrives even to this day.

But the true wealth of the Ca’ Canal, the wealth I knew, the only wealth I ever wanted, was my mother’s laughter. For her happiness was all I aspired to. You ought to have seen the Signora Canal, decked in beaded velvets, ribbons on her sleeves, her hair always braided nobly upon her high forehead.  Oh, she was proud of us, the fruit of her womb.  And how tall she stood beside her husband as we entered the parish campo on every feast day.  I remember how she danced, even in her older years and I remember the enduring softness of her skin made ripe by happiness.  During my childhood, I longed for nothing less than my mother’s peace. And I had sworn, as young as ten, that I would one day find a husband who would bring me such peace.

One day I was struck by thunder. If you believe in destiny, you will understand that I saw my fate on that day, the day I met Giacomo Contarini. I was fourteen and at the ideal age for marriage. Giacomo was twenty-three. He had returned from his military service and was studying civil law and philosophy at Padua University. On his short visit to Venice, which we later discovered, much to our amusement, had been orchestrated by his parents, we both attended a patrician ball held during Carnivale.

My parents had set their minds on marrying off one of their daughters. I remember that both I and my sister were smitten by Giacomo. But only one of us could have him. On that occasion, we both wore new dresses and our hair fell loose on our shoulders. The youth parties danced long into the night. And when we did not dance, we sang songs, drank wine and ate almond sweets. Toward the middle of the night, we ventured toward the Piazza San Marco and watched a spectacle of dazzling fireworks sparkle late into the sky.

All this time, my sister and I followed Giacomo and his friends. I cannot say if it was the heavily accented Hungary water that wafted past wherever he strode, or his perfectly sensible manners, but Giacomo soon had me charmed. He was no Adonis, if you ask me, but he was powerfully built with a long aquiline nose, much like the noblest patricians. I saw him peer over his shoulders and smile in my direction many times. I cherished that night because I knew he had chosen me over my sister.

Over the next few days, we somehow found a way to speak to each other in the gardens. I soon learned of his studies at Padua university and of his fondness for dogs which I thought endearing. He was as every young patrician should be, skilled in swordsmanship, archery, adept on the saddle but he also enjoyed sketching. He was a good artist, my Giacomo. That’s what he told me then.

When he set off to Padua for his final years of university, we wrote to each other. Courtly letters and poems were exchanged on scented parchment over many months. Our parents did not suspect, but my sister knew. I asked that she keep it secret and she did. And then all of a sudden, I received nothing from him.  Months went by.  I would ask our gondolier for the latest courier. Each time, I heard nothing, and the letters did not come. I was heartbroken.

I learned later what had happened. While on a visit to Verona, Giacomo had met a woman of liberal manners. It was said that she took lovers and cared not for her reputation. Many things were said of this woman. That she was a dark-haired beauty from Napoli and flaunted her breasts like the meretrice of San Polo. They said that her lovemaking was certain and that her virginity was dubious. It was said, and I blush when I write it, that she defied the orders of the Church by mounting her lovers in bed. And finally, it was said, and many have said it since but only behind closed doors, that she was a witch and that she had smitten Giacomo.

I overheard, once, that she knew spells which could enthrall men to do her bidding. I had heard of such spells. Presumably, one could mingle sage with menstrual blood.  When served to a man, this brew was enough for him to succumb to one’s charms. I had never given thought to this and now as I felt the aching sting of jealousy across my breast, I wondered if such potion could work on Giacomo.

In my youth I had wished many times to have never had red hair and instead that my hair were golden like the fairest Slavs. But for the first time in my life, during these months, I began to envy the dark locks of the Southern women. In Venice there is always rivalry for all that is new and everyone wishes to outdo the other–in fashion, in furnishings, in wealth, and with knowledge of all the latest. That is why we listen to the news in the campo and we gossip often.

But in my family, I was the dreamy one. I ignored the ways of women to entice men with their dress. While my friends knew how to laugh at the appropriate moment so as to charm their male companions, I was ever clumsy with words. In my diaries, I can say anything. The written word is always easier for me. And now I remember, that for the first time, I felt a sense of powerlessness before this distant rival. Maybe she possessed more wit, or else was more graceful? Perhaps she clothed herself more fashionably and outdid me in every way. If so what chance did I have?

I doubted my own charms, Antonio. I had even less faith that with a poem, or else a witty letter of my own pen, I might reach into his heart and win him back. No. If Giacomo wanted her, then he would have her. Who was I to fight for him? If even the promise of a generous Canal dowry could not lure this ambitious patrician back to me, I was resigned to my fate. In my mind, the Napoli woman already owned him.

I did what Venetian women do. I resorted to prayer and invoked the saints. At night, in my bed, when I thought no one could hear, I often wept. I lamented that Giacomo would never return my love. I had just turned fifteen and despaired ever getting married. This carried on for months. For months, I prayed to our Lord that if only he would grant me Giacomo’s love and if only Giacomo became my husband by Holy Law, I would do all to keep him happy and he would not need stray.

And then, as suddenly as he had ceased writing to me, there was a glorious miracle. Giacomo’s letters suddenly resumed with renewed passion and fervor. He confided in me that he was to soon complete his studies and if I so wanted, he cherished the hope our parents would favor our union. He spoke nothing of the Napoletana. I was too humbled by my answered prayers and too blissful with his restored devotion to even think of mentioning what I knew of her. Perhaps it is pride, too, which silences a woman on the subject of a suspected rival. To devote any time and thought to a rival is to diminish one’s worth. I had my dignity.

With the Napoletana only a memory, I took care to inform my younger sister that Giacomo and I were in love. I think this played a part in her resolution to abandon all hopes for marriage. Our father had made it clear that he sought to send one of us to a convent while the other would become wedded, sealing the fortunes of the Contarini to the Canal, as has been done for hundreds of years between patrician families.

I felt for my sister, but she told me that my happiness was all she desired and began to prepare herself for her new life in the Benedictine convent of San Lorenzo.  She had suitors, do not doubt.  But my father saw no value in her marriage to a man beneath her class and he, like many Venetian fathers, had far more to gain in social standing by her seclusion.  She was a prize that none could afford.

I became betrothed to Giacomo on the very last year of his studies at university.  I wore my gold and pearl engagement brooch with pride. I counted the days to when I would be his. When the gifts began to arrive–the linen, the silverware, the jewelry, the gowns and the books–more than could ever fit in my two cedar cassoni, I felt swept into the spirit of my upcoming marriage.

What is that you say, dear Antonio? That we, Venetians, only marry for profit? If this be true, I hereby proclaim that Catarina Canal was the happiest bride of them all.  Know this–know, that I was no mere party to a contract and that every part of my being longed for the honor of becoming Giacomo’s wife.

The four days of my marriage were the happiest days of my life.  In those days, how I paraded!  And how, by my happiness, did envy and awe paint itself on the faces of disbelieving parishioners! Did they understand, that I was in love? Did they know? I remember how proud I stood, amidst the flowers of my gondola, with my veil windswept, barely hiding the smile upon my face, and after the procession, how I blushed with emotion as my father handed over my hand to Giacomo.

Night after night, the festivities unraveled with no expense spared. We banqueted on embroidered tablecloths and danced for hours.  We feasted on tender roasted meats and sculpted sweets depicting all manner of birds and animals.  In our honor, there were fireworks to light up the night skies and wedding poems read out by talented troubadours, and one night, there was even a spectacle of acrobats who climbed atop one another in a giant pyramid.

Each day, I awoke bursting with gladness. Parade after parade, I stood in my cortege, triumphant.  I, the chaste virgin, honorable bride of Giacomo, future mother of the Contarini heirs, I not only embodied all that was virtuous in our society, but I had it all–Giacomo was all I had ever wanted.

Years passed and we were happy. A woman becomes more than she ever was when she is married. I felt this, Antonio. I grew vain and fond of the pleasures of fabrics. I loved pleasing my husband and when we took outings together, we always attracted the appreciative eye of our parishioners.

“There goes Catarina,” the older women would say.

I knew my place beside Giacomo. In his arms, I grew strong in the knowledge of my own charms. I grew more wilful still when I learned I was carrying his child.

Our son, Lorenzo, was born not long after our marriage and our lives were mostly joy and mirth. Giacomo took partners among his trusted patrician friends and his trade grew profitable. He was known to have a sharp sense for the trade and to smell a profit well ahead of others. I was proud of him and deeply in love. These were prosperous years.

I never saw my sister again for some time after she left my parents’ home. But the San Lorenzo convent is wealthy and she lacked of nothing.

And one day, while one of our servants was dusting Giacomo’s work desk, I came upon a drawing. One that Giacomo had once drawn in Verona. It was an ink portrait on parchment. It had slipped out of Giacomo’s thick journal and the servant had picked it up. I asked Giacomo to explain himself and he told me of his brief affair with the Napoletana.

“I did not know you drew so well, Giacomo,” I remember saying as though to let the matter rest. In my heart I knew that the sketch meant nothing and that Giacomo was entirely mine.

“Is it very good, then, do you think?” he laughed, heartily.

We embraced each other as he discarded the portrait.

Then I looked into his eyes.

“I would not ask you to part from your art but I never want to see it again. Do me this favor.”

He did not reply but kissed me with fondness.

I had my heart’s desire and nothing would take Giacomo away from me.

You will see, Antonio, in the last page of his journal, the sketch that he drew. It is a little dated now, but he kept it. He never said whether or not he held on to it. I discovered this myself. But I will come to this later, in this confession.

The portrait incident marks the ending of our happy life together. And then five years into the reign of our Doge Michele Steno, the contentment I had known would end. It began with the death of my parents. I was grief-stricken. I miscarried a child. I fell ill. For a while Giacomo thought someone, a jettature had cast the evil eye upon my womb.

It had always perplexed me that Giacomo, knew so much of charms. I never questioned his knowledge. Of course, I was naïve. I refused to understand.

And then everything came crushing down.  A Milanese, a certain Francesco Visconti arrived in Venezia.

The Milanese

Letter from Catarina Contarini to Antonio da Parma

25 December 1422

I remember when the white-haired Milanese came to Venezia. Him and his wife. It was after Venezia had taken Verona and Padua. These were joyous days in the Republic.  You would remember, Antonio, the alliance forged between the free Republics of Florence and Venezia to overthrow the Visconti family. And then it happened. The Milanese families had fallen.  Their armies were in disarray and the Visconti estates in Verona suffered losses. Francesco would have been penniless if he had not sold his family’s land.  But he was also a man of many follies. I shall come to it.

He took the journey from Verona to Venezia. He had decided to live in the Republic as only a Milanese noble can, a second class citizen who pays taxes until granted full rights. A journey of a mad man. And he took her with him. Her! Wretched Francesco.  Did he know that our people, no matter which parish they attend, refuse to suffer the Milanese? I know what they say about them even if I choose to remain tight lipped on the gossip I hear. If he knew, if he knew, he would have remained in Verona. He ought to have remained in Verona… Why did he come? I have wanted to know, Antonio. As a young married woman I have wanted to know for years… Oh, that cursed January day when I first saw them. I tremble as I write for my mind is clouded with sorrow.

Antonio, it comes to me with clarity that my husband was forever changed when Francesco Visconti settled in our city.  As for me, I began to know a black curse. A veil had settled upon my heart the very day I first saw his wife and I knew at once that the happiness I had known would end.

Oh, that I had relented and permitted my sister to wed Giacomo in my stead. Oh, that I had closeted my lonely soul in a cold stone convent, sheltered from envy’s grip.  Oh, that I had cheapened my body like these unwanted Venetian women, these convent nonnes who oft sell their bodies for warmth and a little love from travelers. But I did none of these things. I clung to my sweetheart with the claws of a desperate heart. I chose to wed Giacomo Contarini. And now love would soon fail me, Antonio. For in the later years, I began to feel, there, there, its clutch round my heart, insipid and dark, I felt this jealousy as I’d never known before. And it had a face. Hers.

What is jealousy in a woman, inquisitor? You who have delved into the hearts of men and purged them from their errors. You would understand the dark matters that move us humans, perhaps better than priests. Do you know what jealousy can do to a woman, Signor da Parma? Men who laugh at our weakness would soon scorn and punish us if they knew to what ends we were driven by it.

The first time I saw them, it was at Mass.  Francesco Visconti and his wife, his cloak of scarlet velvet merely hiding the dire misery that had brought him to Venice, and the trail of her gown, black on the campo’s snow, like the stains she would soon wreak into my life. In the early days, they’d not yet settled in the parish of San Giacomo dell’Orio. They lived in a rented house in north Castello and visited the Church of San Lorenzo every Sunday. In manner of servants, they could afford little, save for one Armenian slave.

I remember that Giacomo’s wife never took part in the service, and remained outside, by the well. She said that the incense made her ill. She also did not engage the women of the parish and I understood it to be because she would soon join another. I did not begrudge her. It is difficult enough to make new friends in Venezia let alone to have to belong to two parishes.

I can still see her tall silhouette standing on the white pavement, peering into the well of the campo. She had the sort of grace that gives one chills. She was a woman of maybe thirty years. Her name was Magdalena. I do not relish describing to you what she looked like because it wrongs me to think again, of her charms. But did she have charms, you ask?

Magdalena, she had charms in abundance. Here, the women who light a flame in men’s hearts are the fairest of skin, they are those with noble high brows, long gold locks, a carmine mouth–neither too small nor too large–with a hint of crimson on their pale cheekbones. And still, even though she looked nothing like the ideal I have described, the Magdalena had charms. Not just the sort you were sure to find in her languorous dark eyes and carnal lips, or in the haunting perfume she left behind and which drove men to despair. There were charms of another sort, too, in the gold and silver of her bracelets and chains.

As for me, I likened the din of these metallic charms to a serenade from hell.  When the parish members congregated in the campo, gossiping of this and that, the noise grew thick around me. Still, I could hear her.  It was the metal round her wrists that rose me most. The incessant din of those chains drove me insane. I was tense through the parish meetings.

And long before Giacomo placed his hand on his heart when he saluted her after the service, I saw the knowing glint in his eyes when they first rested upon her. I knew its meaning just as I knew him on my wedding night.

I was not yet jealous. Not yet. I was foolish enough, then, to still believe in my own charms as his lawful wife. I would have permitted him daily visits to the brothels of Castello, if he so wished, in the belief that he loved me and that the dreams he built were for our happiness.

“Magdalena Visconti has very little of a Milanese woman,” I told my husband.

Even then, I spoke with gaiety. You may not know the Venetian well.  Still you would have heard what they say about our manners. How we can affect this gaiety even as we seethe and scheme and what not.  It is not for naught that even French diplomats think of us as duplicitous. A Venetian, Antonio, is not easily read. But I assure you that even then, I spoke without spite, and nothing my husband would say could shake my belief that I was the pride of his hearth, and that this newcomer, with all her gold and jewelry, was mere distraction for his curiosity.

“Magdalena is not a Milanese,” came his curt reply. “She is the Napoli woman I once told you about, Cara Catarina. The woman I met in Verona…”

The long forgotten Napoletana. And she had returned in his life. Why did my husband’s gaze falter under mine? And why do we women persist with questions that will not be answered. His response had lessened my confidence for a short instant. But only for a short moment.

In his fading voice, I sensed the melancholy weight of his memories. Fond of him as I was, I began to recall his adventure for him. Or else, I invented it, you might say. I closed my eyes to dwell on his past, daring to imagine his love for another. My handsome Giacomo of many years ago! I felt that I had known him, then, when he was a young student in Padua, preening himself in his club’s mismatched colored calza to visit the city of Verona, singing the Napoletana’s praises in verses or else quoting Francesco Petrarch, vying for the attention of a woman who would never be his.

It was foolish of me but I thought that I understood the wound he had suffered when she neglected his advances, laughed at his songs and in his stead, chose the fleshy Francesco Visconti. Before long, or so I had been told, Giacomo had to return to Venezia without her. My dearest. He must have known that their union would be forbidden, she, with little to give, in way of dowry, and him, forever despised by his conservative family for diluting the Contarini fortune to a Napoli family. Yet it had not stopped his heart. Giacomo had tried his hand at Magdalena and he had failed.

Had he nursed his wounds after all these years or did they remain, still, muted in time only to be exposed again by her provocative presence? I sensed the glimpse of a torment. Was he to become the Petrarch he had once quoted and, in turn, serenade Magdalena, as our renowned poet had edified Laura? Unrequited love? I dismissed that thought as foolish.

Even at that moment, when we took to our gondola where the Slav gondolier waited, I could have despised Magdalena. But I did not. I could have shielded any trace of jealousy beneath a cloak of morality and scorned her, right there, for repulsing his advances years ago. How easy it could have been to dislike her. If only because she had once wounded the man who was now my husband.

It befitted me that I took on his wound as my own.  I affected an offended air as I gripped his gloved hand and stepped aboard our wooden vessel. My poor Giacomo. How you suffered once! But even then, the felt barring me the touch of his skin sent a sudden chill to my soul. As though touching him would soon be forbidden.

We were now secluded in the privacy of our felze. We sat still with the drapes shut, savoring the warmth. The gondolier stepped to the stern and we were soon gliding along meandering paths, through the rios, along the many palaces of Castello, back toward our home.

The voices of Sunday’s parishioners grew distant, suspended in the cold mist of winter. I welcomed the respite. Magdalena’s presence haunted me no more. I could no longer hear the clink of her chains and bracelets. I drew my mantle close and heard myself whispering.

“She is with child,” I said, a taint of envy in my voice. I had only borne one son and Lorenzo was a fit boy of five now. The Napoletana’s belly had been ravishing, a tiny swell beneath the black brocaded velvet of her gown. Her breasts had been full, luscious and inviting. Even the lustrous locks of her unveiled black hair had attested to her ripened condition. An idea had formed in my mind that perhaps the gnawing in my chest was maternal envy. It soothed me to think that as soon as I could feel Giacomo’s seed grow in my belly, I would forget Magdalena.

He grasped my hands and brought them to his lips.

“I would like a little girl, Giacomo,” I whispered.

Yes, a little girl that I will call Giovanna, or in the child-like Venetian dialect, Zanetta. My womb aches at the memory of her.

We made passionate love that night. The instant we reached our bedroom, he tore off my ribboned sleeves and then my dress. I opened myself to him like never before, longing for the veiny shaft that he tore deep inside me, without once pausing to feel if I might be ready to take him.  His skin met mine, white against white, in a sweat, strands of my long red hair devilishly cloying to our bodies, or else spread across the linen sheets. We wrestled like animals.

I must tell you this, Antonio, how I felt that night. Even today, it haunts me. And if you doubt that Giacomo was anything less than a lover of women, then you are wrong. Abundant fluids surged from within me, almost instantly, at the touch of his hardened manhood. I clung to him, angrily, eager to possess him, thrusting my own hips forward to meet his seed which I wanted, ached for and demanded.

In our rhythmic embrace, punctuated by cries and moans such as those I never knew could rise from my being, I sensed a spark in him. Yes, Antonio, yes! It blinded me. It was, a vision, the vision of his secret lust as though I knew instantly what he sought most. And what he sought, what he wanted, teeth-clenched, sweat seeping through the hairs of his chest, was something that was denied to him. I sensed, that with every savage thrust he was inflicting on me, it was someone else that he were stealing and making his own.

And when he raised my thighs high above his shoulders and charged ravenously inside me as I cried, I gasped at the tension in his limbs. I knew it for what it was, hunger, rapacious, unsated hunger for the Napoli woman. And when he finally gave out and had poured his seed into my womb, I collapsed on our soaking sheets.

No sooner did he draw away from me than I saw the tension in his jaw, the furious desire that saw no end, even as his body no longer responded. I stared at him, as he lay, caressing my belly. I knew what I saw then, Antonio, in the dark glaze of his eyes. Something unsettling. An expression I shall never forget. It was a distant stare toward a man. One man. Francesco Visconti.

I had met my jealous husband for the first time in my life.

***

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Catarina Contarini

26 December 1422

Signora, such a delicate matter as the one you have shared cannot be presented to the Consiglio dei Dieci without considerable compromise to your propriety. It is well that you have trusted me with this confession. The details are a testament to the passion you have kept for your husband and the distress you felt at seeing him so distracted.

As for me, I would see your overtness as a burden were it not for the relief I discern in your tone. I rejoice, for you, Signora, for you have brought your story to the attention of another. It is often difficult to bear torment alone.

Antonio da Parma

The Giudecca Gardens

Journal of Antonio da Parma

26 December 1422

On the Feast of San Stefano, after the Contarini funeral, I finally set off to warn Lorenzo. I had not seen him since the day of the Winter Solstice.

He was irritated. He carried on about the brazen Francesco Foscari and how he hoped such a man would be strong enough to stand up to the Consiglio dei Dieci.

I understood that Lorenzo hid the real motive for his anger. In the span of days, he had suffered the rumors around Giacomo Contarini.  As Giacomo’s only heir, it fell upon him to preserve the honor of the Ca’ Contarini.  Given his private grudge toward his father, to be thrust into such a delicate position could only confound Lorenzo.

“Antonio, I know he was no saint. I can’t forgive that he never stopped spitting venom at the mention of my Daniela. I know what a selfish swine he has been and the thorn in my mother’s side and mine. But to accuse him of such a vile crime! Devil take them!”

“Did you know that Balsamo Morosini was guilty of sodomy?”

He balked.

“Balsamo Morosini could not keep his hands to himself. I heard it from my own sister. The vile animal was worse than Ubertino. At least Ubertino contained himself to the working classes. Balsamo would have abducted any heiress for both her dowry and his selfish pleasure.  He never forgot the slap he got from Zanetta. My spirited angel! We had a slave at that time… His name was Luca. He watched Balsamo carefully.”

He looked at me as though to gauge how much he could speak.

“Is it true?”

“What is true, Lorenzo?”

“The story that is circulating all over Castello. You think the Veneziani can keep themselves from gossip, avogadore? You need to remain in Venezia a while longer and you shall soon learn how one needs to excel at keeping secrets. They say Balsamo Morosini contracted an illness from the brothels.”

“A mortal illness, yes.”

His brows knotted.

“This does not help us.”

“No. It does not. Your father’s enmeshment with the Morosini has further fuelled the Consiglio’s moral accusations against both of them.”

“Damn them!”

He sent a savage kick into a stack of crates.

“I need to get out of here. I am suffocating, Antonio. The humid vapors do not suit me. I shall not remain a moment longer in this house. Will you join me for a drink in the Piazza, avogadore? I promise not to bore you.”

I nodded and draped myself again in my mantle. Lorenzo’s face lit up.

“To hell with Carnivale. I have a brilliant idea! Have you seen the Giudecca gardens, Antonio? You Tuscans are so proud of your rolling hills and blooming plains that you forget that Venezia, too, has its gardens. Giudecca it is, then! It is another world, so removed from the encroaching buildings and the stench of this city. There are few revelers there. You shall see.  The quiet is a blessing.  I will fetch us a gondolier at once.”

We left the Contarini apartments via the water door and descended along the rio into an alley. The sun was well hidden behind a church bell tower. We boarded a gondola. Our ride was smooth and mostly quiet. On a number of occasions, I sensed eyes upon our gondola, as though a presence were nearby, watching our every movements.

Ever since my two encounters with Esteban, I was wary of being followed.  I peered through the felze drapes, scrutinizing the paved calli as we meandered down Canal Grande. Before long, among the masked crowds, I had distinguished a familiar silhouette at every turn of our vessel. I followed the moving shadow as it leapt across wooden bridges and weaved a path through the crowds, only to resurface moments later. We had neared the Rialto where he now stood. On our passing, I leaned across to better see his face but he paused, draping himself in his dark mantle.

“What are you looking at?”

“I think we are being followed, Lorenzo.”

“Do not be absurd, Signor da Parma! What a bore you are! It is I who ought to be in mourning and sensing ghosts at every turn.”

My eyes ran the length of the bridge and across to the nearby stalls. The shadow was nowhere to be seen.

“There was a man in a black mantle…” I said, pointing toward the throbbing Rialto.

It was Lorenzo’s turn to lean across.  After a careful glance, he frowned.

“I see nothing.” He replaced the drapes and sat back. “And what if there was such a man? What of it? The only man I do not wish to see at this instant is my father. I half expect to sight his ghost whenever I call upon my Daniela.”

I shot him a meaningful glance.

“Your guilt plagues you,” I said.

He shrugged. He played with the cuffs of his camicia, refusing to meet my gaze.  For some time, I watched him chew nervously at his nails. When he broke the silence, he seemed surprised by his own admission.

“Antonio, can you believe it? I, the disciple of Petrarch, could it be? Could it be that I am beginning to miss my father? I dare say, I am,” he added, half-heartedly.

For the remainder of the journey to the Giudecca, he said no more. He laid back in the cabin, seemingly at ease.  Yet I sensed the worrisome knot upon his brow, like the burden of the Ca’ Contarini upon his young shoulders.

When we arrived in the Giudecca Gardens, I was pleasantly surprised. Silence reigned over an endless canopy of green.  There were rows and rows of olive trees lined with hedges that had been fashioned into various animal shapes. I perceived the soothing sound of gurgling fountains and inhaled the freshness of heavenly flower beds. Marble statues of Roman Gods and Goddesses were scattered at intervals, their faces solemn, as though guarding the sanctity of this lush realm.

In the middle of a path, edged with flowers, I came to a halt and stared quietly at a small statue depicting a two-faced God.

Lorenzo noted my appreciation for nature and responded in kind.

“You ought to have come to Venezia in the late spring, Antonio,” he remarked, pointing to the flowers.  “The scent of jasmine permeates the gardens. There are usually roses at this time too, and oh–the trees over there, are rich with fruit.”

“Do you come here often, Lorenzo?”

“I have no choice but to come here. This is where I meet with Daniela. She does not live too far from the gardens. There is a small Jewish community in the Giudecca, along with other foreigners. Daniela paints here sometimes. But mostly, she likes to write.”

“Ah. What does she write?”

I gazed at his impassioned face. He seemed about to burst with emotion.

“Poetry mostly. But Venezia is not kind to her. She would fare better in Bologna, where it is said that some women are able to pursue a university education.”

I derived such peace from these elegant gardens, that when I noted the dimming afternoon light, it was too late.  I perceived a flitting shadow behind the hedges but shrugged it off, convinced that these were tricks of the setting sun.  I had, until now, been so absorbed by our wondrous surroundings that I had forgotten to speak of more serious concerns.  I decided that it was time to reveal the purpose of my visit.

“Lorenzo, I believe you are in danger,” I began.

“What rich patrician isn’t? Really, Antonio da Parma, you are most endearing! One would think you see specters in every place. In danger, you say? I give you this–if I do not end up with my guts spilled out onto some calle, then…I still have Daniela! Daniela is the most dangerous woman in Venezia!” He made an absurd pirouette as though he had truly lost his mind. Then he turned to stare at me and his smile faded.

“Who is it? Name him.”

I breathed in.

“I heard it from an agent…someone who has ears for certain rumors in high circles.”

He seemed flattered by such unwanted attention.

“A mercenary? They sent a mercenary after me?”

“Perhaps. I would be careful if I were you, Lorenzo.”

“Damnation! A mercenary hired to cut out my heart!”

“Maybe so.”

“The Gods help me. What if it were true! Then I shall draw my sword and—“

Before he could finish, a masked figure stepped out from a nearby hedge. A chilling darkness seemed to envelop it as it stood ahead to bar our way. I realized to my great horror that there was not a soul in the garden, save for Lorenzo and I.

“Who goes there?” cried Lorenzo.  His hand had already dug into his mantle, as had mine. I gripped to my rondel in the dark.  There was a quiet understanding between us as we positioned ourselves to parry against the stranger.

Silence. The figure remained perfectly still. It was fully cloaked in a heavy mantle that seemed to be fashioned entirely of long leather strips. Beneath this coarse cape, he wore high leather boots fitted with metal strappings.

He stepped into the light. A glacial chill swept through me. I discerned the cruel outline of his lips and the chiseled lines of his sunken face. That face! I had seen that face! Two deep scars ran up each cheek and disappeared behind a black leather bauta.

The masked figure opened up his mantle. I felt a sharp pang in my chest. I counted five weapons affixed to his belt. Lorenzo had his sword and I had but one dagger. In a sweeping motion, the mercenary had raised his sword.  He held it forth with his two hands, pointing it at Lorenzo.

We leapt at him, each of us making pitiful attempts to block him. At every attack, we met the force of his blade and were propelled off guard. Upon my last advance, he struck at my face with his bare hand.  I felt the prod of a boot behind my knee and before I knew it, he had sent me flat upon my back. Blood gushed through my nose instantly.  I rose, undeterred, as Lorenzo prepared another strike from the side. The patrician knew how to handle his weapon but his attacker was fast and had already spun about to meet him. I had never seen such rapid footwork. Our attacker’s steadiness unsettled me and his confidence was alarming. Lorenzo struggled.

“Lorenzo, to your left!”

Lorenzo spun. The stranger’s blade whipped through the air, narrowly sparing Lorenzo. I sprung upon the leather-clad man, but in a single stride, he had blocked me.  He now held me in an elbow grip and twisted my arm behind my back.  Lorenzo struck with his sword, only to be met with a forceful blade.

As for me, I was released, spared from a dislocated joint. I gripped to my arm in pain.

Ignoring me, the stranger turned his attention to Lorenzo. In one vicious arm lock, Lorenzo was held back and pinned to the ground. He gritted his teeth and I knew he would not endure for long. I groped around for my fallen dagger.  Having regained it, I rose to my feet and came stumbling behind Lorenzo’s attacker. He faced me with a sneer, before disarming me with one fierce grip. Before I knew what was happening, he had also sent a savage kick into my stomach. I buckled forth, barely breathing.

Through my blurred vision, I saw that the mercenary had applied a masterful block to Lorenzo’s neck. The patrician was tossed off his feet. Coming to, he swept his long locks off his face and stared at the man in black, his lips quivering.

“Do you know who I am, Signore?” he pronounced, as he got up.

In all response, the attacker pressed a gloved hand upon Lorenzo’s face. He dug his fingers into the young man’s eyes, while pointing a blade at his pulsating neck.

I gaped at the whimpering Lorenzo.  I was certain that he would be dead in an instant but nothing happened. The patrician remained in a lock, trembling like a leaf, as his opponent merely breathed heavily in his face, threatening to gouge his eyes out. The blade was pushed further against Lorenzo’s neck.

“Lorenzo!”

To my horror, a trickle of blood surfaced on the patrician’s collar.

My vision blackened. The large wings of a red bird were spread before me, clapping against the air.  A velvet-cloaked figure thrust itself before Lorenzo’s attacker, brandishing his Aragonese rapier.  Lorenzo was no sooner released, that he collapsed unconscious onto the floor. I watched, partly relieved, as the black-clad assassin stood back, his footwork nimble, ready to par Esteban’s attack.

The bravo seemed to be calculating. He carefully raised a dagger from his boot. Even with his two weapons, he seemed hesitant.  He eyed his opponent, shifting from guard to guard. His voice was indignant when he spoke.

“Fior di Battaglia! Ma perché?”

There was no answer.  Only a defiant silence. I edged closer and could better discern under the moonlight, the jaws and lips of this stranger who had raised Esteban’s ire.  Even with his bauta, what I glimpsed was enough to stir a recollection. It was as though, for an instant, I had recognized the man, but I was too frightened to pay heed to my own thoughts.

The assassin stared a moment longer at the Catalan bravo and then Esteban leapt at him, fierce and vengeful, unveiling a sword play of equal caliber.  In a frenzied attack, the Aragonese blade countered and was itself countered.  The man in the leather mantle fought with a deathly iciness. While his strikes were brutal, all appeared child’s play to him.  He seemed invincible. Even as the two scarmitors engaged in joint locks and binds, grappling at each other’s limbs and evading each other’s grips, the stranger’s lips were lifted into a mocking sneer.  It was as though he could read each and every one of Esteban’s ensuing moves.

At last, Esteban removed his mantle and wielded it as a shield. With the aid of this cape, he managed to cleverly veil and disarm his opponent. But this one was only just beginning. He drew out two daggers, then raising them, he stepped forth in deep strides. We stared at him, unsure of what he would do. Esteban watched, ready to strike, but the stranger did not budge.  His two blades glistened in the dark.

Then his accented voice broke the silence, sending shivers through me.

“I am the noble weapon named the dagger,” he recited. “One who plays at very close range.” In swift footwork, he closed tight toward Esteban, crossing his two blades before him. “And he who understands my malice and my art, will also gain knowledge of many other weapons.”  He nodded at Esteban. “Fior di Battaglia,” he said, his lips curling into a smile.

In one swift kick, the stranger regained his fallen sword. He seized it in mid-air and re-sheathed it, still holding his daggers in one hand.

“The name is Malek, Signori. Remember that,” he said.

Before Esteban could respond, the assassin turned. As suddenly as he had appeared, he retreated into the darkness, the leather of his mantle whipping the air in his wake.

“Perché?” roared Esteban.

But the sound of Malek’s boots was lost, dispelled by the breeze’s ruffling of trees.

Esteban stood in silence. I sensed that he was as troubled as I was. He had asked, ‘but why’, as though he was offended and deeply frightened by our assailant.

“What if he returns?” I asked, nearing his side.

“He will not. As odd as it may seem, he was not hired to murder,” he said, still eyeing the shadow, long after it had been swallowed by the rising mist.

“I am glad of that. I may have just come face to face with the most dangerous swordsman that ever walked the islands of Venezia. I feared for my life and for the life of my young friend.” I glanced at Esteban without bothering to veil my gratitude. “If you, Signore, had arrived a moment later, who knows what may have happened.”

Esteban considered my words.  He nodded, before sheathing his sword and dagger.

“You did well to take note of his swordsmanship, Signor da Parma. That very thought crossed my mind–that he cuts and thrusts with seeming intent to kill. His methods are swift. His approach is deadly. His feints are deceit incarnate. But rest assured. His intention was not to kill. At least…not this time.” He cast a worried glance in Lorenzo’s direction. “Frighten you perhaps…” he added. “Let us have a look at your friend.”

I leaned over Lorenzo and cut a strip of my camicia to bind the wound on his neck. The gash was not deep. Esteban was right. Lorenzo would come out unscathed but with great fright. The patrician had not yet recovered his spirits. The emotions had taken their toll on the young man.

“You said he was not hired to kill us. What if he had wanted to? Would you possess the skills to stop him?”

“No,” cut Esteban. “I am of the Dardi School. The man you saw has been trained by a master, one who has taught Knights and nobles alike. I know of only one school with that footwork and the manner he positioned himself from guard to guard. And if I am right, then it astounds me that the late Fiore Dei Liberi would have consented to teach his Art of Arms to a mercenary. Let us place more pressure on his arm,” he added, speaking of Lorenzo. “Here. We shall lift him and take him to the edge of the gardens.”

Mirroring Esteban, I placed Lorenzo’s other arm around my shoulder and between us, we dragged Lorenzo’s limp figure through the garden lanes and to the lagoon bank.

“Master Dei Liberi’s armizare is strictly private,” continued Esteban. “His art has remained a secret.  Even I have not seen his wrestling manual. But Fior di Battaglia is a rare and fine treatise. I met a Bavarian nobleman, once, who had been taught by Dei Liberi. He told me that the master instructed only deserving nobles, those who would protect the innocents and not misuse their knowledge for dubious ends. The man who attacked you both is a Dalmatian mercenary. He seethes in the dark and probably fights only for ducats. That one such as he would have acquired the Liberi technique astounds me. I do not understand.”

I grew somber at Esteban’s words.

“If as you say, he was trained against the Liberi principles, then what if Dei Liberi had been coerced to instruct him?”

Esteban shot me a quick glance. I could see he had considered the same thing.

“And if this be true,” I pressed on, adjusting Lorenzo’s weight, “the Dalmatian is not himself a free man. He only obeys orders.”

“Whoever orders a man like Dei Liberi must have great power.”

I bit my lips and Esteban at once sensed my restless spirit.

“Ask me the question, Antonio da Parma. Ask it. I can sense how it burns your lips.”

“You are mistaken. I’ve nothing to ask.”

Esteban shook his head. “You want to know who hired him. It is plain to see.”

“That is already answered,” I replied with bitterness. “Only the Consiglio dei Dieci could manage to stage such a masquerade.”

Esteban seemed to rejoice at my admission. “Though I ignore the reason,” I added. “And now, they have successfully frightened Lorenzo. The Signora Contarini will be white with fear when she learns of this.” The cold air of the approaching canal singed at my face. “But not me,” I said.

Esteban managed to turn his head to the side and stared at my determined expression. His bright eyes shone like gems under the moonlight.

“A more pressing question, Esteban,” I continued, not bothering to hide my vexation, “is whether I am likely to encounter you again. You seem to have an intense investment in my whereabouts. Let’s see–I have so far met you in San Polo, later in Santa Croce and now, here, in the Giudecca gardens, of all places. You must not be surprised, then, if I am at all confounded at what seems to be your remarkable talent for doubling up as my shadow.”

Upon hearing this, and much to my dismay, Esteban tilted his head back and emitted a healthy resounding laughter that all but stirred each leaf in the garden. Lorenzo strangely did not wake. We continued down to the edge of the gardens, me looking askance to see whether Esteban would finally reply to my challenge, and him, humming in the cooler air as we approached the canal.

Finally as we waited for a gondolier to oar in our direction, Esteban had the sensibility to offer me a reply.

“I would not want you to come to harm, Antonio da Parma. You are the only man who can help me. Someone with your knowledge of the law, documents… I have already told you what I want. Venezia owes me.”

“I would attempt a visit to the chancellery to retrieve your documents in a legal manner, but my welcome there is dubious,” I said, remembering my last outburst in the Consiglio dei Dieci chamber. “To come to your aid, Esteban, it seems to me that I would need to break into the chancellery and steal from the Venetians. You wish me to betray the confidence of the men who have hired me. And you will not cease from appearing unexpectedly at my side until I have considered your offer. You certainly have strange ways. For all I know, Esteban, you could be hiring those mercenaries yourself!”

“You do not truly believe this,” he said. But his voice was grave and he seemed offended.

I gazed at the gondola’s silhouette in the distance. “You are right. I do not.”

“I feel we are beginning to understand each other, Signor da Parma,” smiled Esteban. I noted the gleam of his teeth in the darkness. I ignore how he managed to smile even at moments like this, when everything I believed seemed to be illusion. The case I had been given grew more obscure every day.

We pushed Lorenzo inside the gondola. I handed a few coins to the oarsman and gave him instructions toward the Contarini household in Castello. To safeguard the young Veneziano’s honor, I explained that our young friend had met with a thug and had fought valiantly before dropping with exhaustion; that he was only to be stirred when he returned home.

“How fares your inquest, Signor da Parma?” asked Esteban once the gondolier was out of earshot.  “Have you extracted the information you sought from Signora Contarini?”

“I saw her two days ago, before the funeral. She was emotionally distraught and spoke with great incoherence. I fear that her mind is suffering.”

“To lose one loved one is a tragedy.  But to lose two loved ones is a curse,” replied Esteban. “Poor woman.”

I nodded pensively. And then a sudden discomfort seized me just as an idea formed in my mind.  I ignored what Catarina would think once her son narrated his attack, but I soon began to understand, that if the Consiglio had at all hired their man of arms merely to frighten Lorenzo, then all along, Esteban and I had been wrong. Lorenzo was not the victim of some political ploy.  He was the pawn in a game. For reasons I could not explain, I had a nauseating notion that, somehow, the game was to frighten Catarina.

I began to contemplate the ways of the Consiglio dei Dieci. A sense of resentment more furious than before had risen in me. It dawned on me that Esteban might not be theorizing conspiracies for the joys of rebelling against the Signoria. Then perhaps it was true and Almoro Donato was hiding something. But what? And what designs was I playing into?

Esteban’s Story

Esteban’s story

From an entry in Antonio da Parma’s journal

Late into the night, after deserting the Giudecca Gardens, I sat with Esteban in a quiet tavern in Dorsoduro and together we mulled over his past over a few glasses of Tuscan wine.

“What you saw,” began Esteban, “the skills I possess with the cape and dagger and even my bare arms–I owe all to my master, Gaspar Miguel Rivera. He was a father and teacher to me.  He saw that I would be trained in swordsmanship and close-quarter combat. And yes, he too was taught by none other than Lippo Bartolomeo Dardi now at the University of Bologna. Everything he learned of Dardi, he passed onto me— the knowledge of his secret feints, the use of my cape as a shield and clever tricks that only a few will ever possess both in the military and in the treacherous calli of Venezia.

“I owe much of my learning and my courage to Gaspar Rivera. If you had met me as a child, Signor da Parma, you would not have dreamed of seeing me so fierce as I am now. At the age of twelve, I was a skinny orphan, pilfering what food I could from the port of Barcelona while the notaries grew fat on the estates I was not to touch until I turned fifteen.

“My own mother before she died had been a descendant of an old kingdom which the Berbers, her slavers, once called Ghana—a place rich with gold. Unlike me, she was born into slavery. Her ancestors served at the Andalusian courts for over hundreds of years. A few of them found themselves in Barcelona after the fall of Cordoba. She nursed me with legends and songs for the blissful years of my childhood.

“Love is a wonderful thing, Antonio da Parma. And as she loved me, her master, too, loved her. He declared her a free woman upon my birth and I was then, from the start, a free man.

“I have only ever known freedom. But freedom from fear, that was a gift which much later, Gaspar would teach me. He used to say that I had inherited the meekness of my slave mother and did not know what to do with such freedom; that I was embarrassed of it. That somewhere in the inner workings of my soul, I believed I had done nothing to deserve the rights that so many men take as theirs without doubting.  I had remained a humble soul, fearful of my shadow and too bony at the knees to fend for my own self.

“But take this. I was rich. Immensely rich. For my mother’s master had truly been in love with her. And every estate they possessed before the plague took them, was to be mine.

“Alas, by virtue of my youth and ignorance of life, I was soon prey to notaries who gathered round me like greedy vultures. And it was at this time that I met Gaspar Miguel Rivera.

“You must imagine the towering figure of a man who stood before me, at the port that day. Before our encounter, he had been one of the best condottieri there was at the battle of Chiogga. An illustrious Catalan captain, he had first served on the side of the Genoans, sworn fiends of the Veneziani. At the pivotal point in the battle, the Veneziani managed to buy him. Gaspar Rivera was lured and wooed. He was asked to defect from his Genoan loyalties. And since the Veneziani desired his loyalty for life, Gaspar Rivera was offered a life contract.

“That is unheard of, I know. The majority of the contratta d’assento last up to six months on a renewable clause. But they wanted him and they certainly did not wish him to change sides once more. The offer needed to be generous. How could it not?

“Imagine the prize of having such a man serve the Republic. Along with the Venetian tongue, Gaspar spoke Catalan, Castilian and a little Arabic. He knew Sicilian by virtue of his wife who was of the house of Aragon and relations in the Kingdom of Sicily.  Later, while learning the Dardi arts in Bologna, in a time when the city was held by the Visconti of Milan, he learned the Milanese tongue.

“Well-traveled, a skilled swordsman with or without armor, Gaspar Rivera was a perfect linguist and an adept scarmitor. He was unequal in his command of ships. He would not have accepted to offer his services to Venezia, save that the contract was much in his favor. Or so he thought.

“The contratta d’assento was drawn and Gaspar embarked upon his duties, revealing much of the Genoese weaknesses to the Venetian admiral, Carlo Zeno. As you know, Carlo Zeno’s arrival at a key point in the battle ensured the Venetian victory of 1380. But I wonder if our hero could have achieved what he did without men like Gaspar Rivera.

“The two became friends yet they were unlike each other. When he was not commanding his eighteen galleys and raiding Mediterranean ports, Carlo Zeno was a womanizer and an inveterate drunk.

“Gaspar was Carlo’s complete opposite. When not fulfilling his mercenary duties and waging battles at sea, he delighted in poetry, philosophy reading in Arabic and writing to his beloved Aragonese wife.

“But I come to the turn of his life. For some reason, the immense wealth and rewards that his contract promised were to be fully honored at his old age, not earlier. This arrangement was deemed necessary, since in that time, he would have been too old to defect again.

“For a few years following Chiogga, Gaspar did well for himself.  He returned to Bologna and lived there with his wife, taking up arms at intervals to hunt defectors, according to the terms of his contract. But in 1400, when the plague struck once more, work was lacking and he soon found himself penniless. He decided to return to Barcelona, his birth city, in search of a more stable source of income.

“I must digress here, Antonio, and tell you of another side to Gaspar. Because men like him, often, are so much more than what they seem.

“While in Bologna in 1386, he had met another Catalan like himself, a Franciscan friar of the name Anselm Turmeda. Anselm was a theologian, well versed in physics and astrology.  They became friends and met regularly over the span of a year, until Anselm suddenly became reclusive and Gaspar did not see him for months. Worried by his friend’s silence, Gaspar made enquiries. Imagine, then, his surprise upon hearing that Anselm had not only left Bologna to settle in Tunis, but that he had deserted his Franciscan frock and converted to the Saracen faith.”

“Anselm Turmeda became a Mohammedan!” I said, nearly choking on my wine.

“Aye, he did. He converted. I see that this displeases you.”

“I know nothing of the Mohammedan faith. But fickleness in one’s chosen religion is a sign of a feeble mind.”

“Tis not fickleness, Antonio, when one learns of what he is and is awakened by that notion.  Gaspar described it as being born anew.”

“Continue your tale,” I said, dismissing our opposing views.

“So where was I?  Before he arrived in Barcelona, Gaspar visited Anselm in Tunis.  Again, he was stupefied. Not only did he find his old friend in good health and living among four beautiful women, but he learned that Anselm had been made vizier of Tunis. Gaspar was struck by what he saw there.  He felt as though he had long been sleeping and that the world were much larger and more fascinating than he’d ever imagined. This gave him an exciting idea, one that would pave the way for how he would live for the rest of his life. The only problem was that he had no funds to execute this idea.

“You can see, now, how he found me. I would provide him with the funds he lacked.

“And now, Antonio, before I bore you to tears, you may like to sip again at your wine and slowly draw your mind out of the souks and mosques of Tunis—which I can see, you struggle to fathom—and transport yourself into the port of Barcelona. Ah, this, this, you must try to imagine! How I miss it, even now.

“For a hundred years, Barcelona’s Drassanes Reials, what you would call Royal Shipyards, has had a distinct reputation. They say it can build forty galleys at once, and if you doubt, then you are a fool. It sits proudly at the foot of Montjuic, besides the city walls. A grand view indeed, especially arising from the sea. One would have to be soulless to remain impassive before its Gothic arches and its majestic stone pillars. What a sight!

“I am fond of Venezia’s Arsenalotti and the pride they take in their own shipyard in Castello, but whenever I pine for Barcelona, I say to them, ‘You have your Arsenale, people of Venezia, and I have my Drasssanes.’

“And I was there, on that day, making a living on the decks, toiling as hard as I could in the construction of galleys. I told you of the notaries, Antonio, but there were others, those who sense the fortune of others and who do not hesitate to apply cunning to appropriate themselves of what is not theirs.  For months already, before I turned fifteen, they prowled around me with their unsound venture offers. Uneducated and uncertain of my own judgment, I was at risk for losing my rightful inheritance.  And that is when Gaspar found me.

“In truth, he was not a complete stranger. I’d had glimpses of him times before, on the port.  I had seen him stand back while men spoke with me of their splendid ideas for enterprise and joint ventures.  When they had retired, Gaspar would casually stand in their way and all but threaten them, with one hand on his sword.  I could not hear what was said but it was always the same. Before long, the men would gesture loudly, meet his words with what appeared to be denial, then anger, and then at last, with fear. They would shrivel back and raise their hands in supplication as though to appease the seasoned captain and I wondered what Gaspar must be telling them. I saw by their distressed countenance that Gaspar had hit a nerve with each of these men, and soon, one by one, they stopped bothering me.

“I observed all this with great curiosity, pausing from my chores to wipe my brow and stare at him in the distance, when I thought he was not looking. I knew Gaspar bided his time and wanted, just like the others, to speak with me.

“And then that day came. On this instance, he strode along on the dock. He wasted no time. Before I could blink, he had laid out his idea to me. Dumbstruck as I was, I listened. Gaspar’s charisma took my breath away.  At first, I resisted his power, not because his words displeased me, but because Gaspar’s confidence, his unflinching gait, his allure on the port, everything about him reminded me of my own shortcomings.

“I remember how I stared at him. He was dressed entirely in red. He had much presence with his tall red hat. I was awed by the dignity of his high collar and finely pleated cioppa. Fitted round his hose and reaching up to his enormous knees, were the largest, pointiest boots I had ever seen. Oh Antonio, I wondered how an armor could contain such a man.

“And he went on. For all his bravado, I can still remember the fragile glimmer of hope in his eyes.  I think he must have practiced his little speech many times before confronting me. He spoke with verve, telling me of things that sounded unimaginable; that we should become partners, that he would take me away to Venezia where he would manage my affairs for the growth of our enterprise, and that he would provide me with an education to make me the man I was destined to be. Antonio, I dared not imagine that destiny held anything in store for me.

“I replied in the foolish manner of an orphaned boy. Firstly, I said, I did not partner with any stranger and secondly, I had no need for an education, seeing as I lived next to the greatest naval force in the world.

“There was a moment of silence. I remember that Gaspar Rivera’s jaw dropped a little. Suddenly he raised his hands to his hips and rocked back just as a loud laugh resounded from his belly.  ‘You shall come with me to Venice and see for yourself,’ he roared, ‘what the greatest naval power in the world really looks like! Gaspar is a man of his word.’  Somewhat vexed, I told him that I would think over it.

“You must understand, Antonio, what it was like to have lived among white men, men who differed from me. After the loss of my mother, I had no sense of myself. I was not even convinced of my own truth.  The real reason for my reticence in the face of Gaspar’s proposition was that I was afraid of everything I had not known.

“And it turned out, as I realized later, that what frightened me most was the immense kindness of this stranger. Kindness, Antonio, is like a dagger for those who doubt in themselves.

“I stood in the distance, sizing up the powerful man before me.  As he laughed again, his white beard protruded forth and his thick eyebrows became alive.  He was like a giant among men. He stood straight, one hand upon the hilt of his rapier, with the commanding presence of a real captain, which he was. He had lost his Catalan accent and his voice was a pleasant blend of the tongues he knew. I could tell from the soft waves in his gray hair that he was in his early fifties.

“I recovered promptly. I told him that I had no intention of leaving Barcelona. I added, a little unconvincingly, that I, Esteban del Valle, was a free man and that if he sought to make me his slave and use me to his ends, he was barking at the wrong tree.

“I could see that he was hurt by my words. He ceased laughing. His smile faded as he inclined his head to the side, caressing his beard in silence. For a moment, he merely looked at me in dismay, perhaps wondering what I had seen in my life to engender such thoughts.

“Finally he spoke and I remember his words to this day.  ‘Esteban, I am a man of honor. I will free you from the vultures that call themselves your lawyers and you and I will live well. I ask only that you become my partner in trade. What I offer you is a great life of adventure and an opportunity to learn much more than you ever will in Barcelona. You will fund our enterprise, and in return, I will take you to lands you have never seen, I will split our profits equally and you shall inherit everything I possess upon my death. I believe that is fair. And that is not all. A free man must have a sword to protect his wealth and honor, lest he become a pawn for the less scrupulous to prey on.  Help me to realize the dream I have cherished and I will make you the finest swordsman in Venezia. With or without a sword, I will teach you to foil the plans of those that would dupe you.’

“I looked askance at the condottiere’s fine sword and licked my lips. I had seen mercenaries at the port in my childhood and while I shuddered at the thought of war, I longed to seize one of these beautiful weapons and learn their secret arts. But I was still hesitant. ‘You seem a little old to speak with such temerity,’ I said.

“‘Aha! But you are wrong, my young friend. I am a pupil of Dardi. One of the greatest masters in Bologna. His knowledge of the martial arts is a privilege to possess. Age is no hindrance to my swordsmanship.’

“I squirmed and rubbed my cheek nervously.  ‘Why me?’ I was convinced that Gaspar Rivera could not possibly want an inexperienced boy as his trade partner. ‘I do not belong in Venice,’ I added. It was a lie. I knew from a young age that, in truth, I did not belong anywhere. Barcelona was my home but I had long felt a sense of my own difference. Only in the arms of my mother, whose gentle humming of Arabic tunes had soothed my cries for more nights than I could remember, did I feel a belonging, one that had since eluded me.

“Gaspar warmed to my fears. He gave me a friendly tap on the shoulder. ‘In Venezia Esteban, masks are worn almost every day. If it is your face that haunts you, and yet, I cannot see why it would, then rest assured that you may conceal it as you please. But money, Esteban,’ he said, resting his eyes firmly upon me. ‘Money is everything in Venezia. Understand, that in the Republic, a man’s worth in the eyes of others is governed by only one thing. And that, Esteban, in our age, is the Veneziano ducat. Mark my words. Your fate shall be glorious.’

“Now you may wonder what he saw in me and how he chanced upon the knowledge of my wealth.  That is not the purpose of my tale. But at this point in his life and ever since his extraordinary voyage to Tunis, Gaspar Rivera had acquired an unparalleled desire to see the world as far as the Levant. It was as though he were impelled by a great force of the universe and no one could stop him.

“But I’ve not told you, Antonio, of the venture we set out to build for the next fifteen years.  Fifteen years, during which we submitted to Venezia’s taxes and at last, became rightful citizens.  Gaspar had the idea to hire a brig and set up a small merchant enterprise that would, in time, double as a tour guide for escorting pilgrims. Until we became citizens, we would be unprotected by the muda and at the mercy of pirate attacks.  The success of our endeavor hinged on funds, but Gaspar had nothing to his name. He had spoken to the compagnia who held his contract.  They had agreed to his usage of a brig that would eventually become his, but protection and maintenance of the crew and the creation of his merchant enterprise required more ducats than he could afford.  That is where my wealth was a blessing.

“And that is how I sailed along the pilgrim routes, as far as Candia, Corfu, Cyprus, Ragusa and then on to Jaffa and Egypt. Once in Jaffa, the pilgrims could take a mule onto Jerusalem.

“Once, I asked Gaspar about the nature of his desires. ‘What do you feel when you shore up on another land?’

“He replied this. ‘In truth, I have lived too long in an armor. To be defenseless, to let oneself be vulnerable to other men’s beliefs and mores, this is a joy. Esteban, when we are not at sea, I see that you have developed a taste for the masks of Venezia. Every day, I note your ever growing love for the parody of silks and velvets. We have been, now, twelve years together. I have seen you grow into the man you are and still, you elude me. Who are you really behind your masks? Perhaps in the little life I have left, I will discover it. But it matters little. One day, no doubt, you shall find yourself. That is what matters. You shall recognize yourself as an entity that exists beyond the fabrics and costumes that you use unsparingly, beyond the endless painted faces that have shielded your own.  And when you find yourself, it will be possible for you to lose yourself. At the present, for me, it is the same. In losing myself to another’s land, I experience a delicious self-effacement, over and over again, and ultimately I rejoice in a sense that we, all of us in this world, share an essence that transcends beyond our diverse ways. I find this human essence immensely comforting. Do you understand, Esteban?’

“And that was Gaspar Rivera. A man like you have never met,” said Esteban as he sighed.

“How then, did he find the time to fulfil his contract if he was taken by pilgrim tours and trade,” I remarked, fascinated by his story.

Esteban looked grim.

“I come to it. For years, I noted that Gaspar often absented himself for days on various ports. I never questioned him until much later when I discovered that he had planned his itinerary for a dual purpose.  It soon became clearer to me to what intent he set out on foot in those foreign ports, alone, without a word, only to return days later, broken, his eyes haggard behind a veil of terror.  He would sit listless at the bridge, looking out to sea, his hands still trembling.  I never asked questions because every time he saw me, he broke into a smile and nodded. If in that smile, there was love, I did not know of it but, Antonio, I always felt reassured when I saw it. Gaspar’s spirit was the spirit of our brig. And when we sailed, we may as well have flown.

“But Gaspar’s spirits were to be broken. First in Corfu, then in Candia, I saw him return on the ship with blood upon his shirt and sword. And I learned of why.  I learned of his secret. The navy, it seemed, had always had good use of him, even as he set sail with the pilgrims. The Venetian navy had even sent him as far as the Levant. Why, you ask? To hunt down and assassinate those men they could no longer trust. He was their henchman. On occasion, the compagnia even carried out the evil designs of the Consiglio dei Dieci.  The arms of the Consiglio dei Dieci reach out further than Venezia, Antonio.  The enemies of the Republic cannot hide. Run, exile yourself, they will find you. You look surprised. Don’t be.”

“Why did Gaspar not break his bond with the compagnia, if it tormented him so?”

Esteban reflected for a moment. A veil of sadness passed across his face. I watched him down the last of his wine before he responded.

“They owned him. All of him.  If he abided to this cruel contrata d’assento, it was not for greed.  Gaspar survived, marrying what he loved with a duty he had soon learned to hate.  And he did it because if he were to rescind the contrata, he would have lost everything and failed his financial promise to me. Had he not fulfilled his duty, the young urchin from Barcelona would have found himself penniless, preyed upon by just another vulture.  Now you see, don’t you? Gaspar honored his duty because he owed me, Antonio.  And again, I understood this only too late.

“But there is more.  Three years before his death, there was a lightness to him. He told me how happy he was.  He said that he had secretly declined to murder a man suspected of spying on the Republic.  He had warned him and helped his escape. He told me he had never once felt so pleased with himself.  Alas, the compagnia learned of it.  They did not act upon it, but they bided their time. When Gaspar died, he never received what was due to him. They are claiming ignorance of the contrata d’assento. It is like the document never existed. They have refused to cede the brig and the ducats they owe him. His fight has become my fight. My only recourse, now, is the copy lodged within the palace chancellery. Antonio, will you find it for me?”

I bit my lips.

“I could not. If I did, I would be in breach of my services to the Signoria.”

“You need not fear for your life, Antonia da Parma. But would you be prepared to do this?”

I chose to ignore his question. At the present, it was I who felt betrayed by the Consiglio. I was prey to a growing doubt and a fear that it was certainly they who had dispatched the assassin from the gardens.

“I cannot give what you want, Esteban,” I replied firmly.

Esteban seemed taken aback, but as always, I could not read his masked face.  And yet, I had a sense that he was staring right at my neck where the pendant lay and which, at this very moment, felt hot on my skin.

“It is late,” he said at last. “Perhaps we should speak of pilgrims and faith the next time we meet.”  He handed me a card with the name of a restaurant in the Piazza, finished his ale and then walked out without uttering another word.

I glimpsed by his silence that Esteban was still thinking of the chancellery and of my refusal.  I also saw that he would not give up until I had accepted to help him.

Catarina’s Torment

Letter from Catarina Contarini to Antonio da Parma

27 December 1422

After my first encounter with Magdalena, I redoubled in my efforts to have Giacomo’s child, fearful of losing him. I consulted healers, sickened myself with sweetmeats and took in herbal concoctions to aid pregnancy. My efforts were in vain. A few weeks later, I learned that I was already pregnant. Soon, my child was growing inside me, reminding me of my husband’s love and the life we were creating together.

My jubilance did not last.

In the months that followed, I overheard that Magdalena and Francesco had settled in Santa Croce. They had made the parish of San Giocomo dell’Orio their home and it was said that they were rarely seen attending the sermons. And one day I had a curious conversation with one of the ladies at mass.

“Cara mia! Catarina, you are a showing already! I am pleased for you,” she cajoled as she reached to feel the small bump below my waist.

This pregnancy was easier than when I first bore Lorenzo at sixteen. I felt stronger and more confident. In truth, my determination to carry this child to its birth was spurred on by my rival.  I glowed with pride as my friend went on. The women in the parish were overly supportive as they had heard of my miscarriage the year before. They gifted me with printed images that would inspire a healthy birth.  I soon beheld prints, set in gilded frames. They depicted the Madonna and the Child, or else golden-lock angels cavorting in the heavens.

“Pray that your little child is as beautiful as these dear babies. Keep these images close to you in every room of your house, and look upon them. Keep away from gargoyles and all ugliness. Do not, in your state, touch your husband’s dogs or look upon their beastly faces. Your mind must behold beauty daily, Catarina, so that your child may be as precious.”

“You are no longer young, you must be careful. Do not exert yourself, Catarina. Remember to rest and keep to your bed in the coming months. I hear the Napoli woman is out in the streets of San Polo in her seventh month. She is depraved.”

One word about Magdalena and my curiosity stirred.

“She sets out alone?”

“Accompanied at all times by her gondolier, Maffeo, but she never rests. She is mingling for a trade, they say. Speaking to the wives of each guild leader; doing what she can to save her husband’s honor. I overheard from a friend that a lace maker in Burano is her latest acquaintance. They say she is helping her husband with his new enterprise.  God help us if we now must commerce with a Napoletana.”

My voice rose in indignation.

“But surely she must tire herself. Does she not care for her unborn child?” I scorned.

“It appears not. The woman is possessed. Up early and in the Rialto from the early hours. To hear the way she carries on with one errand after another, one would think her womb is dry,” she went on.

The morality in her tone gave me instant comfort. It pleased me that the women in my parish, my world, found fault in Magdalena. It never occurred to me, in that moment, that my fascination with Magdalena might be fuelled by jealousy.

There was much to reproach in the Napoli woman’s reticence for attending mass and her refusal to remain at home while with child. What sort of a woman would do this? Only one with a dubious morality. Still, with every visit to mass, I admit that I grew more and more curious about her.

My curiosity was not the only thing that had risen. I was passionately in love with Giacomo. At thirty-one, he was in his virile prime. He had grown a stately beard to mourn the loss of our second child last year and had since not reverted to his clean shaven appearance. I loved the way the hair on his temple met with his beard like a classic Greek God. I was discovering an increasing desire to lay with him. Often, I would watch his naked shoulders. I would sense a rising heat between my thighs and I longed for him to take me.  I know what you will think, avogadore. It is a mortal sin to seek pleasure and chastity is a virtue. Why would I lie with my husband when I was already with child? You must understand my position in those days. I had seen desire in his eyes for another woman and every occasion I had to prove to myself that this desire was for me, I took it.  In the first three months of pregnancy, we made love almost every day, sometimes twice a day.

Each time, I saw in him the same renewed energy that I had witnessed following our first meeting with the Visconti. But as the months went past, I found him to be less responsive.

“We should perhaps let you rest. We may do harm to the child,” he would say.

Often, I succeeded in reassuring him that the child was strong in me and that all was well. This was true. I did not suffer from nausea or tenderness as I had with Lorenzo. And so he would relent.

But in the fourth month, Giacomo told me he would not lay with me until the child was born.  I was hurt.  In my bitterness, I found myself more and more fascinated with Magdalena. It was an anxious need to know all there was about her.

I attempted to keep my interest subtle so as not to raise suspicion. Had anyone suspected that I saw Magdalena as my rival, my pride would have been damaged. No one knew of Giacomo’s past love affair with Magdalena. They all assumed she was a complete stranger to me.  I wanted to keep it that way.

In the parish meetings, I heard that the candle light in the Visconti home had been seen numerous times to burn during late hours and that both her and her husband were at work well into the night. What were they up to?

“They have purchased an old atelier. They are planning to create masks,” had insisted the oldest lady in the parish as though it were an outrage. “One would think there is enough obsession with Carnivale in this city without strangers further encouraging it. My gondolier travels past their home at night. He affirms that the Visconti are receiving shipments of materials almost every day. He has seen it all arrive—gold paint, silver paint, gems, laces, damasks and brocades, leather and beads. The Magdalena is a sharp woman.”

“Where did they find such a large sum of money?” I asked, my senses suddenly awake. “Francesco Visconti is not a wealthy man. He cannot afford the gold paint, let alone the expensive lace and gems. And what about the silk?” By now my voice was tinged with anxiety.

“That is the question on everyone’s lips, cara mia. And to think that the mask makers do not have a guild. Magdalena Visconti can do what she likes. There are no rules, no standards for her art. Heaven forbids she preys on the popolani with overpriced artless trinkets.”

I was not listening. “But…how could she have financed the atelier in the first instance?” I heard myself repeat, barely breathing.

“That is a mystery, Catarina.  The Milanese and his strega are doing very well, are they not? Perhaps the Magdalena has used her witchcraft to find some gold. Isn’t that what everyone in Venezia secretly wishes for? The Napoletana is a clever one. But I pity her husband—a man without money is a corpse that walks.”

“I hear she is a cunning merchant. She saw how the popolani are demanding more elaborate masks these days. Who wants a plain bauta, when you can have pearls and rubies and feathers and what not? Everyone wishes to look his best.  They want a work of art on their faces. They want to be the first to wear this and that color. No one wants to be seen wearing the same masks as the year before. The Napoli woman understands that. It would not surprise me if she made a profit,” added another childhood friend.

“But who, who would lend her such a sum?” I repeated, dismissing claims of witchcraft and ignoring my friend’s rigorous appraisal of my rival. I was tormented. I needed answers.

They both stared at me without responding.

“Catarina, you look flushed. See how you have agitated yourself. You should remain at home on Sundays. Let the priest visit you. Here, cara mia, let me take your hand and escort you to a carriage.”

Following my fellow parishioners pressing concern, I did not attend church in the last two months of my pregnancy. I was alone at home, bed ridden on most days. Having little to do apart from ordering the servants, I was plagued with thoughts about how Giacomo passed his time when not in the presence of his trade partners. I grew eager to discover where he set off to daily and the persons he saw outside his merchant affairs. Incessant questions ran through my mind. Had he called upon the Visconti since their settling in Santa Croce? Had Magdalena given birth? I forced myself to think of pleasantries and stared at length at my cupids.

I devised a plan, if only to keep my soul from unrest. I asked my loyal Slav gondolier to tell me all he knew about Giacomo’s whereabouts. The slave was mine but he sometimes oared Giacomo along the canal when Lorenzo borrowed his father’s gondolier. I vowed to free him and set him up with a gondolier guild within my second child’s fifth birthday if he could tell me everything about Giacomo’s whereabouts. It became our little secret. I felt guilty for my mistrust of Giacomo but I had a rising suspicion that it was he who might have come to the Visconti’s financial aid on Magdalena’s request.

I have asked myself this question for years. Had my husband come to Magdalena’s aid? Had he parted from ducats in the hope of gaining her favor? Such was my suspicion.

This suspicion grew all the more with each passing day, since Giacomo was no longer lying with me. We slept in separate beds for fear that he would harm the unborn child.  Having set Luca to watch my husband gave me some peace of mind. Each day, Luca returned with no significant news to give me.

The first of the descos da parto arrived from friends. They visited in the last month of my pregnancy, bearing these beautifully decorated wooden trays of the sort that are meant to safeguard the birth and ensure that my child would be strong. On gift trays that seemed to come daily, I received jars brimming with poultry soup and sweetmeats.  I gorged myself with sweetmeats. The gifts were so regular that I began to dream of offal.

It was always the same dream. A swarming mass of human offal lay in the Visconti atelier surrounded by a sludge of blood and wherever I stood, I could heard the tinkling of Magdalena’s metallic charms close by. There was no escape. I would awake in sweat, breathing heavily, horrified of falling asleep again.

And still, more descos da parto came, more wooden trays with colorful depictions of cupids and little children, or else triumphant processions inspired by Petrarch’s poems. My bedroom walls were adorned with these and everywhere I looked, cherubs and beautiful children stared down at me. Some of these trays were gorgeous and set in gold. One of these had an inscription to bless me and my unborn child. It read, “May God give health to every woman who gives birth and to the child’s father. May the child be born without fatigue or danger! I am a baby who lives.”

All these images had soothed me in my first pregnancy but this time, they did nothing to calm my spirits. Only Luca could have brought me the news I so badly wanted, but every day, he returned with nothing.

At the end of my pregnancy, I was sick to tears of gifts.  The more I received them, the more I grew apprehensive of losing my child. The reality of its impending arrival became vivid and the cold fear of childbirth set in. By then, I was weighted down with at least six coral amulets to protect my unborn child and myself from any jettatura. The fear of such persons was the reason I saw no one outside close relatives and servants.

My family believed that one of our neighbors, unfortunate as it was, was cursed with the ability to give the evil eye and cast evil spells sometimes to the detriment of other people’s health. It was not their fault. But this jettature may have been the cause of the loss of my dead child a year earlier. It was best that I remain secluded from such persons.

One evening, when Luca did not come, I sent the maid to call for him. The maid ushered him in. He was hesitant. I knew from the fearful expression on his face that something had happened to Giacomo.

I raised myself up on my pillow.

“Luca, you must tell me everything. Remember our agreement.”

He advanced timidly into my bed chamber and cast a fearful glance in my direction.

“My master took to the San Cassiano district last night,” he admitted sheepishly.

I emitted a sigh of relief. I knew that my husband could not have held back for much longer. Of course, I felt the sting, the pain of knowing he had visited a meretrice. But in his sin toward me, it was still better than if he had visited the Magdalena.

“Signora, man are weak and prone to the demons of the night. If the signore cannot be with his lovely wife while she is with child, he will seek another woman. But it means little. You understand?”

I emitted a delightful laugh. I found Luca’s short sermon endearing. I stretched out in my bed and relaxed, caressing my unborn child with one hand under the covers.

“Do not concern yourself for me, Luca. Grazie. You may go,” I said, dismissing him gently.

My child stirred in my belly. I had a sudden thought.

“Luca!”

He returned to my bed side.

“Luca…did you stay with him all night?”

“Si, Signora.”

“And…did you see…” I was a little embarrassed by the question. But I had to know. My fear had resurged in me and a terrifying idea devoured me. I sat up and stared fixedly at the bashful Luca, who shriveled with discomfort. “Luca, tell me what she was like, the woman he chose… Was she… did she have red locks like mine? Was she fair in complexion like me?”

I saw by the animated glow in his eyes that he’d understood what I wanted to know. Had my husband sought me or had he sought, on that night, to forget me. I waited, holding my breath for the answer.

Luca pursed his lips.

“Signora, it was late. I did not have a torch. I could not see well from that distance. She was up on the bridge when he took her inside. Her breasts did not glow in the moonlight. She may have been a Southerner. I think…she was a dark haired carampana. Si. Long black hair, signora.” He bit his lips upon seeing the scowl on my face. “Perhaps it was red, too. I cannot remember.”

Liar, I thought. And I collapsed back onto my pillow, too shaken with grief to say anything further. I stared ahead in silence, refusing to look at my slave. Luca left immediately after, with his head bowed in shame.

Erotic images of Giacomo lying with someone who resembled Magdalena sent waves of fury through me. It was not enough that he’d imagined her face while lying with me earlier this year. He had now found someone in her image so that he could play at making love to his Napoletana.

I wanted to cry. The intensity of the past months had reached its climax. I had been defeated. My heart raced with anger. I knew what I wanted to know. He wanted her. He had always wanted her.

I was wracked with a jealousy so intense, that when the first pangs of childbirth tore through me, it was resentment, more than bodily pain, which carried my screams. The mid-wife was surprised when she found me determined to give birth. I wanted my child to live. I had to be strong, strong like Magdalena. But stronger.

Antonio, what else is there to say? You wanted proof of Giacomo’s innocence from the crime of which he is accused. Giacomo’s only crime is toward me, his wife. For the years that followed, Giacomo’s desire for me diminished until we slept no more with each other. This only inflamed gossip and I dismissed servants numerous times to quell the voices. But to no avail.

From Luca, who remained discreet as ever, I knew that Giacomo saw carampanas almost every month but they were all dark haired women, women who would give him the illusion he craved and could never have.

When I finally set Luca free, he refused to join a gondolier guild. He remained my faithful servant until he left us three months ago.

Magdalena died three years after she gave birth. It ought to have relieved my anxieties but it did not return Giacomo’s devotion to me. The rift between us grew for years afterwards until Giacomo saw me only as the mother of his children and the creditor to which he owed four thousand ducats for the use of my dowry, as decreed by dowry law. Even his new dogs were granted more tenderness than I.

We remained estranged until this year, when he was murdered. But in all this time, no, Antonio, Giacomo Contarini never desired a man. He desired Magdalena Visconti with every fiber of his loins and every breath of his soul. I saw how he wept when Magdalena’s child drowned six years ago.  It was as though he had loved everything about Magdalena.

This is the confession I promised you, Antonio. Now, between us, you must read this diary and see for yourself, this janara I have spoken about. Perhaps she, too, will cast her spell on you.

I remain your friend, avogadore. Please safeguard my confession. Have pity on me.

Yours in faith,

Catarina Contarini

Giacomo’s Diary

Journal of Antonio da Parma

27 December 1422

Today, I read and reread Catarina’s remarkable confession and having done so, I then burned the candlelight over Giacomo’s diary.

The first thing I endeavored was to retrieve the ink portrait.  In it, Magdalena appeared much younger than in the painting hanging in Francesco’s atelier.

I had only met Magdalena in dreams yet I experienced a tightness in my chest as I laid eyes on her.

It is at once strange and pleasurable, this sadness one feels, when in the face of beauty. Could it arise from a pining for something we have once known and long to regain? Or perhaps the realization of our own submission to a being that consumes us, even as it evades us and will never be within reach.

Those lips, that delicate nose, those languorous eyes beneath strong brows. Her hair seemed to rest on naked shoulders, as though Giacomo had taken liberties with his model. With the pout of her moody lips, she appeared to speak out to the artist, reaching out for him with her eyes, always with her eyes—calling him to bare his soul.

Giacomo had possessed a secret talent. He had admirably captured the light behind her. It descended on her hair like a sensual caress. I deduced that at the time of drawing, Giacomo must have regarded her as a muse, an idol to be worshipped. It was evident that he had drawn her while in Verona, during the days of their courtship. The details he had carefully reproduced of the pendant round her neck hinted to the length of time he must have spent with her.

I reached for the pendant which I had taken from Rolandino’s corpse and had since wound round my neck by way of a leather cord.  I compared it to the pendant in the portrait. Every aspect of that silver charm had been reproduced with careful attention.

Branching out from each of the rue’s six stems, I could discern the proud crest of a cock, a dagger, the curve of the crescent moon, the coil of serpent, there, a key and finally, hanging from the last stem, a tiny flower that looked to be vervain.  Giacomo had traced them all.

Long into the night, when Carnivale revelers had dispersed and I could no longer hear the murmurs in the campo, I abandoned myself to the tarnished pages of Giacomo’s journal. I lay on my back, stretched upon my bed, reading every line, forgetting Catarina’s tale of jealousy and discontent.

I dived selfishly into Giacomo’s secrets. I was now, in a fantastical sense, his rival. I wanted to discover all he had known and felt about Magdalena Di Napoli when she had been the young woman in Verona. Who was this woman? From whence had she come? What perfume had she worn when he had embraced her? What of her dreams?

But there was nothing in these pages to satisfy my curiosity. Giacomo was meticulous, ordered, obsessed with figures and a plain bore.  He had none of that insight which I had seen in Lorenzo, none of that passion even toward his own wife.

There was something about Giacomo’s diary that in fact did not concur with my idea of a youth once enamored with a Napoli enchantress. And yet I perused these pages again and again and could not find what I searched.

I saw lines and lines of stock accounts for silk, spice and sugar, empty pages, then more lines.  There were pages of notes about meeting dates and places with the likes of Ubertino, Guido, Balsamo and of course, Rolandino. There were more empty pages and then occasional notes about what Zanetta had done or said today and how fanciful and extravagant this new generation of adults were becoming. He was, however, not as scornful toward Giovanna as he had presumably been during the banquet on the night of his death.

Again, I saw evidence of a strategic nature. Calculations, sailing dates, interest rates. The only hint to the man’s inner life, the only sign of his admission to guilt in a loveless marriage was a self-promise repeated on several occasions “to avoid the carampanas”…

Courteous, orderly and conscientious—so unlike the Giacomo I had heard and seen on the day of Francesco’s murder. So unlike the Giacomo who had inflamed the spirits of his associates and lured them into the vilest murder this city had ever seen.  Upon reading his journal, it would be preposterous to advance that he had ever murdered anyone.

How could this be so?

I stared at the flickering candle light with bemusement. Again I flipped through the pages in disbelief.  Who was Giacomo writing for?

It dawned on me. Giacomo must have suspected that his possessive wife, cloistered for hours in the Ca’ Contarini, would herself endeavor to retrieve his journal. A forgetful moment, one mishap on his behalf, was all it would take for the journal to secretly fall into her avid hands. There had been no locks, nothing to safeguard those pages. Surely Giacomo was not so careless.

Yet evidently, this diary would have tempted any patrician wife. The more I pondered over this, the more I grew certain that Giacomo had taken deliberate measures to place in this diary, only the thoughts he could bear others to uncover. I was certain that he had written it for Catarina.

As for the self-reproaches relating to the carampanas, they served as a formal apology to her.  If he had never brought himself to seek her pardon in person—an omission which Catarina’s long term grief and emotional confession had confirmed—it seems he had at least employed his own diary as a means for expressing his increasing regrets for her to find.

And she had found it. She had read it. Perhaps many times. Like me, she had unveiled nothing that resembled a devotion to Magdalena. Nothing, save for that portrait.

Exhausted, I lay Giacomo’s journal to rest on my chest and looked to the ceiling. Something about that diary nagged at me. I remained dissatisfied, convinced that something was amiss.

I was so distracted by my numerous conjectures that at first I did not notice a distinct odor emanating from the pages. It was an organic and unusual smell that I had, at first, not noticed, but which became all the more conspicuous now that the pages sat right beneath my nostrils.

I picked up the diary and sat up. I opened it once more and raised the pages to my nose. I was not mistaken. The odor seemed impregnated into the pages. Almost as though…

“Giacomo, you most cunning artist!”

I leapt from the bed. I had spoken his name in recognition of his perfid secret and all at once, a rush had come over me.

I turned to the empty pages. I saw that they were old and had been inserted into Giacomo’s diary. I realized that none of them belonged in this journal.

And there was something else.

They were not at all blank.

I detached one of them and raised it to the flame of my candle. Within a few moments, the ink, which I knew to have been sourced from the milk of a Tithymalus plant, glowed to a charred color and I discerned Giacomo’s familiar scrawl.

Our most meticulous merchant had resorted to invisible ink.

Before long, the page had browned with dense lines of feverish writing that not only ran furiously across to fill every space, but down to the side, as though an overflowing gush of emotions had possessed Giacomo’s quill.

Swept by an urge to read all that those secret pages contained, I tore each one from their binding and, being careful to preserve their order, I brought the invisible ink scrawl to char above my candlelight. I felt the increasing pace of my heartbeat as each page revealed the passionate frenzy of Giacomo’s most secret and forbidden thoughts.

At last, I would discover more about Magdalena and the young woman she had once been.

Strega

Diary of Giacomo Contarini

1399 – 5 June

A magical summer day in Verona and a charm to make one sing of love. I have learned more than I ever thought was possible.

She assures me she is not a strega. She denies having cast a spell on me. When I tease her and point to her pendant, she presses it beneath her fingers and refuses to speak of it.

Perhaps she fears that I will tell on her secrets. I understand her silence. In Milan, almost ten years ago, a woman was tried by the Milanese Inquisition. She had been foolish enough to admit that she belonged to a society of witches.

I’m only sporting with her. To me, it is all folklore. I do not believe anything of those witches and their rituals. It all matters little. I love only the warm ring of her voice and her impossibly canine teeth when she smiles. If she be strega, I will let her cast her spell. If she be a whore, I will take that and be content.

I pine for her bare shoulders and the scent of damask on her skin.

There is a strength in her that I do not see in the young Catarina. It invigorates me.

1399 – 15 July

She says I am childish and perhaps I am. We have not made love even though I know she has a reputation. She has never refused herself and many a patrician boast of having laid with her.

They are without honor dispensing their secrets for all who care to hear and inventing, like cunning liars, for the glory of their manhood. But to ride over her hips and savor her lips would drive any man to boast.

Yet I am torn. Why does she refuse me? When I part her legs and drive my manhood into her, she will never cry out another name than mine. All the whores of Venezia have assured me that I am well formed and the Napoli girl will soon know the same.

1399 – 29 July

There is not a passage of my mind that has not her name carved upon it.

For days, I could not study.  I absented myself from classes and appointments just to be by her side. I still know little about her. Where does she come from? Why is she so unlike the women of the Veneto?

Firstly it has come to my attention that her name is not Magdalena Di Napoli but Maddalena Di Benevento. A small detail, but it piqued my curiosity. Why would she conceal her real name?

I had never heard of Benevento, so I spoke of it to my Theology professor. At first he was reluctant to respond. He demanded why I was so interested in the place.

“Giacomo, Giacomo, the Padua library is rich with wondrous treasures. And here you are asking me about a place in Napoli, a little place that a Venetian patrician like yourself should not even care for. Come, come,” he said as we traversed book shelves in the hundreds. “There is so much you could be studying. We have one of the richest collection of Byzantine works.”

“My Greek is not so good,” I replied.

“Yes, but there is so much here to fill your mind, Giacomo. There are books from as far as Constantinople, codices gathered from the East in both Persian and Arabic. Why would you want to read about the little commune of Benevento?”

I insisted. I replied that I knew someone from there, nothing more.

Benevento, he told me, is an ancient city only a day’s journey from Napoli. It is reputed for its beautiful women. He caught me nodding as he said those words. I wondered what he had intuited of the glow in my eyes. Then he grunted before continuing.

“Benevento. Si.  It was a most prosperous place before the time of our Lord Jesus. Our Roman ancestors had a name for it. They called it, Beneventum. A mysterious name that was. The site of good events. Why would they call it this, I ignore it. Maybe for good luck? These days it is now mostly known for its eerie legends. Giacomo, why are you smiling like a child? You are not considering venturing there, I hope? You still have months of study.”

“It sounds like a magical place,” I said.

“I hardly think so. For all I know, before the Romans renamed it, it was known as Maleventum. A name of most evil augury…”

“The site of bad events?”

“A most befitting name. The Romans, it seemed, had it wrong. By tolerating existing pagan practices, they only encouraged what should have been left well alone.”  He paused to scratch his beard. I sensed the discomfort in his next words. “When Christians finally reached the city of Benevento, years later, it had become a festering cesspit of evil. Now, Giacomo, I must leave you…”

“Tell me about those legends,” I said.

He gave me a piercing glance. One that I will not forget.

“What is this new interest, Signor Contarini, and in what manner does it relate to your course? You run the risk of losing your head with your new fancies. You’ve no idea what you are playing with. For your own good, I would refrain from spreading word about that place and the cult of Diana.” He bit his lips.  I realized he had said too much.

“The cult of Diana?” I asked, a wink in my eye.

“By the Saints. Now I have spoken more than your young ears should hear. Well if you must know, and only for the purpose of your education, the Romans knew of a cult, there. In Benevento. They called it the cult of Diana. Of course it is a much older cult. A cult of pagan origin. It existed long before. And now—”

“Older? How much older?”

“They call it the vecchia religione,” he hissed. “Now leave it alone, Giacomo. I will see you in class, tomorrow. Do not linger.”

1399 – 4 August

It was no use. I lingered over his words for days.

I understood that Magdalena had changed her name to Di Napoli when she had traveled to the north. The reason was evident. A young woman from Benevento and so far away from home could only raise superstitions. I repeated her name—Maddalena di Benevento. It had a magical sound to it but I was not satisfied. I wanted to grasp her meaning; to know more about her.

I had to know all.  I thought of nothing else. If Magdalena had belonged to the cult of Diana, then what had it meant? A delicious nagging tormented me. It was as though by knowing about her, I could reach closer and closer.

I assembled all I could find from the Padua library.  I consumed the old parchments well into the night. I neglected my early classes.  It occurred to me that I had not even left the library overnight and that no one knew I was still here.

After peering over many documents, nothing came to me. Nothing except an old story about night wanderers.

The Christians of Benevento despised what they saw of the vecchia religione. First, there were the fertility rituals of the ancient times. Those that partook of it gathered around a certain walnut tree which the Christians believed to be evil. But what they most feared, was the night wanderers.

The night wanderers. Even the name fired my imagination.

Little is known about these night wanderers.  The cult of Diana is a closed secret.  But it was thought that with the aid of certain magical herbs, a woman who partook in the Society of Diana, a Dianara, could wander into the crossroads. She wandered by day or in dreams.

The crossroads was the world neither here nor there, where ghosts and the devil lurked.

Upon reading this, I have asked myself whether Magdalena was a night wanderer. I could not imagine what it meant. A part of me distrusted old legends.

Since learning about the rituals of Benevento, I have entertained sinful dreams. In these dreams, where I would rather dwell than face my boorish tutors, Magdalena stands before me, naked. She whirls round a walnut tree, her hair floating like mist above her shoulders, chanting songs. I near her. Upon my head, I wear a goat mask with large horns. I take her by force. She offers herself to me. It is a most pleasurable dream and I can testify this by the copious amount of fluids that escapes me in the morning. By Jove, my witch, I feel a man when I am with you.

Who are you mysterious Dianara? And why do you fill my nights and my days? One thing is certain—if all Benevento women are as enchanting as you are, then Veneto men are doomed.

A pox on me.  I must return to my philosophy. Aristotle, how you bore me, old cunt. But, the Napoletana, ah, yes!  She is a delight for my mind.

She is magical and dangerous but I love everything about her.

1399 – 9 August

She is evil and has stolen my heart. But I will not rest until she is mine. I wish for time to renew itself so that I could hold her once more, trace her scented curves beneath my fingers, paint her, paint her still, until I have known every part of her skin.

1399 - 14 August

I am unable to eat. I have been in my lodgments for a week fuming over an incident.

I took to Verona the other day and found Magdalena cold. When I asked her what she suffered, she explained that she had dreamed of a raven and that it descended upon my heart to peck at it. I told her that it was kind of her to dream of me and that she need not concern herself for my heart, that it was in good hands. To which she merely cast a dark glance upon me and said that she would no longer see me.

“What is this? You would not see me ever again on account of a dream?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “On account of the deeds you plot. You are a man of designs, Giacomo, and you are incapable of love.”

What am I to make of all this? Magdalena sways to her dream in a single night and I am tossed away. Who does she take herself for? The Sybil? Unlike the Cumaean prophetess, the Napoletana is no virgin.

It is all a lie and she has deliberately shrouded her reasons in mystery. What does she truly see in me? Has someone drowned my name in mud? Has someone told her of Catarina? To hell with Catarina. I would have forgotten all about Catarina if the Napoletana had opened herself to me. I would have worn the brunt of my parents’ scorn and took it upon myself to wed a woman without a dowry.

Haven’t I spoken of my devotion? Magdalena has already heard of my designs! She knows the passion in my heart and yet the witch rejects me? She rejects me! Giacomo Contarini, son of the most illustrious patrician families in Venezia, rejected by a whore.

1399 – 3 October

I cannot write, I cannot paint. The saints have neglected me to date. For barely two months, I withdrew from her, to sting at her ungrateful heart and what do I learn yesterday? A slimy Milanese has insinuated himself into our courtship! And the word is out that she invites him into her sister’s home. By Jupiter, I would say he has taken my place. What does she see in Francesco Visconti? What does she see in that lout? I would have given her everything. She would not have found a better lover than I.

1400 – February

I am neck deep in soul destroying study so why am I so pleased today?

I have discovered some favorable news this morning about Francesco Visconti’s affairs. Favorable to me, one who watches for the opportune moment. If I play my cards right, the Milanese stands to lose a fortune. I will speak to my parents about my new estate venture. They are certain to offer good advice.

You took what was mine, let’s see how you thrive when I have cut you dry. We will see, then. We will see who has the last laugh Francesco.

1405 – January

Barely five years into my marriage and she is returned to torment me.

Why have you come into my life when I had made my peace? And why, oh why, do you persist with your devotion to that lout? After all these years, surely you would have learned that he is incapable. A man who cannot manage his affairs is not a man. It is no use sitting at church with all your gold around your neck Magdalena, I know that Francesco has not a ducat to his name. And now that you live in misery and that he has planted his odious seed into your womb, I find him even more detestable.

I will not be made to beg for her love. There is no bridging of the sea that separates us now.  I belong to Catarina. I will remain distant. I will look down upon their miserable domestic arrangement.

1406 – October

The saints spare me from tearing this place apart. I am so out of myself that I know not what I said to Catarina. As I write, my hands are still trembling with rage. But if I do not write, I may destroy this very casa.

Oh, I knew that the atelier was well furnished. I knew for months that Magdalena had been at work and that the Milanese lout reaped the profits of her art.  It infuriates me to see his smile whenever our paths cross. Does he think I ignore the providence in his life? Were it not for Magdalena, he would have wallowed in his dire lot and remained useless. I take comfort in her new fortunes and in the birth of her daughter but his misplaced arrogance is more than I can bear.

Yet, I was prepared to face defeat.

But nothing, nothing prepared me for what I learned today, that my own Catarina had been making visits to see the Visconti! She has done so four times since she recovered from her labor. Four times! She brings them gifts, she tells me.

“You know well, Giacomo,” she says, “how sweetmeats can strengthen the blood humor and I’ll have you know that Magdalena has been much weakened since she gave birth. She is struggling to regain her strength. As women, we must help each other.”

She said it in a way that even, I, her own husband, did not believe it. “As women, we must help each other.” What women do not invent! Catarina, my own wife, the mother of my children, visiting the Visconti household, making an imbecile out of me. I would rather chain her to our bed than have her frequenting the likes of Francesco Visconti. I will not have it! I told her so. I threatened to have Luca watch her and report her wanderings outside the home. She accused me of being hateful and unfairly suspicious. “What are you afraid of Giacomo?” she asked me. That sent me over the edge and I flung her to the floor. I know better than to strike at her as I will have the parish women cursing after me, but she has behaved in a manner most improper.

1408 – October

The tears have mixed with the ink and my heart is torn. My torment continues even as you have passed to your own world. Did you see your Goddess, Magdalena? Your Diana? Did you see her when your heart cried out?

I still do not understand it. She died so suddenly. They say it was a harmful substance in the paints. Francesco has had the stock replaced. But I know he ought to have died in her stead. All this is his fault. I curse you Francesco. I curse you and your insipid masks. I hope you die in your own filth.

Magdalena, you should have been mine. If you had been mine, you would have lived. Without you, Francesco will not survive. And I will see him fall.

1415 – 3 February

My encounter with Luca as I scribe it today. I must not forget these details, in case they return to haunt me.

First of all I knew that he had been following me at night even down to the carampanas. I thought it an event of chance but it had taken place now too many times. Each time, I pretended not to be aware of his presence. I jested with the girl and whispered in her ear to let me know who she saw hiding behind us. And more than three times, the girl would describe Luca.

Yesterday I summoned him.

I told him to be very clear, to explain himself. He denied everything. I used force. I shoved him brutally against the wall and held the blade of my dagger in his face. He uttered something about Catarina being ‘worried’ for me.

I told him that from now on, he would work for me. And that if I saw him one more time lurking behind me at night, that I would have someone slit his throat.

The cunning of that woman. Why do I have to suffer it?

I resent her. I resent her and her self-righteous airs. Who does she think she is setting a servant to spy on me? The stench of hypocrisy that surrounds her fills me with repulsion. I know all about her yearly visits to see the young Elena Visconti. Doing her parish duties, she says. But I know better. The young girl looks more and more like her mother every day. Catarina must know this just as I know it. Yet she visits the child... Catarina savors her own suffering it seems. Women!

1422 – 20 September

Magdalena, if your soul has joined with the saints, then look upon your true lover. Look now, cast your eyes to your humble servant in love, for what he is about to tell you. You will never believe who has had the arrogance to present himself to my casa today.

Your ageing and most detestable husband, Francesco Visconti, arrived this morning. I had not seen him for years and to my great surprise, here he was, lurking outside my home, his mud encrusted boots at my water door.  It is a cold, wet autumn. The acqua alta floods the Piazza and the many calli beyond reek with human excrement and all manner of refuse.  When I saw him, I wondered what could have impelled him to leave his home and to wade through the rising waters of Venezia in this bitter season.  He had this affected humility as he entered my home, drenched like a filthy dog and smelling of shit. Our exchange, as I recall, went something like this.

“Signor Visconti. To what may I attribute your sudden visit?” I said, gesturing to my servants to leave us in peace.

He removed his shabby hat and began to fumble with it like an idiotic adolescent. I could see that he had not slept for days and appeared pale.

“It is, Signor Contarini, about your wife.”

I took an immediate distaste to what he was about to say.

“My wife?” I regarded him and clenched my fist.

“Si, Signore. She has wronged me terribly…” he began.

I rose from my seat, perplexed at the tears that now streamed down Francesco’s face. Was I hearing this clearly? Was the poor fool attempting to endear me with his pathetic appeals to pity?

I looked him in the eye. I did not bother to conceal my utter disgust at what he had dared put forward. I repeated his words, right to his face. “Wronged you?”

“Forgive me, Signore. Please, forgive me. It pains me to speak of this after so many years. But I must ask you to believe—”

“Of what wrong are you accusing my wife, Francesco?” I roared. I would have murdered him on the spot.

“Your gondolier and my own servant, Angelo…they speak...they are good friends. Angelo told me that she said…” He seemed about to weep anew.

“Oh, mercy, Francesco! You listen to the babbling of servants?”

He trembled under the force of my words. He remained there, helpless, tears welling in his eyes, his lips apart in a painful rictus. He seemed intent to speak but was too afraid to say more. I watched his nervous fingers on the rim of his hat. As much as he inspired my scorn, I can only say that, by then, I was not impervious to his words.

Seeing that I had grown quiet, he summoned his courage. “Hear me out, Signor Contarini. What I have to say is the truth. It is a tragic truth but it must be said. Your house maid told the gondolier that she has discovered, in one of your wife’s cassoni, an object that should not be there. Luca has spoken of it to Angelo and that is how I learned of it. You, yourself, will recognize it and when you do…when you do, Signor Contarini, I will demand that…”

“Demand? You shall demand nothing of me, Francesco!”

But he continued. There was more! So much more! And what he said chilled me. Word after word, the accusations flowed. Had he accused Catarina of drowning his child in the canal, I would have felt outrage. Had he accused Catarina of losing his daughter from negligence, I would have felt angered. But it was worse. Much worse.

“How do I know you are not lying, Francesco?” I asked, feeling myself blanch.

The naïve cur revealed it all. Catarina, it seemed, had hidden something from me and if I were to discover it, I would recognize the verity of his claim and so on and so forth.

“Have you spoken of it to the sbirri?” I asked.

He shook his head and wiped a tear.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Let us speak no further of it, Francesco,” I said, tapping him gently on the shoulder even as I seethed internally. “I shall speak to my wife. I am certain there has been a misunderstanding.  Let there not be animosity between us. The matter will come to light,” I added, pressing my hand to my heart to bid him farewell as he left.

My heartbeats thundered in my chest at the thought of what he had just told me.

I watched him drag his filthy boots across the water door and walk miserably into the rain. I ignored what I would do if I discovered that he had spoken truth.

So I waited. I waited all day and then all evening, until Catarina had sighed as she put away her Il Fiore sonnets and extinguished her candle. I waited until she lay still. And when I was certain that Catarina lay sound asleep, I rose slowly from the bed. I slinked to the smaller room beside our own, fumbling through the dark. I found the two cassoni where she keeps her linen and jewelry. I searched well.  I looked in each cassone.

And I found it.

I hate you, Francesco. You want to play this game? By your own ineptness, you have lost your wife and your child. It was all your doing. And now you seek to blame another. Now, you come to me. Now, you have the callousness to present yourself to my home, to impregnate the walls of this house with your putrid Cologne and you frame my own wife, you soil the honor of this household and slander our family name? Oh no. This will not pass, Francesco.

I will see you fall. Mark those words. I will see you fall.

***

Journal of Antonio da Parma

So enraptured was I by Giacomo’s diary, that I burned several candles. The ruthless attack in the Giudecca Gardens, on the night before, was almost cast out of my memory.  I lay exhausted on the ground, pages of rust parchment spread around me.  I drifted into an unbroken sleep.

In my dream, I was one of the night wanderers.

I flew atop Venezia, bidding goodbye to her canals, passing over the Basilica and the two granite towers.  I found myself traveling further out than in previous dreams. I could no longer see the Campanile below and still, I flew further, a cold gust upon my face. After passing Firenze, Roma and what I thought was Napoli, I then found myself lost deep in the South, running through a maze of olive trees. It was neither day nor night but the sky was charcoal and the sun, absent.

Plaintive sobs echoed in my ear as I erred, deep into the maze. For too long I wandered, turn after turn, until the sobs grew louder. The lament in her voice filled me with misery.

I emerged from the maze to reach a barren hill. The sky had darkened. I could see an ancient gate and through it, the starry night.  Vines of silver clung to the aged stone and under the moonlight, beneath the arch was her lone silhouette.  Her black hair was windswept and she wore a blue gown. She seemed to be holding something to her heart as she cried. She had her back turned toward me such that I could not well see what she held.

Without even touching the ground, I had flown to her side and saw that it was Magdalena.

And as I cast my eyes to the form that she cradled in her arms, I saw that it was an empty cloth fashioned into the shape of a child. Magdalena seemed to be staring into the cloth as she sobbed. Her face was ashen.

I reached for her. I sought to soothe her tears and hold her close. I sought to understand why she wept.

“Magdalena?”

She did not respond.

“Ma perché piangi, Magdalena?” came my voice.

Her sobs had ceased.

She turned to me.

I recoiled.  Such terror upon her face! Her mouth opened wide but no sound came out of it. I could only stare into her eyes–black eyes, so consumed with the evil they had seen that they all but screamed in the silence.

“Magdalena! Perché?”

Then I saw that her tears were tears of blood. Magdalena’s lips parted anew and what she said to me, took my breath away.

I awoke, gasping for air.

My heart still raced.  I was shaking with emotion. I had soaked my camicia and yet the glacial wind howled outside.

I rose, walked to the window and sealed the shutters. Removing my wet camicia, I stared, naked, into the deserted campo. I was unsettled by my dream. Magdalena’s sobs still rang in my ear. I knew I had seen her ghost once more. And ever since my strange behavior in the atelier, I understood that she had chosen to haunt me. I just did not know why.

I recalled Giacomo’s disturbing account of what he had found in his wife’s cassoni and how it had enraged him.  I was burning with curiosity but I could not question Catarina about such a delicate matter without revealing Giacomo’s secret diary pages.

From what I could deduce, it seemed that something terrible had happened and which had led Giacomo to murder Francesco Visconti three months later. What had Francesco accused Giacomo’s wife of having taken? Why was it so important?

I was not a believer in the meaning of dreams. Yet despite all reason, this last vision of Magdalena had seemed too real.

But it was more than that.

I traced a finger onto the thin layer of steam on the window’s glass discs, until I had written out the word; the word she had whispered.

Aiutami.

Help me.

In the Library

Journal of Antonio da Parma

28 December 1422

Haunted by my latest dream of Magdalena and still brooding over Giacomo’s diary, I decided it was time to uncover more about the cult of Diana.  In the early hours of the morning, when the crowds were still thin, I boarded a gondola to San Marco and strode to the western end of the Piazetta.

I presented myself to the Piazza library, not far from of the Ducal Mint.  Sixty years ago, in 1362, an impressive collection of Petrarch’s work had been lodged within these walls.  With a little luck, I might chance upon one or two books that would shed light on the cult of Diana.

A little man greeted me as I entered the musky hallway.

“And you are?”

“I am a Florentine. My name is Antonio Mauro. I am here at the behest of the Parrochia di San Lorenzo,” I invented.

“Signor Mauro, what may I do for you?”

“It has been said that in this very library, one can find century old books written in Greek and Arabic,” I began. “Even antique works from Aristotle. But what do you keep on the subject of an ancient Roman cult?”

“That depends. Of which cult do you speak, Signore?”

“The cult of Diana.”

He stood back in alarm and examined me.

“The Parrochia di San Lorenzo, you say? So you are not a scholar. Hmm. And what is your interest with the cult of Diana?”

“We are…that is to say, the parrochiano priest…” I composed myself and my tale. “There have been a rising number of parishioners who have taken ill with the peste.”

“Dio mio!” He crossed himself.

“Si. It is frightening. I am looking into the possibility of witchcraft.”

He nodded. “Ah, I see. Please, please. Follow me.” He shuffled in haste toward the adjacent room. We passed several rows of dusty bookshelves which he ignored as though he knew them all. He seemed suddenly enthusiastic as though the prospect of an occult mystery delighted him.

“I will ask you to not repeat what I have said to anyone,” I cautioned. “We do not want to frighten the popolani until the matter has been looked into.”

“My lips are sealed, Signor Mauro. Peste maledetta! It is not good. Not good. Such are the times we live in.” He raised his lantern before a wooden cabinet with six large panels. He pushed a key through the left middle door.  I stood a foot away. I heard him mumbling to himself as he leaned forward and inclined his head to read the names of each document.

“Between us, I will tell you something, Signor Mauro,” I heard him say, from behind the cabinet door. “The state of things is worsening. So much evil in Venezia these days. That is why la peste is returned again. I had a word with a young scholar the other day and he told me that if this continues, the Signoria will have to do something about all the sick. And do you know what he said to me?”

I was amused at how shut out from the world the librarian was–surrounded by his thousands of books, with only a rare glimpse of life outside–and yet, to my surprise, he somehow had ears for the latest news.

“I ignore it. What did he say?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.

“He said, that there is talks of opening a new hospital—a lazaretto, they called it—for the plague sufferers. They are looking at an island…now what was it…ah yes, Santa Maria di Nazareth! Can you imagine carrying all the sick to an isolated island and leaving them there? I will tell you this, Antonio, it makes one shudder. I hear it is not far from the Arsenale. Far enough from here, at least.” He had been speaking on his knees and not having found the book, he rose to unlock the top left panel.  “This is odd. I could have sworn…” He raised himself on his heels and slowly slid out a hefty bound volume. “Here it is! A Study of Pagan Practices.” He blew off a layer of dust from the leather cover before taking a look at the first pages. “It has not been borrowed for some time. You are the first in eleven years, Signor Mauro,” he observed.

I did not respond. Eleven years was a long time. It seemed that nobody was even remotely interested in this book. Then as he returned to his work table, I was taunted by a thought. Eleven years ago… It had been a few years after the first appearance of Magdalena in Venezia. Had Giacomo perhaps borrowed it? Had his obsession resurfaced?

“Who was he?”

The librarian turned to me with a perplexed expression. “He?”

“The last person who borrowed this work. What was his name? Are you able to tell me?”

Returning to his working cabinet, he peered into his files for a good moment before finally responding.

“It was a woman, Signore.”

I was startled. “A woman?” My heart beat faster.

He glanced again at the recorded name. “Catarina…si. Catarina Contarini of the San Lorenzo parish,” he said. “Oh, that is strange. The same parish you made mention of.  You might have even met her, Signore.”

I was stunned. Catarina had been delving into the cult of Diana. I could scarcely imagine the reason for her interest.

“Are you certain?”

“Si. Catarina Contarini. She borrowed it twice. What is the matter?”

“I see,” I replied, trying to conceal my surprise.

“Do you know this woman?”

“Err…No. No.”

“Are you still interested in the book?”

“Si, si. I am.”

“Prego. Here you are, Signore. And all the best with your witch-hunt. This must stop.” He crossed himself once more as though warding further evil.

I took the book aside and retreated to a candle-lit desk, away from prying eyes. Inhaling a whiff of dust as I opened the book, I began my perusal of its jaundiced pages. No paper here. This was an old manuscript, over fifty years old, with smooth vellum and pages so thin that some of these appeared transparent.

The scrawl was tight and black, almost difficult to read. I could scarcely make out the name of its author.

I wondered what Catarina had been looking for. It dawned on me that her interest in Magdalena had been a long passion. A passion that one must have for one’s rival. Almost as though…she had wanted to find her weakness.

In truth, I ignored what I was looking for. I was here because of my dreams. I had assembled what I knew from Catarina’s letters and from Giacomo’s diary, yet none of it satisfied me. I felt as though these dreams were somehow calling me, urging me to uncover the missing piece–a secret so terrible that it had led Giacomo to murder his rival Francesco and brought upon Magdalena’s revenge. But what was it?

And I must say this, also. I felt, as I read, that the cult of Diana held a special interest to me. An interest that seemed to have inhabited me for years and had only just resurfaced as a result of my being in Venezia and being lured into this strange case. The more I read this obscure Latin scrawl with its archaic expressions, the more I grew absorbed with the history of the cult and strangely, the more at peace I found myself.

How can I explain the sentiments that overpowered me? How best to put to words the power of this book to move and transport me? Such things are best left unexplained.

But I will write here, of what I learned.

The Vecchia Religione is old. It is older than our forebears the Romans. From whence it has come, no one knows. But this crescent-crown Goddess and her Stag-Horned consort are worshipped together and have been known to pagans for many thousands of years.

The Romans, our ancestors, looked down upon these pagans, yet they tolerated them. Over time, the spread of Romans to the pagan lands led to many myths and different ways of describing The Goddess. She and her consort have been known as Fana and Faunus, Tana and Tanus but also, Diana and Dianus and lately, Jana and Janus.

The followers of Diana believe in the spirit in all things. They worship the Moon and the forces of Nature.  From these, they draw power. It is said that the Moon can confer powers onto her worshippers.

Of late, they have grown dangerous in thought and deeds. They couple at will. They couple freely and without guilt.

I knew not what this meant. Not yet. So I read on.

At the time of writing, the Vecchia Religione has resurfaced and is stronger than before. About twenty years ago, it is told that a witch, called Aradia, began to preach to peasants, giving them false hopes. This rebellious woman was born on 13 August, on the feast day of the Goddess Diana.

She instructed her followers to revert to the Old Ways and challenged the Christian church with her vile teachings.  One of her numerous assertions was that both men and women have masculine and feminine traits.  She encouraged free coupling, free of shame and guilt. She has taught that death is not an ending but that souls return to the earth to live again.

I read on, swept by each word. Now I understood how Magdalena had acquired her carnal reputation in Verona and why Giacomo was convinced he could easily lie with her. The woman was free.  I trembled as I read the rest.

Aradia and her followers were hunted down by soldiers. But there exists survivors of this forbidden faith. Some say the witch’s followers have taken refuge in the town of Benevento, near Napoli.  But they are unseen and difficult to apprehend.

Aradia split the Vecchia Religione into three groups. One of these is the Janara faith, whose followers are the preservers of the lunar forces. The janara followers are masters in the art of herb preparation, divination and magic. In divination, they are known to gaze at the pattern woven by the three Fates and can derive its meaning.

They are headed by a high priestess and a high priest.

I lifted my head and looked about, alarmed by the quietness of the library.

My thoughts raced from what I had just read.

I wondered if Magdalena had been a high priestess. Her romantic refusal of Giacomo seemed to have come from a divination that only a follower of great power could have had; someone who could easily interpret omens in dreams.

The more I consumed the book’s pages, the more my heart raced.

The followers focus their magic through spells, amulets, talismans and natural objects. Their charms have the power to attract and to banish.

I felt for the pendant around my neck. At once I could sense it, burning my flesh, boring into my chest. I felt the undeniable tug at my soul.  Even the dreams that I had seen were drawing me ever nearer to her.

It is said that often when a witch dies, she is reborn many times and becomes more powerful each time.

Was Magdalena still alive, then? How many times had Magdalena lived? How often, if she were a witch, had she lived in human form? Would I find her?

I thought of Catarina’s interest for this book. I realized that eleven years ago, Magdalena had already died. Did Catarina then, upon reading this book, fear that she might return? Or had she befriended Magdalena during her regular visits to the Francesco home and now sought to better understand her late friend by reading about her faith?

And then, there–this passage, atop the next chapter, startled me.

Janara is the name one gives for a follower of Jana and of her consort Janus.

I stared ahead, my gaze vacant in the direction of the window. Outside, the December sun was high over the Piazza.

Janus. What did I really know of the Roman God, who had it seemed, given his name to our month of January.

I looked down to the book where the script filled many more yellow pages.

I know not what took hold of me.  I fumbled for a little vial of ink in the deep folds of my mantle pocket.  Into the pages of my journal, I began to feverishly make notes of all that I read.

In the hours that followed, while the marbled-floor room sat still and the humming of the assistant had quietened to a deafening silence, down came the etchings of my sharpened quill upon each page. My eyes raced across a blackened scrawl, its Latin words furious with meaning, words that leapt at me from tarnished pages, pages which I no sooner devoured that they were turned to reveal others.

In truth, the eerie passage of time I encountered in this library could only be likened to the thrill I felt on the night when I had chipped the white paint off her portrait. Every Latin word that was gifted to me and which I then recorded, became a flake of white paint that I peeled off, layer by layer, until I could almost touch her.

Magdalena’s Pendant

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Esteban del Valle

29 December 1422

Esteban,

Does it surprise you how rapidly I sought the man on stilts from the Piazza? I hope he delivers this letter.

Something terrible has happened to me since our last encounter. I no longer dwell in Santa Croce. This morning, I heard loud noises near my lodgments.  I was forced to make a fast escape when, by my window, I saw three armed sbirri come running into the building.

I now reside close to the Rialto and my new masked existence has become a necessity. Esteban, the man you know is no longer free. I am under arrest. I have with me a letter from the Consiglio dei Dieci which they left to my name yesterday and whose contents are deeply unsettling.

I must speak with you.

Given the gravity of the situation, I am prepared to reconsider your proposition. I am certain that we can devise an ingenious plan to arrive to a more satisfying state of affairs. Shall we say, tomorrow midday, in the Piazza? I shall be sporting white hose and a green and gold tabard.

Yours in faith,

Antonio da Parma

***

Letter from Almoro Donato to Antonio da Parma

Antonio da Parma,

Not content with neglecting your duties and refusing to sign a document that would allow us to close the Contarini case, you disobeyed the Consiglio’s orders and pursued your inquest by visiting the Ca’ Contarini.

You were then seen lurking in a Santa Croce atelier, late into the night, knowing well that it would be visited by the signore di notte under my orders. You were also seen rousing the crowds when the swollen body of Rolandino appeared along the canal banks.

Antonio, why do you persist with a path which can only displease the Council of Ten?

I have, to date, been your staunch supporter under increasing disapproval of the Council members. I have had to provide them with excuses for your refusal to sign the deposition. Naturally I referred to your foible superstitious mind, but there is only so much I can do, Antonio, before your behavior arouses the ire of the Council.

Permit me to remind you that when you were assigned to this case, you were warned to cast aside your occultist delusions. Yet I find that you made a recent visit to the library, where you spent hours immersed in a certain book.

You have not only ignored my advice, but now it appears you have abandoned all reason. Your mind is clouded, Antonio. Your erring can only cost us both in reputation.

Let me then, elucidate you, Signor da Parma, and leave no doubt as to the decreed resolution of this case. Read on and grasp its full meaning.

Following the discovery of Francesco Visconti’s body, the Contarini murders have been satisfactorily resolved as Acts of God.

Illness and death can arise from defects of the soul Antonio. Often, our own guilt precipitates this. Have you not, in a fit of depression, following your wife’s death, drowned your sorrows in abundant wine like Guido Canal did before he fell and drowned in the lagoon?

Have you not, in a fit of self-loathing, dreamed of poisoning yourself to swallow your guilt, like Ubertino Canal did, when he ingested shellfish and crab knowing full well that he would be ill from it?

And in regards to Morosini, do you dare deny, Antonio, that God has the power to inflict disease to punish the wicked? Because how else could Morosini have fallen ill in the span of a night and passed away into the next world so suddenly, if our Lord Almighty had not intervened to inflict this punishment?

And finally, we come to Giacomo. Giacomo who, no doubt, out of sheer madness, orchestrated the murder of the Visconti mascheraro and who, the following night, murdered his own daughter thinking her to be, as I am told, his son’s Jewess. Have you not been guilty of some crime and felt hunted by your enemies, seeing them even when they are not near? Giacomo’s madness was an extreme example but it stands in all evidence as a sign of his guilt.

There it is then, the truth you seek. You would agree this heavenly truth is no less formidable than the delusions you entertain to nurse the occult that has long been your fantasy. But God has set out his designs and he will not have you see shadows where they do not exist.

For as long as I have known you, you persist in your strange beliefs. Beware that they do not lead you away from God and into the path of heresy. Your delusions, whatever these may be, have no place in the Catholic Church nor do they play a role in the tragic demise of these Veneziani.

For now, I urge you to cease your wanderings before you, too, would lose your mind.

Now to the object of this letter.

We are tired of seeing you dance to the whims of your imagination.

But it is more serious than that.

Antonio, from the beginning, I warned you. All your actions are watched and known.

Our spies informed us that upon your visit to the carampanas, you appropriated the mask left by the person of Balsamo Morosini on the night of his death. Your rigorous approach to gathering evidence would be commendable if it were not so macabre.

Did you think you could conceal this mask from us, Antonio?

Concealment from the Consiglio dei Dieci places you in infringement of the law.  Do you understand my meaning? No? Then read on.

On the night I spoke of, after you broke into the Visconti atelier and the body of Rolandino was found, one of the sbirri saw you take something from Rolandino’s neck.

The guards set out after you to retrieve this object. You know which object I speak of and I know it is in your possession. Despite what you probably believe, Da Parma, the sbirri were not intent on taking your life on that night. They were after the object you took in secret from Rolandino’s corpse. Why you would choose to rob a corpse is beyond my comprehension. But this object does not belong to you, Antonio. It belongs to the Council of Ten.

As of now, your actions are an offense to the institution that you were called upon to serve and I can no longer place my trust in you. I have tried to delay the inevitable but the Council is unanimous on the matter. I will though, salvage whatever amity still exists between us. Deliver yourself to us, tonight, with the pendant. I pledge that once we are satisfied that your mind has not wandered, we will let you go.

I am warning you, Antonio–there is an order for your arrest.  If you do not come tonight, expect the sbirri at your doorstep.

Almoro Donato

***

Almoro was lying. When I had last seen him, he had raved about Rolandino’s guilt for engaging in acts contra natura. He had expounded on Ubertino’s gluttony and Guido’s love of drink.  It seemed convenient that upon discovering Francesco’s body, no—it seemed too suspect that Almoro had leapt and found new explanations for the mechanics of each death. How fast he revised his judgments! How nimble and certain, his mind, on each occasion!

I saw well what he had set out. He was intent on closing this inquest no matter what evidence was found, discarding my reasoning at all times.

To what aim? Did he intend, at all cost, to quell the gossip already spurred by the merchants’ deaths? Was he using this case as a moral example to the popolani? He seemed to incorporate each new evidence to support his God theories.

There had to be more to these deaths.

I had to prove that I was not mad, if only to regain my freedom.

Giacomo’s diary had brought forth one piece of the puzzle and I possessed other clues. But I still needed more. And I was determined to find it in the Council’s cancelleria.

Upon reading Almoro’s letter a second time, I was struck by another curiosity. He had stated clearly of his contempt for my recent visit to Catarina Contarini. And yet, later, he had asserted that my movements were watched and known.  He had known from an earlier letter that the natural course for me to take in pursuing my investigation was to make an appointment with the Contarini widow. Then why had he not stopped me?  I had visited her in daylight without so much as hiding my actions. If he had wanted to, he could have stopped me and sent his sbirri after me. Even in the Giudecca gardens, their assassin could have arrested me.

That he had allowed the encounter to take place could only mean that he intended me to speak with Catarina Contarini. He had had every intention that I reveal to her the grave accusations against her husband. I had served their purpose.

And now, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Twice, the Consiglio had made attempts to frighten Catarina. The first occasion was brought upon by my revelation that her husband’s reputation, much like Rolandino’s, was dubious. The second occasion came with the vicious attack upon her son.

But why frighten this woman? And to what purpose?

And why was Almoro insisting that I return a silver pendant? What did they know of it?

I retrieved Magdalena’s pendant from my neck and began to examine it. I realized that I felt strangely possessive over it, and as my resolve grew, and my mind seized upon an idea, I felt the rue’s branches burn into the palm of my hand. I closed my fist tight.

No, Almoro. You are wrong. I am not suffering from delusions.

But now was no time for debate.  If I did not discover further evidence, I would be branded a madman by the Republic and arrested by the Consiglio.

I had made a decision. I would break into the cancelleria.

Esteban would have his document, but I would set out to find more than a condottiere contract. I would not just enter into the cancelleria inferiore. I had to delve deeper. I had to find the cancelleria secreta and unearth the secrets of the Consiglio dei Dieci.

If Almoro was hiding something from me, then this was the place where I would find it.

Schemes in the Piazza

Journal of Antonio da Parma

30 December 1422

It is said, although I cannot think who did say it, that in the festive spirit of Carnivale, the Piazza is a place where one can at once best remain hidden and be seen. There are more sights and smells here than anywhere in Venezia, save perhaps in the fish markets of the Rialto.

Upon first entry into this spacious campo, where reeking sweat mingles with cheap perfume, one is soon overcome by the brightly decked crowds.  During the warmer months, the stench and sounds are particularly oppressing. It is unfortunate that the respite offered by winter should be tempered by the overbearing Carnivale revelers.

I knew not where to look in this throbbing arena gorged with Veneziani and travelers alike. Meandering among the masked were the jugglers, jesters, a band of bare-footed dancers, minstrels, and those looking down upon us with mocking smiles on their painted faces, the stilt walkers. I edged my way, pushing through the sea of colors until, to my distaste, I was within it, the very heart of Carnivale.

Hundreds of voices rise from this melting pot so that one hears a multitude of foreign tongues. One can discern, here, a Greek, there a Frenchman and an Oriental, over there, a German—without as much comprehending what each has to say. When one finally grows accustomed to the myriads of odors and bustling stalls and one believes oneself to be a hidden entity within the crowd, there appears meddling hawkers and peddlers to bar one’s way. For their eyes are adept at scrutinizing among the faces and we are not as alone as we think because they have seen us among the hundreds.

The shrieks and laughter, the incessant vendor shouts, the cat calls to prostitutes who camp their luscious wares by the taverns and the random agitation of overwhelmed travelers–all, are given to frightening the pigeons who sweep past with a fluttering of wings, startling those nearby.

I gathered that my footing would be best found behind closed doors, away from the madness of the campo. But where was I to sit in this crazed filled space? Not near the Palazzo’s pillars where patricians and vendors alike would lift their garments to relieve themselves in the latrines.  And not beneath the arcades where beggars congregated in tattered rags.  Close to this filth, traders had setup shops at the front of the Basilica and animated men and women swarmed like flies round blood dripping meats, salamis and vegetable stalls.

I spun round, looking out to the lagoon. No sign of Esteban; the ever masked Esteban that no one, most especially at Carnivale could ever find.

Clustered at the foot of the Campanile were the tourist guesthouses and money changers. Further out, beside the Piazzetta and edging the narrow molo which faced the sea, were cheese and meat vendors and again, more taverns.

After striding along the lagoon, I finally found the tavern I had been looking for. It was tucked behind a row of shops alongside the Mint and overlooked the Canal. I entered and sat quietly, adjusting my black volto.

Esteban was not long coming. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

He had worn a red turban and a glittering half-mask which permitted him to eat. Under a full-length cloak of scarlet, he was fitted into a pair of magnificent dark blue checkered calza. Aside from his hidden rapier, he had the allure of a leisurely tourist who had ostensibly adopted Venezia’s dress and was reveling in his stint at Carnivale.

We retreated inside the quiet restaurant that I knew, at a glance, I could not afford. Like the numerous merchants in this city, Esteban seemed to thrive on letters of credit. He took a glance inside and nodded his approval.

We were no sooner seated in a far corner, that he demanded to see the best wine and proceeded to make notes in a small journal, as though on a traveling holiday.

“You are doing splendidly,” I remarked with a tinge of sarcasm. “If you had not rudely tapped me on the shoulder with your cane, I may not have recognized you.”

He laughed.

“The secret, Antonio, is to believe who you are. Believe that you are the costume. And soon enough, it becomes you and you resemble the farce until the two are indistinguishable. My designs were to pass unseen. Like you, I desired no witnesses.”

“Today’s tournament is our welcome friend,” I said, pointing outside to the thickening crowds in the Piazza. Already, two richly clad jousters had taken their places on their horses and held their lances in readiness for combat. “Carnivale is a refuge for a man who hides from the sbirri. Besides, if I were not disguised, one would only ever see a poor Tuscan avogadore pretending to be a Venetian, and a grim one at that.”

Esteban appeared moved by my self-deprecating jest.  “I would never qualify you as grim, Antonio. There is an aloof charm in the Tuscan avogadore,” he assured me.  While keeping his little finger crooked aside to dip in the salt dish, he soaked a piece of bread in olive oil before chewing fondly into it. “I insist. The Tuscan is charming. Why berate him? But even so, permit me to say that is not who you really are, Signor da Parma. Are you certain that you’ve understood your own nature? Or is it defined for you by the Signoria?”

He took a sip from the offered wine, signaled his approval to the attendant and sat back. He continued to observe me, one hand on his newly grown tuff of a beard.

“Signor da Parma, in time, you may even discover yourself through one such costume.”

“You mean, lose myself,” I mocked, reaching for the wine pitcher.

“Oh no. I mean that the costume will liberate you, edge you closer to the reality of your being. But…if you really wish to lose yourself, Signor da Parma, then travel is the key. The ways of the Republic are a masquerade. They oppress one’s true nature. That is why the vilest creatures are revealed when masks are worn during Carnivale.”

“On that, we agree,” I said, casting a tired glance over the odious Piazza.

“The Veneziani are all merry about hiding behind their masks because their Signoria demands too much of its cittadini. But I, Esteban del Valle, I am not like the rest of them. I never let a city instruct me as to who I am. You see me here, in Venezia and I feed on her as I would in any city but above all, I remain my own man, whether I am at sea, in Cyprus, in the islands of Greece or in the Levant.” He brought the purple glass to his flared nostrils and inhaled the wine’s aroma. “Again, I speak of myself. It must be tiring for you. And you? What of your life in Tuscany which you care to never mention?”

“Tuscany is beautiful,” I replied, as I nibbled at rosemary bread.

He took note of the evasive tone in my voice and stared at me.

“Beautiful enough, yet, she does not impassion your speech. Am I right? Antonio! I am right. The avogadore flits from city to city never really finding what he seeks. Because what he seeks…” he paused, studying me with an intensity that I found disconcerting. “What he seeks is not of this world.”

“How you read me.”

“Perfectly, don’t you think?” He smiled. “Oh, I have known men like you, Antonio da Parma. Before Gaspar Miguel Rivera passed away and long before the brig was taken from us, I made a dozen voyages to the Holy Lands and carried aboard hundreds of pilgrims from all parts of the world. Onboard, I studied these spiritual men.  Yes, I did. Some, I believe, and this was evident by the ale they consumed and the women they bedded at the ports, were lacking in devotion. But the others, I come to them. These pious men who were—how shall I say—always here, but not quite here. You see, they have that distant look in their eyes, a sort of longing that burns slowly with the same glow that I see in yours.  They are the silent ones. But one can read the burning fervor of their faith upon their faces.  If one were to speak to them, one would realize that they were born only to see the Holy Lands. If they could dispense from food or drink during the journey, they would. These men have no anchors to their homes. They happily lose themselves to the places they visit. They exist to pray to God and lose themselves in him.”

“I am hardly ever at mass. Now, you exaggerate.”

“Do I? Yet, Signor da Parma, round your neck, I have seen the glow of a silver pendant.” He said it casually but I knew how it fascinated him. I had caught him staring at it many times since that night on the roofs.  I squirmed in my seat, raising a hand to assure that the pendant was tucked beneath my shirt.

“I take it, that it is not a Christian icon. But for you to choose to wear it so close to your chest…” He gave me a generous flash of his white smile.

“The pendant does not belong to me,” I offered, hoping he would change the subject. “I am safeguarding it for someone.”

“I see. So then, to whom does it belong, Signor da Parma? Or perhaps I should rephrase my question and ask whether by wearing it, you belong to it.” At this, he emitted a knowing smile whose meaning I took care to ignore.

“It is nothing. I had a dream. That is all. Some dreams you can never forget.”

His smile remained suspended as he stared at me with an inquisitive gaze. Then he moved his lips to his glass and drank in silence.

“Would you like to see it?” I asked, reaching for the cord when no one was watching. “Perhaps you might have seen one like it before. I’ve not shown it to anyone and I do not intend to tell you where I found it.”

“Certainly. I will examine that rare silver pendant,” he boomed.

He reached for it and cradled it in his large hands pondering over each charm with an intelligent gaze. He remained silent for a long time. I saw that he had lost his smile. He fingered the charms with a troubled expression.

“Fascinating. I can understand it now…”

“Understand what?”

“Nothing.”

He returned the pendant and looked away as though regretting having set his eyes on it.

“I believe it belonged to a Napoletana,” I said. “But I am uncertain as to its meaning.”

Esteban nodded. He was contemplating something. “There is an old crone by the Arsenal if you wish to chance a visit. I forget the street. She sells all manner of oddities. The pilgrims love to buy charms in Venezia on their way to the Holy Lands. They ignore that they can find similar jewelry in the Levant at more reasonable prices. Anyway, I think she might even stock similar charms. Not one like it, of course. I’ve never seen so much silver... But you could ask her of its meaning. It would be safe.  She wouldn’t tell a soul of your visit, Signor da Parma. She is just an old forgotten crone.” He saw the glimmer in my eyes.

“I will risk anything, Esteban, to find out more about this pendant. It is one of the reasons why I am under arrest.”

He set his glass down and stared at me.

“Why did you wish to see me?” he asked, suddenly.

“I have decided to help you.”

He leaned forward.

“You wish to enter the Palazzo just as the Consiglio dei Dieci are hunting you? Are you mad?”

“The Consiglio dei Dieci are toying with me. But I am not mad, Esteban.  They know I am nearing some truth and they do not like it. I can feel it.  I just need enough time to prove it.  Signor Del Valle, I can help you. All oaths, reports and the archives of the procurators of San Marco are held in the cancelleria inferiore, on the palace’s third floor.  I know where to find your document. I just don’t know…how.”

He contemplated me for a moment. I think he was slightly impressed by my words.

“Avogadore,” he said, “when we have carried out our plan and I have my brig at long last, you ought to join me for a voyage to the Levant.”

“When this quest is complete, you and I may find ourselves in the Wells,” I replied.

“Not Esteban. He has other plans. Besides the Wells are too damp for my liking. Do not despair Antonio, we will find a way. So let us now speak of it since it is the purpose of our appointment. I was secretly hoping it was.  I have thought over your little predicament and an idea has formed overnight. Yes, a splendid idea. It is brilliant. This morning, before Almoro Donato entered the palace, I followed him to the latrines and I took it upon myself to clumsily address him in French and pretend that I was lost.”

“You buffoon!”

“I thought so too. It was an altercation that I will not forget. But nevertheless, my short and rather vivid exchange with the old petulant judge has had an effect on me. I took care, while he was too busy scolding my insolence, to examine him closely and observe his speech and mannerisms. Based on this, Antonio, I conclude that you are closer to the cancelleria than you might think. Think of it, what if you, Antonio, were to disguise yourself as Signor Almoro Donato.”

I set my glass down to the table and stared at him lips apart. He seemed entirely serious beneath his lopsided color spray of a mask. “Continue,” I said.

“Think of it. He is of your height and build. Together we can agree on how closely you can adopt his speech and gait. First of all, I would encourage you to slur your words a little more. Remember that we are in Venezia and it ought to strike you how insipidly romantic you sound at times. You should abandon your pristine Florentine dialect. Try it. Try to think like a merchant even if that merchant has now become a judge. Merchants have scarce time on their hands, Antonio. Time is money. Also you walk quite straight and you tend to keep your limbs close, whereas Almoro, he is hunched forth a little and shuffles his feet like a monk while dangling his long arms from side to side. I am convinced you can manage the same. All we need… “

He was interrupted by the attendant bringing forth an enormous leek and goat cheese pie. We had ordered braised pork cutlets and a well-seasoned plate of Sarde in saor to complement. Despite Esteban’s unsettling proposition, my mouth already watered at the prospect of sweet and sour fish. Our little banquet looked all the more appetizing now that my heart pounded with excitement.

We waited for the attendant to be out of earshot before resuming our plan.

Esteban cut through his pork with a sharp swipe of his knife. He swirled the meat in its jus and took a taste with his eyes closed.  I had soon brought him back to reality.

“Signor Del Valle, you would have me impersonate Almoro Donato! Why, Esteban, you think me enamored of death? I may as well stand between those two granite columns and offer my neck to the executioner.”

He shot me a dark glance.

“In the sunlight, that may be. But not under the pallid glow of flambeaux. And if you remain in the darkness, only the outline of your face, nay, of your mask, shall be seen. I know what I speak of.”

“And I say that it cannot be done.”

“Deny it if you will. But what shall you say when I tell you that I, myself, have attempted this very farce.  Antonio, one keeps away from the bright lights and the illusion is complete.  The spell only works in the night, but it works.”

“Very well,” I said. “If I do as you say, we may have a chance. Do you think I can do it? Enter the palace unrecognized? Find Gaspar’s contract and deliver it to you?”

Esteban gulped down more wine. “I believe you can, Antonio. You would know the Nuevo Palazzo back to front whereas I do not. You are familiar with the whereabouts and operations of the Consiglio. Your confidence is all I await. We will take this chance whenever you are ready. I know where to find a resembling wig and a Consiglio attire. Leave that to me. The rest is up to you. When do you think it can be done?”

He noted the frown on my brow as I remembered something. “What day is it?” I asked.

“30 December.”

“Then we have no choice,” I said. “It must be done tomorrow.”

“Why so soon?”

“It must be tomorrow night. The Council of Ten members were elected in September this year. They took their post at the end of September. Each of the members is appointed for one year. Every month in that year, the members elect three Capi.”

“Three what?”

“Three Capi. They are the Heads of the Council and have judicial authority. It is a regulation that the Capi may not leave the palace during the entire month—for fear that they may be bribed, you understand? During this month, none of them can leave the palace.”

“I gather that Almoro has not yet had his turn at being Capi.”

“Precisely. In October, they elected Victor Bragadino, Roberto Mauro and Petro Duodo. In November I believe it was Bartholomeus Donato, Petro Lauredino and a certain Marcus whose last name eludes me. Almoro was not Capi in October or November. Now we are in December and you saw him walk outside the Palace…”

“Damnation.”

“My predicament exactly. Tomorrow is the last day of the month. In January they will elect the three new Capi. My guess is that Almoro will be one of them. He will be confined to the palace for one month. It is therefore too dangerous to wait until January. I cannot be him while he resides in the palace. It would arouse suspicion. He may even see me himself! If we have to do this, it has to be tomorrow.”

“But in such a short time, how will you master the Venetian tongue?”

“I will do what I can. I have all afternoon to make practice.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

I nodded.

I left Esteban shortly after the tournament ended.  A bullfight was set to begin.  There were now more men and women in the Piazza and all remnants of propriety had been dissolved. I frayed myself a passage beyond the offensive crowds and sought a gondola.

It had not surprised me how eager Esteban had been to execute our plan. I took it merely as his desire to regain his wealth.

What Venetian citizen would refrain from such a prospect?

***

Letter from Esteban del Valle to his client

It will be tonight. Tonight, our agreement is complete and my engagement shall draw to an end.

In a week, I shall sail to Aragon.

Your loyal servant.

The Pendant Maker

Back in my new lodgments, I mentally rehearsed the Venetian tongue with its childish tonalities.  I amused myself while impersonating Almoro’s shuffle. As I hunched forth, the large pendant dangled before me and struck me on the chin.

A sudden urge took hold of me. One strange desire it was, one with no name, not even a face, save this silver rue that I could not part from. The urge was strong. I knew by my lack of resistance that my afternoon’s acting rehearsal was forever ruined.

Digging feverishly at my throat, I beheld the talisman and rested it in my palm so that it filled almost half of it. For a while, I lay in bed to examine it.  Unsettling desire it was.  It bore her face, the face of a ghost that had long vanished and yet its presence seemed near, so near that I had only to reach out, to reach out and grasp it.

I longed to unveil the secrets of this pendant.

Without hesitating, I draped myself in a woolen cloak and set out for the Arsenal.

In the cramped living quarters that lined the shipyards, was the realm of the Arsenalotti, a bellicose people who for years, had given Venezia its sailors, its marine carpenters and shipbuilders. They were a thriving lot, thanks, in part, to the favor of the noble classes who were their principle clientele. They were the firemen of Venezia and among them were also generations of gondoliers and an elect group of men who served as bodyguards to the Doge. They kept among themselves, intermarrying and monopolizing their trade.

Here, even the women, unlike their patrician sisters, were hard at work.  In these parts, there was no idle basting under the sun in the quest for golden locks. The Arsenalotti women were far from sheltered. They moved with great freedom, setting about their work, or running the stalls in the garden markets which spilled onto the Eastern side of the Arsenal.

The women held their own. They were the sail makers, the crafty artisans and the rambunctious retailers. Here, perhaps, lay the root for this odd belief that Venetian women were hardier than their men.

I passed a maze of shops and wine houses. When I had ventured deep into a narrow calle, a lithe woman, donning a cotton dress of many colors and draped in a black shawl, ran to me. She pressed her bare hand to my mantle, her green eyes eager for a zecchino. I started.

“Pick a card from the tarocchi! Pick one, Florentine. And the second one and the third! Vi dirò la vostra fortuna. You will see,” she cheered, as though promising wondrous things. “Let Zara read your future, Signore.”

A fortune teller? One who had somehow recognized my origins! I shuddered to think of the task that lay before me tomorrow night. If I could not fool these people into believing I was a Veneziano, then perhaps there was no hope.

I gaped at the gilded cards brandished in my face. They were numberless and hand-drawn. On one side, they depicted some obscure iconography that I’d never seen before. At first, I had mistook them for Mamluk cards. Those, I knew, were forbidden, at least in Florence.  But the ones Zara held up were different. They looked to be foreign. She shuffled them with her knotty fingers and presented them to me, face down, a wily expression beneath her hooded pupils.

I hesitated. Fortune telling was illegal and invited papal scorn…

Holding my breath, I reached for a card.

“Now the second one, Florentine! Vi dirò la vostra fortuna,” she urged, with her oddly Castilian accent.

I obeyed, presenting three cards, drawn from the tarocchi pack.

“Now, we will see. We will see. But first!” She eyed me expectantly. “Zecchino.”

I handed her another coin.

“Alas, Florentine!” She shook her head. She showed me a depiction of a staff-bearer in a high hat. It appeared to be a priest of some kind.

“This is your past, Florentine. Tradition. Tradition has been your lot. You bring wisdom and fear in your path and you never stray from your path. What are you afraid of, Florentine? What are you afraid of?”

The second card seemed to startle her. I saw that it depicted a golden crescent beneath which two dogs were howling.

“La Luna! Confusion!” she sighed, her eyes suddenly ablaze. Then she pressed my cloak with frantic urgency.  “Give me more money! Money now, before anyone sees us,” she hissed.

“You wretched woman. Be gone!”

I scrambled out of the calle, while her hand still clung to my cloak.

“A little zecchino for the pretty Zara and she will take away your confusion. You are unsure of the path, Signore. Si! Signore, vi dirò la vostra fortuna. Vostra fortuna!”

Appalled, I stumbled back onto a fruit vendor who protested with such fury that Zara was startled.  Her cards slipped from her hands. As she leaned forth to gather her pack, my third card was revealed. For an instant, I remained stunned, staring at it, not comprehending. Then I turned away, running through a dark sottoportico and into the next calle.

It was here, Esteban had assured me, that I would find the charm makers and those who peddled gifts to the touring pilgrims before they set out to the Levant. Beside a broad stall, selling both silver and cheap metal jewelry, sat a little girl in a dirty dress. She was tossing about a set of dice. Children in rags played with little wooden dolls and fought with improvised wooden swords. I ventured into the next alley which I knew from the bustling crowds was frequented by more pilgrims.

The delicious aroma of roasted chestnuts wafted in the cool air.  Beside the chestnut vendor, I noted a dilapidated stall where hung all manner of coral and silver amulets. These looked large and promising.

I peered under the curtained awning, my face still covered by a leather bauta.

“Do you make one like this?” I asked in a broken Venetian accent. I flashed the silver pendant into a young girl’s face. She shook her head.

“Where can I find one of these?” I repeated.

She eclipsed herself and emerged again with her mother; a woman veiled from her head to toe with kohl-lined eyes. The Mamluk woman examined me in silence then reached forth to my neck.  A reddish dye stained her fingers down to her palms and wrists, yet I let her cradle the pendant as she inspected it thoughtfully. It seemed to intrigue her but she shook her head with a scowl.

“Do you know where I can buy one? Like this?” I asked again.

The woman merely waved me away. She did not seem to understand me. And then the little girl gave a tug on her mother’s veil and this one craned her neck to take in the whispered words.

At once, the Mamluk woman nodded. As she could not leave the store for decency’s sake, her child took me by the hand and led me to the end of the street. We meandered toward the northern port, in what seemed like a cluster of narrow alleys, thick with Arsenalotti, until at last, we had reached a dead end calle, smelling of incense and amber. Here, the cold of the lagoon stung at my eyes.

I was distracted by a flight of doves pecking the ground at my feet and when I looked again into the infernal campo, the little girl seemed to have disappeared. To my left, in a narrow sottoportico dampened by moss and ferns, her slight silhouette moved in the darkness. I could still hear her lithe footsteps flit away into the distance. I stooped to avoid hitting my head then stepped cautiously inside, reaching for the grimy walls to avert a slippery fall.  I ventured deeper, where the light had ceased to shine.

“Where have you gone to, child?” I called. My voice returned to me in an eerie echo.

“I am here.”

I halted. In the doorway, on my right, was the shadow of an old crone. The little girl stood by her side, solemn and satisfied with her guiding skills. Much to her delight, I took out a coin and handed it to her. With a joyful sigh, she dashed out of the sottoportico.

“What do we have here?” said a gleeful voice. “A stranger from the Tuscan lands. What has brought you here, stranger?”

I had never seen a woman so utterly deformed as the one that stood before me. She was maybe five feet tall, her stout form swathed in a torn shawl of various hues. She stared insolently at me, her eyes as black as the night. But it was the wart like appearance of her wrinkled skin, her hirsute protruding chin and her sagging cheeks, that horrified. She seemed like a diseased spirit, carrying with her all manner of ills. I stared with fright at the bulbous formations on her giant hands whose fingernails were torn and shriveled beneath swollen fingertips.

I reached for the pendant with trembling fingers and held it up for her to see.

“Greetings, Signora. I wish to know if you have seen this pendant.”

Her narrowing eyes rested on the silver rue with its six dangling charms. She grunted and curled her upper lip. If she had teeth, one could not see them. It would seem that this woman knew of her horrendous appearance.  Perhaps she had chosen to hide, deep in the entrails of the port, where the superstitious Venetians, whose sensitivities were soon appalled by anything that did not meet their standards for beauty, would never be offended by her presence.

“Signora,” I persisted, stepping into the doorway closer to her, despite my fear. “I need to know if you have seen this pendant before.”

“And what if I have?” she snapped.

“I want to know what it means.”

She examined me as though to gauge whether I might survive a further encounter with her. At last, she relented.

“Come in.” She moved aside to let me pass. She seemed to sniff out my clothes as I entered.

I crept forward, ever hunched, into the den of this old devil. The smell of burning silver and other metals reached my nostrils. I could see from the ornaments in her abode that she had been at work and could fashion silver jewelry like the very best smiths of the city.

“Now,” she said, hands on her wide hips, “let me see what you have brought here, Signore.” And before I could respond, she gave a startle. “You are a widower, si?”

“I…”

“Si, si… I see you now. Come closer. Into the candle light. Come! Closer, don’t be shy. A widower. You are searching…searching for your one true love!”

Without warning, she emitted a hardened cackle and eyed me with a mockery I could not stand.

“Si, Signore, your true love!” she gloated.

Her eyes widened abruptly and she began to whisper.

“Signore. I know where she is! I know! She is here! She is here! Constanziaca! I have seen her!”

“Signora, I don’t know anyone called Constanziaca,” I muttered, pulling away from her grip.

“I have seen her!”

“What are you babbling about? Signora, have you or have you not cast your eyes on this pendant before?” I shouted, shoving the silver before her frenzied face. At once her childlike expression disappeared and she roared at me.

“Of course I have seen it! I made one just like it!”

I was taken aback.

“You have?”

She stepped away and began to move around inside her little one-room house as though she was suddenly weighted down by memories and refused to mention them. Her hands probed the couch, the rugs, the spoons and silver pieces as though every touch could revive the past and send images to her failing mind.

“Si, Signore. I made one like it. Many years ago…for a beautiful woman. So beautiful. She found me just like you did. She came to me with the cimaruta. One just like this one.”

“The cimaruta… Wait. Who was this woman?”

She stared at me and slowly, her thin lips curled into a sinister smile. “A strega from Napoli.” The jagged row of her blackened teeth sent a chill through me. But it was nothing compared to the chanting in her voice when she whispered the next words. “You believe in witches, Signore? Si. I know you do! Or you would not be here.”

“Tell me about this woman.”

“I don’t know her by name. But… She wore the cimaruta every day. To keep her safe, Signore and…to give her the second sight.” She smiled. “You understand?”

I gave a frown. Her black eyes shone as though they were welcoming me into the gates of hell.

“Guardalo,” she said, pointing her crooked finger toward the rue’s branches. “Look carefully. Each of the branches has its own power. You may believe this is just a silver adornment but the pendant lives.  It carries its own life force.”

“Do you…do you know what it means?”

“Si, Signore. I do.”

She gave a furtive glance around the room and appeared anxious. It was impossible that anyone would have ventured in this infernal sottoportico but for some strange reason, the old hag had determined that we had best speak softly. She looked at me with foreboding.

“La cimaruta è molto vecchia. Very old. Each one of its charms is an old amulet. My people, the ancient people of Tyre, once knew of some of them. La cimaruta is meant for protection, protection from spells. And…it has been known to give second sight.” Her face lit up as she pronounced those words.

“The branches, the rooster, the crescent moon–what do they all mean? And that serpent? Is it evil?”

She fixed me with her black eyes.

“Listen well. The rooster protects her from the evil.  The dagger is her strength. It points to the moon to give her light. The crescent moon are the forces that live in her. La luna, she is very important. It is the sign of the janara.”

I felt a tug in my chest. “La luna! Yes, of course. Diana, the Moon Goddess!” I eyed the pendant with renewed fascination. “And the serpent? What of the serpent?”

“Wisdom...but, together with la luna, it can stir evil. And here, the key–the key to all knowledge. I told you, it is a powerful amulet.”

“And what is this flower?”

“Verbena. The tears of Isis. Also for her protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“Was she really a janara?”

“Si. Do not doubt her. She was a priestess for the Queen of all witches, a very powerful witch, Signore. And me? I did what she wanted, of course. I made for her the other pendant. For her little one.”

“There are two? Two pendants?”

“Si. Two of them in Venezia. She wanted another one, another one for her little girl. She told me of many, many evil persons in Venezia. Me, she said, I am safe with the cimaruta, but my child will face great danger. Great danger, she said.”

“What danger?”

She grew indignant.

“From the jettatura! What do you think?”

“Old wives’ tales. Superstitions.”

“Foolish widower. You are in love with a ghost,” she spat.

I bit my lips. “And how would you know what is in my heart?”

“The owner of the pendant you hold, she is dead!” she went on.

I stepped back.

“I know this,” I replied, taking care to conceal the disappointment in my voice. “Thank you for your time. I shall leave—”

“But the other one…”

I froze by the doorway. My heart skipped a beat as though suddenly rejoicing. I listened on, wanting her to speak and tell me more.

“The other one, Signore—”

She did not finish. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her body shook. Then she came to and raised a withered palm to her head as though parting from saddening memories. A pained expression contorted her face.

“Donna maledetta! The poor child… It is so sad. Oh, Signore. So sad…”

She seemed exhausted. She sat herself on a Mamluk couch and rocked back and forth in silence.

I remained by the door, waiting for her to reveal more of the second pendant. Who did she mean when she spoke of the poor child? I had since learned that Magdalena’s child had drowned but the crone was responding strangely.

“What about the other pendant?” I asked.

“Stolen from her! Donna maledetta! The poor child…” She shook her head once. She was trembling from ire. “Thieves! Thieves!” A harrowing expression possessed her face. She froze. Her eyes looked up in sheer terror. “Please go. Signore, you must leave. You must go now!”

Against my will, I resigned myself to abandon the old silversmith. At least for now.

As I emerged from the sottoportico, I held the pendant tight in my palm. I could feel its sprigs and its charms scorching my flesh but I did not care. The visit had confirmed what I knew of Magdalena. The Napoletana possessed powers of witchcraft. She could divine and she could protect herself.

Yet, as I left the Arsenal, it was not this new knowledge which revived me.

No. It was the senseless words the old crone had repeated when she had first spoken.

She is here! She is here! Constanziaca! I have seen her!

These words echoed in my mind, thrilling my being, until I, the somber mood Florentine with the dark gaze, I found myself running through the calli with a smile on my face.

And I knew not how and why, but somehow, I felt at peace.

I felt, without a doubt, that she was truly here.

Blanca’s Secret

Journal of Antonio da Parma

31 December 1422

In the early morning of Saint Sylvester, I set off to meet Esteban in a hostelry, off Salizada dei Greci. It was a calle to the east of the San Zaccaria Parish. The lodgings were one of twenty. This particular one was tended by Greeks who seemed to have settled the area in great numbers. It offered food, linen and plenty of beautiful women. Esteban himself was dressed like a pilgrim and gesticulated in Castilian toward me as soon as I approached. I took his cue and nodded with a smile as he led me inside.

I noticed that Esteban paced our small room. He seemed a little tense, until finally a woman slipped her head in and, having ascertained who we were, gracefully stepped in.  Under one arm, she held a wig of fine white hair which would soon have me transformed into Almoro Donato.  She spilled the contents of a large satchel onto the bed to reveal clothing, waxes, paints and facial pomades. Also in her possession was a bucket of water donated by our host.

No sooner had she deposited these items than Esteban took her in his arms and dragged her to him by the waist.

“Blanca mia. Luce dei miei occhi,” he murmured, inhaling the nape of her exposed neck.  Then he placed a hungry kiss on her lips as though I was not in the room.

“Allow me to introduce you to Blanca,” he said, turning to me with a sparkle in his eyes. “Blanca has a talent for disguises.” He smiled in her direction. “Si, si, donna, sei un tesoro.”

She gave a cheeky pout of her carnation lips and mock-curtsied.

In a few moments I understood that the woman who stood before me was a common prostitute. Though she was in her thirties, she was exceptionally beautiful, of satin white skin, expressive eyes and high cheekbones. Her oval face was dotted with no less than three strategically placed false moles and the black taffeta of those mosche did wonders to enhance the pearl-like quality of her skin. Her rich red hair descended in bountiful locks down her bare shoulders. She wore no gold chains around her neck but two amber beads dangled from each earlobe. What she revealed of her ample bosom which flounced at the rim of her low cut silk dress, was enough to confirm my suspicion.

We observed each other–I, wondering where I had seen her before and she, possibly assessing the judicial world that I had come from. There was a mutual tension arising from the sudden manner in which our respective identities had been revealed.

“I shall leave you to it then,” said Esteban with a wicked grin. “I must hasten and find you a trustworthy gondolier, Signor Donato!” And before I could protest, he had left us.

I did not resent him for long. I was intrigued by Blanca’s noble movements and the manner in which she set out to complete her assigned task.

She began by spreading a greasy substance on my face. She had soon covered my forehead, temples, nose, chin and eyes. Satisfied, she soaked strips of cotton cloth in water and pasted them across my face, pressing them down to contour my features.

“I shall now use a different cloth,” she said. “The gauze has been impregnated with plaster. Please do not open your mouth. Try to be still.”

Soon my face had been covered by three layers of such cloth. I felt the damp stiffness and dared not breathe nor speak. Still the lingering scent of damask hung about me with each of her fluid movements. At last she had finished and I heard her sigh.

“Now we shall wait until it dries, Signor da Parma.”

It astounded me that her voice was so polished despite her profession.

After moments that seemed to me eternity, she reached forth and began to cautiously pry the dried plaster from my face. I felt the whiff of cold air upon my liberated features and gazed in astonishment at the mask before me. With a sharp dagger, she trimmed off the edges of the mask and pierced the sides to make little holes.  She began to rip further strips of cloth. For a moment we said nothing until she broke the silence.

“You are an admirer of Esteban, I can see it. He is so handsome, isn’t he?” she whispered in my ear as she wiped traces of plaster and wax, off my face.

“I have never met a man such as him.” I replied curtly, closing my eyes under the contact of her skin.  She had nearly finished.

“I will now fashion this mask into the portrait of Almoro Donato. It will be perfect, you will see. The man has a large hooked nose, not as noble as yours…”

She began to hum as she worked. I had closed my eyes and I felt, much to my discomfort, that there was a quality in Blanca’s voice that was known to me. Now she began speaking of her first encounter with Esteban.

“Women who run the risks of my trade to make a living are at the mercy of dangerous men. I am glad I have Esteban. He protects me. Ever since I have met him, three years ago, I have always felt safe. Most men are frightened of him.”

I understood that Esteban had taken on a role of her protector and lover.  It was common for prostitutes to have recourse to a bandit for their own security. Blanca continued to speak and I grew frustrated, wondering where I had heard her voice.

“Shall I tell you a secret, Signor da Parma? I was nearly abducted three times. Twice I fought them off. The abbess, that is how we call our madam at the whore house, she helped me run off the second time. She burst into the room and told the client he was no longer welcome. The third time was harrowing. I thought I would be dead, Signore. We were in the gardens and there was not a soul in sight. The man was intoxicated. He held a knife to my face and threatened to cut me. I had never felt so frightened in my life. I screamed and wrestled him, until Esteban heard us and fought him off. He gave the man a great fright but spared his life. I shall tell you something else. My would-be abductor was a lawyer, married, with three children. At present, he does almost anything for Esteban.”

“But you no longer engage in your trade, now, do you, Blanca?” I asked, unsettled by her tale.

“I may be Esteban’s companion, Signore, but I earn my own living,” she proudly replied. “A woman like me fends for herself. She needs no one.”

Yet there was an uncertainty in the tone of her voice.

“Esteban and I have made a pact,” she added.

“A pact?”

“That he will take me with him to Aragon, to be his wife, on the condition that I were to desist from my trade. It is my dream to leave Venezia with him and Esteban says that one day, we shall. But three years have passed and he shows no signs of leaving. What do you think, Signore? Do you think I should trust this handsome bravo?”

“He appears fond of you.”

“Oh, he is! That is the reason he wishes me to see no clients. But how should I know that he is serious at all, when here we are, still in Venezia, with Esteban still preoccupied with his affairs.”

“There is yet time, Blanca. Perhaps Esteban is not yet ready to leave for Aragon.”

“Time! You both employ the same words. ‘We have all the time in the world, Blanca. Just allow me to finish a task that remains unfinished.’ His words. Men!”

That voice…

“What do you think, Signore?”

I looked to the mask. My features were no more. She beheld a crude face with a hooked nose, sallow cheeks and hooded eyelids. It was a modest beginning. She had yet to apply the paint and pomades. Under the torch lights, the resemblance would be complete.

Blanca peered into the courtyard below. The sun had not yet set. It gave off rays that lightened her locks. She turned to smile at me.

That hair…

I could no longer sit still, aghast by my own sentiments. I was determined that her voice had a distinctly familiar quality and I would not rest until I had ascertained the fact.

“Have you always been a meretrice, Blanca?” I asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Your manner, perhaps. They are the manners of a well-bred patrician.”

“Do you think courtesans incapable of good breeding?”

“That is not what I meant. Perdonami.”

Her shiny black eyes gleamed with a sudden understanding.

“A woman has to survive,” she answered simply. But she was suddenly less sure of herself.

She began to apply the paint and make up onto the Almoro mask, occasionally raising her eyes to meet mine.

As for me, I had finally identified the voice. And each time Blanca raised her inquisitive eyes in my direction, I could see that my insistent gaze troubled her. I must have appeared eager to give voice to the question that burned my lips.  At present there was not a doubt in my mind.

“Is the nunnery of San Lorenzo such a terrible place, then?” I asked.

She froze.

The startled expression upon her face did not lie.

“How do you know about me?” she spat. She had been blending paints. She was still holding her brush, but now her hand trembled.

“Only what your sister told me,” I whispered.

A furious blush caught her cheeks. I could see the shame mounting in her with the quivering of her lips. I knew I had gone too far.

“I am gravely sorry…” I began.

“You know nothing, Antonio da Parma. Do not judge me!”

“I visited your sister, Catarina. You resemble her very much, Blanca. I simply had to know.”

“Resemble her?” Her lips trembled into a pout. “She abandoned me. Just like my own parents. She ceased responding to my letters. For weeks… Months! Months went by… I received nothing from her. I had to survive, you understand? You will not speak of this. You will not speak of what I have become, either to her, or to the Ca’ Contarini. And never to the Canal!”

“Please understand, I have no wish to be a thorn in your side, Signorina. We are bound by our mutual silences,” I said, referring to the ruse I would soon adopt to enter the palace.

She looked in bitterness to the window, avoiding my eyes. The flaming red of her hair was highlighted once again by the winter sun.

“Do you know why my father locked me in a convent? You will think what many others believe—that the Canal possessed only enough fortune to afford one dowry and that it was Catarina who was lucky enough to be given in marriage. Yes, there are many who think that. But they are wrong. If only that were true. You see, Antonio, my family had immense wealth. So much wealth that it would have displeased them to see their daughters wedded to any man whose class and wealth did not exceed their own. Catarina’s husband satisfied their whims for social standing.  As for me, I was courted by the less fortunate.  The truth, Antonio, is that the Canal would not allow me to marry beneath our class. I was sacrificed to God to let it be known that no unmarried man existed who could win me. I became a token of the Canal wealth.  No more, no less.”

She gave a half smile. “Forgive me, Antonio. I should not have raised my voice at you. You are Esteban’s friend. I wish you to know that I did all I could to keep happy in the convent, but it all became too much in the later years. With my sister’s neglect, I grew poor. I was a drain on the abbess. I was not the only one in San Lorenzo to meet this end; there were many of us. They would have sold our flesh to visiting gentlemen in the end. You seem surprised. But it is true.  Nonnas have become prostitutes. My entire family forgot me, Signore. What would you have me do?”

“How long ago was this?”

“Five years.  The last time Catarina saw me, it was six years ago. I was so relieved to see her. She took me outside. She fussed over me. How she fussed! And then, nothing. I never understood it. When she sent no word for months, I understood that I was alone. And do you want to know something, Antonio? I took matters in my own hands. Do you think I have always been in high spirits, resplendent with health, the way you saw me with Esteban? With passion in my voice? No, Signore. I was a sad twenty year old, gaunt and lonely. Even my bosom had shriveled. I was dying inside, rotting away in a convent. All because my own father had wanted to rise in the eyes of others.

“One night, after I had drafted another letter to Catarina despite her refusal to respond to many others, I was about to trim off my hair, as I had done for years, but an idea came to me. ‘No, Blanca,’ I told myself. I would leave it to grow long and prosper. I would flaunt my beauty and reap of it. I had seen how the visiting abbot occasionally stared at me with languorous eyes. For months, the other young nuns had shared what they believed–that they suspected he held a secret passion for me. As for me, I feigned ignorance, running away from an act I had never known. For months, the abbot’s lust filled me with repulsion.

“But on the night I chose to let my hair reach my hips, I had also made a decision. I wanted to be like them. Those meretrici who often visited and befriended us. They were charming and witty.

“They were free.

“They were empowered by the knowledge that they had a hand in their own destiny. I wanted to spend the nights out with them, into the streets, as some of the nonnas did.  I longed to enjoy the nights and the ducats that came of them. I had planned to dress as a man for the privilege of attending Carnivale and to be alive in the merry dance of Venezia.

“But first, I had to conquer my fears of the flesh.

“It was decided. The abbot would be my first victim. Old and fleshy, he could not harm me. And I entertained such rancor toward my parents that I savored the power I held over this old man. I told myself that playing along with his attention would be a revenge. And what a revenge it would be! No, Antonio, I would not cower into oblivion and be a faceless nonna that the world did not want to know. I would be una donna del mondo, an empowered donna, una donna libera, and ever master of my destiny.

“I learned over time to meet the abbot’s advances. If he dared rest his eyes upon me, I met them. I allowed him to see me as I seemed, innocent and easily molded by authority. I wanted to test how far I could go. And one night, I went to him, in the chapel and kneeled at his feet as though to pray and confess. He saw the depravity in my eyes and at once, he understood. What hunger I must have shown! ‘My poor child,’ he said, eyes half-closed, looking down upon me. ‘If only you knew the ways of this world,’ I heard him say between his teeth, which I knew were chattering from his repressed urge to ravish me.

“He was licking his lips, that fornicating devil. He was ever ready to show me what I ignored and to pluck the flower between my thighs. And already, underneath his cassock, I sensed the growing bulge of his manhood pushing against my face. I told him that I was eager to learn and that I was a good pupil. And I was.

“He had heard enough and it pleased him. He pushed me down to the cold floor and raised his cassock. When he tore through me, I gritted my teeth, crushed by his weight. I tried not to breathe his loathsome rosemary cologne. But as he sweated and wrestled over me, I understood the purpose I could serve to finally make my own living.

“Do not scorn me, Antonio. I was a doomed woman and I am still doomed in the eyes of our Lord. But at least, I now have St Nicholas to vouch for me. I remember when it happened and when the abbot was done with me, we were as stunned as each other. The floor was stained with the blood of my youth, I was bruised inside, and yet, I had won. I had conquered my fears and never again would I remain in the darkness of the convent.

“My horror, in the knowledge that one such as an abbot could defile himself and his vows with such an act, has not left me over the years. I met a French courtesan once. She told me that in the private brothels of Dijon, one fifth of clients are men of the Church. What do you make of this, Antonio? Will you judge me? Will you scorn this nonna turned whore? Wait until I tell you the rest.

“The abbot was not easily satisfied. He grew demanding over the days. I would like to say that his perversions knew no end, but I would shame myself in revealing too much. For months, I endured. He invented ways to use me in all manner of wickedness.  As for me, I devised a plan to trade my body and my silence in exchange for what I wanted most, a way out of my prison. With the abbot’s help, I learned how to disguise myself and leave the convent whenever I wished. In time, I grew confident. In the end, I did not return. I left forever. I have lived as I am for over three years. That is my story, Signore.”

Blanca’s account had disconcerted me, at first. But I gained an understanding from it. I realized how pained the Canal sisters were. Both of them. Catarina, in her agonizing marriage, and then faced with the death of her husband and child. And now, Blanca, discarded by her own family, until she had met a path less than holy. It was difficult to scorn her. What I saw before me, was a wilful woman who had broken laws to become master of her own destiny. To admonish her, I would have had to admonish the parents who had cast her fate. To judge her, I would have to first denounce the abbot who had taken his pleasure, with little regard for his pledge to God. I knew not what to think. I could only wish her well.  And now, as I eyed the perfect reconstruction of Almoro’s face on the newly dried mask she held in her hand, I realized how artful the donna truly was.

“This is remarkable, Blanca. I feel as though I were peering into Almoro’s face. Do you think I will be found?”

“That is in your hands, Signore,” she smiled, pleased by my words. Then she grew serious. “Please,” she begged, “if you do see her again, do not tell my sister what I have become.”

It moved me how she could seem proud of herself in some ways, yet ashamed in others. She was divided between the liberties of her new world and the rigid expectations of her old world. I nodded.

“Your secret shall not pass the threshold of my lips, dear Blanca.”

“Thank you, Signore.” Then she smiled and began to spread out the costume she had brought with her. “Now suppose we remove your crimson shirt and doublet and fit you into Almoro’s fashionable frock. I hear black is very much the fashion these days with the Consiglio.”

We both broke into a resounding laughter, which I knew expressed much relief from the previous moment’s tension. She moved toward me to assist with the costume. As I undid the ties of my collar, she reached forth to help me undress. I had no sooner lifted my shirt over my head than I heard a loud gasp escape from her lips.

I tossed aside the shirt and beheld the sight of Blanca. She stared at my bare chest as though she had seen a ghost. She was pale as snow, her hands pressed vividly to her lips.

“Signorina Canal, are you ill?” I asked, startled by her sudden change.

Blanca moved to the bed and reached for the costume. She bit her lips, looking askance, as though refusing to meet my eyes.

“No…” she replied in a faint voice. “It is nothing. Please forgive me.”

She set about to present me with the costume and remained quiet while I dressed. Esteban re-entered the room shortly after, exceedingly amused by my much transformed appearance. The couple embraced, before bidding each other farewell for the night. I noted that Blanca gave me a last furtive glance before she left.

If I had not been so possessed by my Almoro act and so overwhelmed with anxiety at the prospect of breaking into the chancellery, I may have pressed her further and not let her leave without answers. But I had little time.

For the rest of the afternoon, I chose to ignore what I had seen. And what I had seen, the light of terror, in Blanca’s eyes, convinced me that there must be a reason why Catarina Contarini had chosen to never again speak with her own sister.

I knew without a doubt that Blanca Canal had recognized the cimaruta around my neck. At this moment, an eerie feeling seized me. I had an urge to visit Catarina once more.

But first, a dark duty lay before me. I had yet to unveil why the Consiglio was so dogged about this case and why Almoro had behaved so strangely throughout my inquest. And perhaps my exploits tonight would also right the wrong in Esteban’s life. Although I did not yet understand how important the documents I was to retrieve were to my Catalan friend, it did not trouble me.

As I write this, it has grown late. I sit in my draped felze, awaiting the apparition of Almoro Donato on the Palazzo embankment. As I stare out into the Piazzetta, I clutch at the pendant that once belonged to Magdalena. If this powerful charm is what it pretends to be, then surely I will be safe in my endeavors and nothing grave shall befall me on this night.

I shall soon know how great an actor I am. Or perish.

In the Cancelleria

At the approach of night, I waited for Almoro Donato to surface from the Palazzo Ducale. And then, when he had stepped into his gondola and disappeared from view, I removed the brown beggar’s cloak that Esteban had lent me and shuffled toward the molo with my arms swinging to the side.

My heart pounded in my chest. I feared that at any moment, someone would identify me as Almoro Donato’s usurper. In my gloved fingers, I gripped to a thin leather case where I hoped to dissimulate my findings.

I had no desire to be put to The Question for what I set out to do. The cancelleria inferiore upstairs was of considerable concern. But to pass into the cancelleria secreta, would not only be difficult, it would place me in grave danger. The seriousness of my crime were I to be found out, would be measured by the days spent in the prison’s Wells. And that is if I did not hang between the two pillars of the Piazzetta.

As I entered the palace, I cast a glance toward the Basilica and scrutinized the loggias overhead for any guards and witnesses. My gaze traveled across and up to the far right where I knew the Doge’s apartments resided. Aside from the flickering of flambeaux filtering through the loggia upstairs, I saw nothing to cause alarm.  I moved to my right and proceeded into the Eastern wing via the entrance hall.

In the dim glow of the encroaching darkness, I saw a figure advance toward me at the top of the steps. The notary greeted me, raising a torch in my face.

“Signor Donato, you have returned!”

The sudden light blinded me.  I raised my gloved palm to my face to avoid recognition.  If chance favored me, my manner would not raise suspicion given the intensity of the flame.

“Signor Donato, have you forgotten something?” frowned the notary.

Blanca’s art was commendable. I made a note of the emptiness in the hall and waved my hand as though to express impatience. It was important that I appeared in haste so that the notary would not question my reluctance to speak.

“It is nothing. I’ve misplaced something,” I grumbled. “Where are the Capi?” I added, slightly out of breath.

“They have retired, Signore. Tomorrow promises to be a long day at the Collegio. The Doge still resists speaking with the Florentine ambassadors. For now, they are yet to arrive but you know well how these discussions fare, especially with Foscari. Dios mio. I fear you may have to delay the session if Mocenigo persists.” He reached for my shoulder. “I will have someone take your coat, perhaps. Si?”

I waved him away with two fingers taking care to appear as superior as Almoro would.

“I shan’t be long. I shall need a moment in the cancelleria,” I murmured, shuffling away from the light.

“It is rather dark, in there. At least take this with you.”

He reached toward me with his torch, causing the flame to light the traits of my face. I flinched and lowered my face, seizing the torch. There was a pause as he observed me.

“You are not well, Almoro. Would you like me to fetch the files myself?”

To be so close to him was dangerous. Blanca’s pomade was effective but it would soon melt under the light. I shielded the flame with my palm and moved aside, still under the notary’s insistent gaze.

“That will be all, Grazie,” I mumbled.

He stared long at me as I shuffled to a narrow staircase which I knew led to the cancelleria.

“You forgot to take the keys,” said the notary.  Though he had merely stated this omission, which in all evidence Almoro would never have committed, the notary’s voice resounded like a question.  I felt my pulse quicken. I knew that my behavior surprised him and that if I uttered a word wrong, he would soon suspect I was not who I pretended to be.

It had not occurred to me that the cancelleria inferiore would be locked at night. “Si, si,” I muttered, turning around. “The keys...” I patted myself in absent minded fashion, searching for keys that I might have presumably carried with me but lost without my knowledge.

“Are you not well, Signore?” The notary had frowned at my confusion. I felt a chill as he bit his lips. It was impossible to tell what thoughts raced through his mind and whether he had at all recognized the wax upon my face.

“Hmm?” I sought to appear old with my sharpness of mind depleted by the late hours. I hoped it would convince him of an oversight from my part.

He remained fixated where he stood, still staring at me with an odd expression. I swallowed hard, wondering where I were to find these damned keys. My hesitation would give me away. Perhaps if I trusted my instincts… I decided to try.

“Well?” I blurted out with sudden impatience. It was at least certain that he had never given the keys to me.

The spell was broken. I watched him slowly dig into his mantle pocket. I breathed a sigh of relief and took the keys with my free hand. He hesitated, still staring at me. A grave light passed across his face.

“If you could return these to me in the morning, Signore.”

I nodded.

“Si, of course.” I held my breath.

The notary moved into the darkness. I heard him pace across the room and into the entrance hall.

I ascended two short flights of stairs to the cancelleria. The old wood creaked underfoot. I paused. I heard footsteps in the adjacent rooms. I knew there would be guards attending the prisons on the third floor. They would remain until at least midnight when the palace would finally be near deserted. Aside from the pacing, there was no one in sight. I turned the key twice in the chancellery door and pushed. Two waning torches gleamed along the back wall, giving off a diffused light across the wooden floor. I discerned wooden cabinets and desks with two rows of tall back chairs. In this room, the illiterate clerks worked hard by day to copy documents they did not understand. Only the notary could read and he was paid a hefty yearly salary for his silence.

I was about to step inside the cancelleria when I heard the notary call out from downstairs. I stared through a window in the ante-chamber and saw him wave from below.

“Bona notte, Almoro,” he called out. I heard his footfalls cross the portico before the great doors finally shut again.

Alone. I entered the cancelleria and moved toward the registers.

It did not take me long to find, listed in the register, the files I was looking for. To my astonishment, a number of military contracts were indeed held here. I found it curious that they had not been placed elsewhere as all documents longer than six months were often relocated to other buildings.

Before long, I had found the filze I sought. It was a signed parchment, written for a certain Signor Gaspar Miguel Rivera and above, crowning the page, was the seal of his naval compagnia. It listed all the compensations to be given to the condottiere upon his retirement. There was mention of a Castello mansion with a large water door that had to be passed on to Rivera at the end of his tenure, together with a certain two-masted brig and finally, several thousand ducats which were to be paid at his sixtieth year.

Without a second thought, I retrieved the original filze and slipped it in my leather case. Esteban was a wealthy man. It no longer astounded me that he chose to live so comfortably on credit. He knew his own worth and what he was capable of repaying.

I wondered what it must be like to know with certainty what one could possess. I had, for years, abandoned any desire for material comfort. I longed for something else… And this, even when she, my wife, still lived.

I started. My introspection had been spurred by Esteban’s earlier questionings into my life. But contemplation had no place here. I still had much to do.

I moved out of the cancelleria inferiore and turned the key. I heard a series of clicks upstairs with what sounded like the echo of a slamming door. Holding my breath, I listened. There was a sound of felt in the room downstairs but this did not deter me. I knew who he was. He was one among the young clerks hired by the Council of Ten. His appointment would not compromise the documents since this clerk, could neither read nor write. Tonight, I would find him at his post, keeping an eye on the cancelleria secreta. Yet I thought I had heard a door slam shut on this very floor. Perhaps the evening draft? I could not say.

I followed the corridor toward the stairwell. After the first flight to my right, on the second floor, I knew I would find the secret chancellery. If my intuition was correct, this room would contain all I sought to uncover about the Contarini.  The only thing I ignored was what, precisely, I was looking for.

Strange at it seemed, with each of my steps, I could now hear a series of footfalls crossing overhead. As though someone had followed my course and was now directly above me. Perhaps a prison guard upon hearing the notary, had thought it best to visit the cancelleria. If he discovered that I was in the forbidden room below, I could very well be revealed. I paused, waiting for the noise to subside. Now it seemed that another noise came from downstairs on the first story. A ray of light filtered into the room below. I heard whispers. Someone was in the Sala Gradenigo! Again, I heard a door shut. Decidedly there was more activity in the palace than I’d hoped for.

Now the sound of footsteps above had ceased. I swallowed hard.

I followed a corridor and descended two steps to behold a closed door. The cancelleria secreta lay before me. I advanced, slowly, my hand upon the door latch.  My breathing was still. I was deciding upon whether or not to reveal myself to the clerk.

The room smelt of dust and old parchment.

I glimpsed a tuff of red hair and a pair of felt shoes behind a large writing cabinet.

“Bona notte,” I pronounced in a hoarse voice.

A youth of no more than five and twenty stepped from the cabinet behind which he had been standing. I could see the knot on his brow as he peered ahead to ascertain who I was.

“Do not trouble yourself young man,” I said, in a weary voice, moving in the direction of the documents as though I knew exactly what I searched for. “I am here to put some order into a case. A very…very important case.”

The youth squinted.  Recognizing my face, he drew a sigh.

“Signor Donato, so late.”

“The Council of Ten does not sleep,” I responded, eyeing him with an air filled with intent. It was almost amusing to watch him shudder under my gaze.

The youth seemed to recall something. He stepped toward a cabinet which I knew contained the deliberazioni. This was not a Council of Ten repository even though it found itself here among the protected files.  It was a large body of documents, most of them from the Senate. This towering cabinet contained hundreds, maybe thousands of files encompassing pacts and treaties, instructions to ambassadors, foreign policy agreements, deliberations on Venezia’s relations with Rome and all dispatches sent by Venezia’s foreign ambassadors. Everything was carefully and meticulously recorded.

“I have filed these as you instructed, Signor Donato,” declared the young clerk proudly. “I took all the dispatches sent by ambassadors outside Venezia, those marked with the seal that you showed me and I filed them separately in the “relazioni” section. I am nearly finished, if you care to peruse my work.  You shall see how well we are progressing.”

The youth’s evidently complex project was more than I could grasp. From the little I understood, foreign reports were to be filed under a new “relazioni” section.  A little out of my depth, discomfort robbed me of my voice for a moment.

I must not appear overwhelmed by his words, I told myself. He would soon see if I faltered and showed signs of unfamiliarity. I quickly regained my composure.

“Yes, this is all very good,” I pronounced waving my gloved hands in his face as Almoro would. “But not now, young man. I am looking for…” No. There was a way to make use of this overly conscientious clerk. An idea had crossed my mind. “In all evidence, you have shown prodigious talent and efficiency. That is all good. Now. Let us see how well you have remembered your formal training. Your performance hinges on your understanding of the Council’s work. I will ask you to demonstrate this understanding.”

To my relief, the youth stood alert, awaiting my next question. His black eyes shone with naïve intelligence. He licked his lips, in preparation for my grilling him. I wondered whether he had ever stopped to question his work.

I wondered if at all, he had understood that the documents he perused may have dealt, here, with a prosecution, there with an admission under torture or even a denunciation. Probably not.

While he waited, I looked askance, hoping to determine where I might find the Council of Ten documents among the various files. There was, it seemed, more cabinets than I had envisaged. Where, in this room, could—

A smile drew itself on my lips.

I shone my torch toward the back of the room, moving it from left to right. I craned my neck toward the newly lit shelves. In the obscurity, I discerned five more cabinets. There were rows and rows of parchment filze, bound into volumes and ranged neatly on shelves. I froze. There, at the top of each shelf, the gilded engraving, C.X., reflected the light of my torch. My heart leapt in my chest. The Council of Ten had marked its own papers well.

I began my motion toward the back, my head lowered pensively.

“Let us begin. Try to tell me what the purpose of the Council of Ten is, and when it was formed.”

“Signore, the Council was formed in 1310,” he responded, his soft voice echoing in the spacious room. “It exists for…for the protection of Venezia’s citizens, the protection of the State and the…the upholding of moral values.” He seemed jubilant.

“Moral values…yes, yes,” I muttered as he watched me. In a slow amble, which I emulated from Almoro Donato, I had left him where he stood and arrived to the back of the room. “Let’s see…” I declared. I rested my lamp beside one of the shelves. I grew tense, my gaze taking in all the documents around me. So this, was the meaning of the Council’s motto, ‘secretezza et iterum secretezza’–secrecy and then more secrecy.  All I could see was the face of the evil; the great evil which Esteban had spoken of.

Despite myself, my eyes wandered, with a blend of revulsion and terror, at the numerous shelves where the Council kept all that it knew and which the cittadini of Venezia ignored.

“Excellent. Can you tell me… how one such as yourself, might sort through the different filze in this room.”

“If one cannot read, it is still possible to sort through the files according to the marking of each government department and the date.”

Something I knew already, I reflected. Except that I could read and I would have to wade through the different subjects mentioned at the top of those files. Not an easy task. Luckily I could use the registers to speed up the process. But even so… The number of documents before me was staggering, some of the shelves set so high that one required a ladder to access them. Was there ever any happenstance in Venezia’s homes that was not recorded here?

“Promising. Now, if one were a notary and one wanted to find a document about a certain family–let us assume that the Consiglio dei Dieci was interested in this particular family and that it had collected information about this family–where would one begin?”

The youth stared in bewilderment. He swallowed hard before answering. From the back of the room, I raised my lantern to his face.

“Signor Donato…that would very much depend.”

“What would it depend on? What if I were looking for a particular Ca’?”

“I come to it, Signore. For instance, if this Ca’ were a member of the military, or her members held a political role, one might look for the Ca’ file in the Consiglio dei Dieci papers, under the parti communi or the parti secreta.  The parti communi would be the two cupboards to your left with the parti secreta being the one nearest to the wall.”

“Excellent, excellent…” I waited for more, holding my breath.

“As for a criminal Ca’ or any individual with a known criminal record, one could look to your right in the parti crimminali.”

“Good. Well spoken. Well…I, I shan’t take much of your time. And how far are you with the deliberazioni?”

“I can be finished by the morrow!” he prompted.

“Excellent, I shall leave you to it, then.”

This brilliant youth deserved an increase in his yearly ducats which I knew were meagre. I turned first toward the parti secreta. I found the registers listing the file names for the last decade.

I perused the first register. It was in good rough paper. Even if parchment was still the preferred mode for writing in many parts, and despite the Church’s insistence on paper being an evil art, the Consiglio dei Dieci employed the Mohammedan invention for years.  The paper was smooth to the touch, while the Latin scrawl was compact and legible.

But Venezia had two hundred patrician families. Searching for a subject mentioning the name Contarini among this long series of names was too long a task. I had little time. The men, whoever they were, who had gathered downstairs in the Sala Gradenigo, would have soon retired from their secret meeting. If I were found, it would be hard for me to explain my presence in the cancelleria at this time.

I had to hurry.

I set myself to work, perusing through each register. Time passed. I felt a growing frustration. It became evident that I could not find the Ca’ Contarini. That is to say, Giacomo Contarini was not mentioned in any of the filze listed.

I looked up.  The youth was still bent over folders and worked meticulously. He had almost forgotten I was here.

A question tormented me. If the Contarini file was not here… Then where was it? I stared at the other cabinet. It occurred to me that I had overlooked a recent event: Giacomo’s suspected crime. How simple it seemed. After all, the formation of the Council in 1310 had also been, as explicitly claimed by our youth, for the protection of moral values. And sodomy broke the Venetian moral code. It merited a criminal sentence. I had wasted time with the wrong cabinet.

The door downstairs slammed shut again. I froze. Footsteps traversed the Gradenigo, passing through the entrance hall.

My heart was pounding. I turned to the parti crimminali. Quickly, my trembling fingers flipped through the pages of this decade’s register. There was a mention of the Contarini, earlier in the document, but nothing recent. Nothing… No. There was a file. I had found it.

Or rather, I had found a reference to the Ca’ Contarini for the current year. 1422. And there it was, the illustrious name of Giacomo Contarini, with the location of the file. I stooped toward the cabinet. Seizing the volume from the bottom shelf, I frantically turned the bound pages until I had found the Contarini file.

I read, looking behind my shoulder at intervals to ascertain that the youth remained occupied. His long red locks dangled over documents and I could see the painful effort of sorting through files when one could not read. He was terrified of making an error.

I perused the Giacomo Contarini file. The page was close to blank. There was hardly anything there by way of reports or attached denunciations. Nothing to highlight the accusatory letters that had been received about his sexual perversion. Nothing there to indicate the recent murder of his own daughter. Nothing except a statement of his death. The cause: madness.

I bit my lip. How could this be?

The footsteps neared downstairs.

“Giovanni! What is that noise? Who is with you?”

I knew this must be the voice of one of the Capi. My heart thundered in my chest.

Yet I refused to leave without answers. Around my neck, I could feel the pendant scorching my skin. Madness? Impossible. Giacomo was not mad. I regained the register and flipped to an earlier mention of the Ca’ Contarini. Something did not make sense. Certainly, there was a file, but it was dated 1416!

The footsteps began to make their ascent up the stairs.

I was too close to give up now. I would settle on this file. I bolted toward the ladder and pushed it against the shelves. Somehow, I managed to climb up with my lantern and to grapple for the 1416 Contarini file. It surprised me that, here, were two loose sheets of parchments not yet bound into a volume. I pulled them out, without thinking. The ink was fresh on the second sheet.

To my horror, a black hooded form cast its shadow across the wall. A man had entered the cancelleria secreta. From my raised position, the Capo would soon have seen me. I lowered my head and descended rapidly. Replacing the ladder in silence, I hid in the darkness against the wall, behind the far right cabinet.

“Who is there?”

I beheld the pendant in my fingers, sensing its heat. I could barely breathe. The young man’s voice echoed in the room.

“Signor Capo, I was just…” The youth trembled with all his might. “I was just speaking with the Signor Almoro Donato. He is here,” he said. From my hidden location, I saw his sheepish profile as he eyed the Capo.

There was a pause. I felt the draft to my right and slowly crept toward the direction of the door, still hiding behind the shadows.

“Signor Donato?” came the irritated voice of the Capo. “Signor Donato, you say? You must be out of your wits, Giovanni. You are either speaking with ghosts, or you have become intoxicated out of your wits. For your information, Giovanni, Signor Donato has just left. He left only a moment ago. I should know. I was speaking with him.”

I was three feet away from them. I saw the Capo advance menacingly toward the back of the room, where I once stood. Behind him, the clerk twisted his knotted fingers with anxiety.

“Signore, perdonami. But he was just here! As I see you. He was working on an important case…”

They moved toward the shelves where I had been reaching previously.

“Signor Capo, you must believe me. He was just here.” Giovanni gestured toward the cabinet in dismay.

The head Capo lost himself in a furious vociferation that had soon filled the room with resonant echoes. Hearing the loudness of his voice, I waited no further. I leapt from behind a wooden desk and raced down the creaking stairs. Ignoring the loud voices of protest above me, I ran across the entrance hall. In a flash, I had escalated the large staircase and crossed the loggias. The shivering cold of a winter’s night singed my face, as I adjusted my hat and cloak. I had just enough time to stare back in alarm toward the eastern wing and to glimpse a faint light in the Doge apartments.  Not waiting for the guards to find me, I ran, out of breath, into the Piazzetta, still clutching my leather case.

It was later, as I entered my lodgings, exhausted and famished, that I realized my error. In my haste, I had left my initialed gloves by the side of the cabinet in the cancelleria secreta.

Non Scribatum

I did not sleep that night. Upon returning to my lodgments by the Rialto, I had the distinct sensation that my room had been searched. The candle lay on its side on the floor and the drawers of my cabinet were pulled out. Linen, my clothing and a few of my books lay scattered on the bed and on the parquet.

I ran downstairs and found Esteban waiting for me. He kindly offered me a place to stay for the night. He seemed a little sheepish, almost as though he regretted our deeds. I ignored his strange mood. In truth, I was so excited about what I had read in the cancelleria, that before the early hours of the morning, I gave him no respite, venting at length about my discovery.

“Esteban, your judgment of the Consiglio dei Dieci was right all along. It has known more of the Contarini than what I was ever told. I have been left in the dark. Shall I tell you what I fear? I fear there is a plot against this Ca’ Contarini.”

I presented him the notes I had scribed on my journal and the pages I had torn from the cancelleria.

“What is the phrase at the very top of these pages?” he asked. “Is it Latin?”

“It is indeed Latin. It reads, non scribatum.”

“You will have to translate for me, my friend.”

“I can infer from this phrase that the Consiglio thought it wise to not let certain facts be recorded, at least, not in the written form. This phrase, it signifies, ‘let it not be written’. But below, and this is most remarkable, there is a clear reference to three people. They are the names that caught my eye. Listen, Esteban, they are– Catarina Contarini of the Santa Maria Formosa Parish, the Signorina Blanca Canal and an Armenian slave of the name, Maffeo.”

Esteban frowned. He knew nothing of the two sisters. “Blanca? Why would they record these names?”

“There is more,” I added, my voice vibrating with an emotion that surprised him. “Below this, I can make out one name. A certain, Elena Visconti. And wait, that is not all. Examine this passage. Right here. It is written in a form that one cannot read or understand. It is neither Latin nor Greek. The alphabet seems scrambled and none of the words make any sense. Yet whoever first penned this passage was no illiterate scribe. This is no random set of letters. It must certainly conceal a message. I need to know what it says or I shall go mad!”

“The person who wrote it does not wish its meaning to be known,” replied Esteban. He sighed. He seemed worried for having seen Blanca’s name. “Antonio, I never envisaged that you would enter the Consiglio di Dieci's cancelleria secreta. And now you have lost your new home and the sbirri is hunting you. Let that be a warning.  If one seeks out the devil in Venezia, one might just find it. It is no longer safe for you, avogadore. What you did to help me does not go unnoticed. I showed you the face of the Consiglio–that, I do not regret. But I do not wish for you to be harmed. From now, you shall take refuge in an old church by the Arsenale. If all goes well with the contratta you gave me, I shall have my affairs in order within a week. I have also fulfilled my client’s wishes and my wish is to set off for Aragon very soon. I will take Blanca with me. If you have need of my services to leave Venezia, then I offer them gladly. I can make any man disappear.  You only have to ask.”

“Grazie, but no.”

“You are in grave danger. They will find you and—”

“I do not wish to leave Venezia. Not until I have resolved the meaning of this script.”  To Esteban’s dismay, I eyed the paper in my hand with a fierce determination.

“It is my fault. I ought not to have led you to your perdition. You are a marked man now. You will be safe in the church, but only until they find you.”

“Yes, you did warn me that these men were dangerous. But this, Esteban, this!” I said, brandishing the parchment. “I am so close to unraveling a state secret. I am certain of it. Remember that since my arrival in Venezia, I have led an inquest regarding the entire Contarini family. Two members of the family are dead, one is in a perpetual state of danger and–the saints take me!”

“What is it?”

“Elena Visconti… The Signora Contarini spoke of a child, the mask maker’s daughter who drowned six years ago. It must be her. It has to be her!”

In that instant, I recalled my last dream. Again, I saw the cloth in Magdalena’s hands and how she had cradled it as though…

I must have looked agitated because Esteban gave me a curious look.

“I think I know someone who might be able to come to your aid,” he said at last.

“Do you think he could reveal the meaning of this message?”

He nodded.

“His is a fine mind. One of the finest in Venezia. I would wager that, yes, he could.”

“Speak now. Who is he?”

Esteban walked to the window and parted the drapes. He peered into the courtyard outside. Then he shook his head.

“I could not send you to him. He lives too close to the Piazza. It would be too dangerous for you to venture there. Right now, I wager the place is crawling with sbirri. You made quite an impression last night.”

“Damnation! Esteban, I must meet this man. Don’t you see? I need to know! You need to know. Esteban, why is Blanca’s name on this parchment?”

“I ignore it. But this is why I must take her away from Venezia as soon as I can. In the meantime, I insist. You must not leave this house.”

“Or you will stop me? To hell with caution! Tell me who this man is and where to find him. I shall go to him with or without your assistance.”

He paced the small room nervously.

“I’ve come this far, Esteban. I will not leave Venezia until I have answers. Who is this man and where can I find him?”

“As you wish, avogadore. But you shall need more than a mask. I will not see you arrested.” He removed his sable-trimmed mantle and passed it to me. “Here, put this on.”

We both gazed into the mirror. I could see that Esteban was not satisfied.

“Your disguise is far from complete, Signor Avogadore. We can better it.”

“I am weary of your ideas…”

He emitted a grave laugh.

“I do own a priest’s habit, but this will do for now.”

His eyes shone as he presented me with further adornments to fashion my new identity.

I covered my face with a red leather volto mask, while Esteban helped adjust a short black wig. The blunt fringe concealed the curve of my forehead, such that even my thick eyebrows were well dissimulated. I was unrecognizable. Esteban placed a tall circular hat above my wig as a finishing touch. Now the transformation was complete.

“I look ridiculous,” I said, peering into the mirror.

“Nonsense. You are unrecognizable. Not a Tuscan in sight! Now. I will summon my gondolier to take you to San Marco. The man you will meet is a friend of mine. His father was a banker but died last year, sadly. When I first met my young friend, he was famished and slept on the streets. He has since taken a meek position as bank clerk, but I do not think he fares well. He often goes beyond his official duty to keep himself happy.”

“I am in no need of a banker’s son.”

“Have patience, my friend. The man you will find is all but a banker.  He has the soul of a scholar. Something akin to genius. You shall see for yourself. He is currently completing his law degree and is just returned from the University of Bologna. I can assure you that you will not find a more brilliant mind than his in the Republic.”

“Who is he?”

“A man who owes me a favor, for a time when his uncle had disinherited him.  His name is Battista Alberti. A Florentine, like yourself. Years ago, his family was banned from Florence by the Republicans. As long as you do not mention his poor mother who perished with the peste years ago, you will find him in light spirits.”

He wrote a few words on scented parchment. With adroit movements, he had folded the paper and sealed it in wax.

“Present him this reference. He will know my signet. As for me, remember that I am not far behind you.  Someone needs to keep an eye on the sbirri.”

***

It was dawn when I set out. A faded pink light colored the sky and the rios appeared gilded from the sun’s rays. Already hundreds of gondolas glided along the canal. From the darkness of my felze, I peered behind the drapes, watching nervously as Esteban’s gondolier steered toward San Marco.

As we approached the Piazza, and just as I discerned the familiar dome of the Basilica, we passed a sbirri gondola. My heart thumped in my chest. The sbirri were halting random gondolas and inspecting the inside of their wooden cabins.  I gripped to the ledge of the door, ready to leap and plunge into the lagoon if they gave any signs of stopping us. As we glided abreast the sbirri gondola, I watched the armed men intently, pacing the rhythm of my heart. I sat back, quite still, barely breathing as they passed. The sbirri captain turned. He glanced at Esteban’s gondolier as this one saluted. The sbirro’s eyes roved over my felze. I felt his dark gaze upon me. I shut my eyes, my fingers pressed hard on Magdalena’s pendant. Then I heard the merry voice of my gondolier, as he belted out an Arsenalotti tune. When I opened my eyes, the sbirri were gone and we had moored alongside a tall green water door.

***

Upon introducing myself, I was ushered into a room on the upper floor of a small banking house and asked to wait for the signore’s arrival.

A dim cold room greeted me. I went to the window and peered behind the thick velvet drapes. The gondolier had remained by the water door downstairs. He waited. I glanced further out into the calle to assure myself that I had not been followed. A youthful voice startled me.

“Signor di Stasi?”

I turned. A young man with short curls, eighteen at most, was staring at me with his giant moist eyes. Overcome by surprise, I regarded him, doubtful of his ability. I had not expected one so young. But his attire, although spartan, was impeccable.  Beneath a plain black tabard, he wore a black velvet doublet over a white silk shirt laced at the neck. From his eyes, shone an alertness that seemed to brighten the room. His entire demeanor emanated clarity, while I stood in a dark cloak, hidden behind a wig and a mask. I stepped forth.

He perused the letter of recommendation that Esteban had written.  When he had finished, he looked in my direction and gave a considerate smile. If there was in my improvised countenance, something that struck him as unnatural, he took care to not convey this.

“My pleasure to meet a fellow Tuscan,” he said, with his vivacious air. “Esteban speaks highly of you, Signor di Stasi. He says you are in need of my help.”

There was a pause, as I slowly removed the stolen parchment from the folds of my cloak.

“It is a delicate matter,” I began.

“I understand delicate matters,” replied Alberti, shutting the door and locking it. We stood in the cold banking cabinet, examining each other under the glow of chandeliers. With a swift motion, Alberti sat at a bare table beside a candle, his ink and a quill. The curtains remained drawn.

I perceived that he was no stranger to complicated transactions, ones that required discretion. But I could take no chances.

“Signor Alberti,” I said, stepping to the offered seat. “If a member of the Signoria were to present themselves to you to unravel misdeeds carried out by its very members, would you find yourself in any way, compromised?”

“I am at your disposition, Signore. I can offer consultation as a member of the law. Let us pretend that I am a practicing lawyer and that you are my client. In this case, I will remain impartial, and as my client, I can promise you that all matters we discuss shall remain between us.”

“Well spoken. But I must warn you that my identity cannot be revealed. You will speak to no one that you have seen me.”

“I will remain discreet,” replied Alberti, in a manner that surpassed what could be expected from such a young man. I saw at once what Esteban had spoken of. This youth was not in the least interested in the latest fashion of the clubs, or in losing himself to the frivolities of Carnivale. The young man was serious.  Yet I was still troubled. If he could reveal the secret message, would I be able to trust him with it? Would he take the secret to his grave and tell not a soul?

There was no time to reconsider. I had to know what the parchment hid. At all cost. If Elena really was Francesco Visconti’s daughter, the child who had died six years ago, then I knew I would soon uncover a secret of enormous proportions. I was persuaded that the truth it held was terrifying, perhaps something beyond the slaughter that Francesco Visconti had suffered, beyond the murder of the Contarini family members and of Giacomo Contarini’s trade partners. I sensed, as surely as I had seen Magdalena’s ghost, that this Elena was the last piece of the puzzle.

I needed Battista Alberti. I had no choice. I set the folded parchment before him and pushed it forward on the table.

“Can you tell me what this says?” I asked in a near whisper.

He peered at the passage. His bright eyes shone no more.

“In reply to your question, Signor di Stasi– a man can do all things if he but wills them.  I see, it is not Latin…” he said, his brow creasing in the dim light.

“I know.”

“And certainly not Greek… Perdonami, but where did the signore find this parchment?”

“Let us say, that I accidentally encountered it in the cancelleria secreta.”

Alberti raised an understanding eyebrow and nodded.

“Ah.”

Then he said no more and lowered his head to absorb the mysterious letters. I saw his brow knit into a frown. Alberti sat back and gazed into space then almost immediately resumed his contemplation with a concentration I’d not seen, even from the finest glassmaker in Murano.

“If it is too much effort for you, I will not demand any more of your time,” I said, holding my breath.

He nodded, ignoring my remark.

“Between us, Signor di Stasi, mathematical games and puzzles are a most pleasurable pastime compared to the consumption of law books.  An impertinent request, if you permit me, Signore,” he said, without once lifting his eyes from the parchment.

“What is it?”

“My father died only last year. Between illness and family strife, times have been difficult for me. Between here and Bologna, I scrape what I can to make ends meet, but banking has not suited my temperament. I may wish to accede to another post someday.”

“I understand,” I replied.

“And were I, Alberti, to decipher this message for you, I would demand your absolute silence as to my abilities. My future profession may depend on it.”

I nodded. “My lips shall remain sealed. I promise you.”

“Excellent.”

He had spoken without even looking at me. With one hand, he held the parchment while in the other, he made illegible notes on another sheet of paper, only to cross them out yet again.  I watched the corners of his lips curl into an almost childish grin.

“It is what I expected. What we have here, is what one would call a ciphered message. Each true letter has been substituted for another. It seems the Republic is following in the footsteps of the Vatican. They have taken to securing codices by concealing their meanings with secret ciphers.”

“You have seen this cipher before?”

“No.  But all is not lost. If one has the formula, one can uncover its meaning.”

“The formula?”

He ignored my question.  Again, he drew out his quill and several sheets of yellowed rough paper and began to furiously make notes.

It was with some anxiety that I watched him, while he made tiny scribbles, crossed these out, shook his head, then pursed his lips, only to recommence all over again. He seemed to have forgotten that I was even in the room.

“It is my turn to ask you, young man, but…why is it that Esteban seems to believe you can help me read this parchment?”

Alberti seemed to be in some sort of trance.

“Oh, Signore,” he said in an evasive tone, “let us say, that you may not be the only member of the Signoria who has paid me a visit of this kind.”

It was my turn to raise one eyebrow.

“Ah.”

I continued to watch him.

I watched him until I lost track of time. To my shame, and perhaps because the room was so dim, and I had not slept the night before, I fell into a slumber. I ignored how many hours had passed but when I awoke, the Nona sounded outside. I started in my seat, afraid that I’d see a sbirro burst into the room.  But Alberti’s cabinet remained shut and dim.

In the chair in front of me, Alberti did not stir. He continued scribbling further notes. He had stopped breathing.  He seemed close to some revelation.  I saw him count with his fingers and bite his lips once more.

“And besides,” he said, as though I’d never slept, “the fulfilment of my work requires that clients be provided with secret codes to confirm their identification. I am well practiced.” At these words, he sat back and looked at me triumphantly. “A changing code,” he pronounced.

“Perdonami?”

He pointed to the parchment. “The person who scribed this message has employed not one, but several encryption devices. The key to revealing the message is to look at the capital letters within. Here. Look, Signore–each capital letter signals to the reader that he must adopt a different formula were he to unveil the subsequent letters. You see how the capital letters occur randomly in this passage? They do not denote the commencement of new sentences. They are the key to the changing code. It is clever. But not so clever,” he added with a beaming smile. “How many hours do you have, Signore?”

I leaned forward. My heart was pounding wildly.

“I have all the time you require. If you can tell me what this message says, Signor Alberti, then Esteban must be right about you.”

“Oh. And what does Esteban say about me?”

“Only that yours is the most brilliant mind in Venezia.”

The Deposition of Signor Vivaldi

First transcript by Battista Alberti

1 January 1422

1416 Venezia

I, Signor Vivaldi, Chief of the Signori di Notte, seal here, my ultimate deposition and on this day, deliver it to the Signoria for better men to elucidate.

To whom it is an art to solve the finest enigmas and puzzles, let him peruse the notes I have scribed in despair and let him shame me.

12 January, 1416

On January 6, 1416 on the Feast of Epifania, in the district of Santa Croce, it came to pass that a young girl disappeared. She was last seen by the family servant in Campo San Bartolomeo.

The girl’s father is a certain Signor Francesco Visconti of the San Giacomo dell’Orio Parish, a mask maker from the nation of Santa Croce.  A widower since the loss of his wife, eight years ago, Francesco Visconti reported early in the night that his daughter, aged eleven, could not be found. He attested that he had last seen her in the presence of the family servant at the start of the races on the Feast of Epifania when the child and servant set out for the Rialto races.

On the night of Epifania, a search party was dispatched throughout the Republic.

A band of men from the San Giacomo dell’Orio Parish took to the streets with flambeaux and torches.  They searched every calli. They searched in every campo.

Answering to fears that she may have drowned, the best sailors in the Republic were tasked with searching the Canal Grande in the hope of finding her alive before day break.

The aforementioned parties reported nothing.

In the following days, a curfew was applied in the three sestieri of Santa Croce, San Polo and Castello. The sbirri interrogated suspects and persons known to have had a criminal history. None of the guards returned with clues to the girl’s whereabouts.

Further expeditions beyond Santa Croce have yielded nothing.

16 January 1416

Elena Visconti remains missing ten days after her disappearance. Her burial has been arranged and her father has accepted the death of his only child.

21 May 1416

Months of fruitless searches have yielded nothing.

It appears that the sole witness to Elena Visconti’s disappearance was the servant, a gondolier of Armenian origin. The unfortunate man, answering to the name of Maffeo, was appointed by Francesco Visconti to oversee his daughter along the canal during the races.

It is to be noted that Maffeo presented a detailed deposition. Maffeo has since disappeared.  His testimony remains lost to this day.

2 August 1416

Maffeo cannot be found. He is reported to have drowned himself from guilt.

12 September 1416

It is with regret that we must abandon our search.

We put forward our conclusion that the girl, Elena Visconti, daughter of Francesco Visconti, almost certainly drowned in the canal, or was abducted by Maffeo, and that her body was dragged out into the Dalmatian sea on this regretful Feast of Epifania, in the year of Our Lord 1416.

Vivaldi,

Chief of the Signori di Notte

***

Journal of Antonio di Parma

1 January 1422

I could barely breathe as I read Battista Alberti’s deciphered letters. My awe for his divine art was soon overcome by dread.

I had only to absorb the second of the long winded messages, and soon, a greater horror unraveled before my eyes.

Signor Vivaldi had been wrong on one account. Elena Visconti was not dead.

The belief was that she had drowned in the canals but it was not true.

The truth glared at me from this perfidious parchment. I had in my hands, thanks to the most discreet Alberti, a sample of the most evil machination.

In the silence of Alberti’s cabinet, I read and reread the full decrypted message, until I knew it by heart and before long, it had met the flames of Alberti’s mantelpiece and shriveled to cinders. I retained the original but I wanted not a trace of what I knew upon me.

Alberti did not flinch. I knew at once that I could trust him.

Late into the night, when I finally stepped inside my gondola, I unfastened the cimaruta from around my neck and brought it to my burning eyes.

I knew what I had to do. If Magdalena had pleaded for me to help her, then it was for a reason.

Like the saint whose name I bore, a finder of lost things, a task now lay before me.

I had to find Elena.

LA BEFANA

6 January 1416

La Befana vien di notte

Con le scarpe tutte rotte

Con un sacco pien di doni

Da portare ai bimbi buoni

“La Befana comes by night,

With her shoes all tattered and torn,

And a bag full of presents

to deliver to good children.”

Maffeo’s Lost Deposition

Sbirro account – May 1416

The recounted deposition of Maffeo the gondolier

To whom may read with an open heart, I entrust this deposition as it was recounted to me by a frightened man, an Armenian gondolier going by the name of Maffeo.

Where he is now, no one knows. But in the hope that justice be served, I have reconstructed his horrifying story and delivered it to the most just Consiglio dei Dieci.

What would an Armenian gondolier know of such things, you may ask? But surely the crime of his origins is nothing against the great crime that Venezia saw on the Feast of La Befana in the year 1416.

It begins an hour before the Nona bell rings. Even I recall this day, as I live near Campo San Toma. Here, along the Grand Canal, a band of old men, as old as tradition demands, have scrubbed their skin with paint, strapped disfigurement upon their faces and donned their tattered witch’s costume. Hideous they are with their crooked noses and wrinkled skin. Hirsute old hags, they would rouse fear if it were not for the cheerful tales spread of them. For everyone in Venezia awaits them now and only those children who have been bad ought to fear.

Each of the five men holds a broom and steps inside a boat. The race is soon to start, the race that will lead them to the Rialto.  And before long, the coarse haired witch rowers make their way in silence. They sweep with force toward San Marco, gliding beneath a clouded sun. A sinister sight they are these odd witches, hunched at the prow, their muscles tense where they ought to be frail, their vessels creeping forth through the gray winter mist.

The witches come! These lagoon creatures ought to make one shiver. Instead, the costumed men in their boats are serenaded by cheers all along the canals.

In the Campo di Rialto, all Venezia bustles. Maffeo watches them all. He recounts them all. He has a brilliant memory, Maffeo. Doctors and lawyers in their black robes, move among the rich citizens toward the Bridge.  Velvet clad patrician merchants and tradesmen alike—the Arsenalotti in their red sashes and white shoes, the Nicolotti in black—all have brought their children with them to see the Regatta della Befana.  Many of them are masked men and women, still eager to enjoy Carnivale before the Lenten days begin. It is a sinister sight, that of masked children of all ages, shrieking in the campo and singing La Befana songs, while their equally masked parents look on.

Nearby, young patricians from prestigious calza clubs are standing apart where they can be most conspicuous. Golden haired young men eye rival club members within the campo. Perfumed from head to toe, they stand proud, showing off their new brocade mantles, some hurling out Petrarch sonnets to attract the fairest of women.

Maffeo knows he does not belong. He looks upon the crowd in exasperation. He thinks of his master, Francesco Visconti. Poor Francesco is ill. In his stead, our Armenian gondolier is to escort the child to watch the Befana racers. It is his first time. What does he know? He is only a gondolier. Even on high traffic days, when he must compete with thousands of other gondolas, the calm of the lagoon remains inviting in comparison to the frivolous madness in the Rialto today.

More people than the previous year have gathered in the Campo di Rialto to celebrate this Feast of the Twelfth Night. The shrill of happy children cleaves the melody of lutes and drums. Among those in fancy Carnivale costumes, there are men on stilts and others who juggle fruits and flaming torches. Maffeo sees all. To his left, a woman sells roasted chestnuts. Beside her, another tends to warm pumpkin slices. In the distance, rows of freshly baked pork pies are ranged in large baskets and a lavishly dressed queue has already formed behind the inviting stand.

Maffeo inhales a whiff of the warm pastry and salivates at the thought of the orange flavored meats. Hard to keep one’s mind on the child by his side when there is hearty fare aplenty. He smacks his lips, feeling the cold. He’s only eaten a bowl of beans this morning. How he envies the children in the center of the campo as they happily sink their teeth into almond candy.

The masked revelers intimidate at every turn. Maffeo is convinced they are laughing at him, behind their mask, laughing at his awkwardness. Of course he looks awkward. He wishes Francesco were here in his stead. He wears a simple pair of hemp pantaloons and a woolen cloak. On his head, is the gondolier bereti.  He wishes for a mask where he could at least veil his discomfort.

The girl by his side eyes the campo in silence. Her gaze is piercing and detached while Maffeo, he is overwhelmed.  Loud music screams in his ears and he barely hears the girl. But he can see her and for a moment, his heart goes out.

Elena, beautiful Elena. She giggles and points her pretty finger toward the canal. The racers are approaching and already a crowd has formed to see the winner. She tugs at his sleeve and motions in that same direction. Maffeo is content. Perhaps it is well that she delights in her outing. For a moment, the child has even forgotten to mourn her long deceased mother, for on the Eve of La Befana, the night before, a witch has flown over the parental home and bestowed her with a treasure. And no lump of coal was ever gifted to eleven year old Elena. La Befana must have known she is not like the other children and so can never do any harm; only sweets and kind gifts to reward this good-hearted child. The coal can only be for the other children, the bad ones.

Maffeo smiles. Still, he looks with apprehension at the child’s neck. A veil of distaste seizes him and he crosses himself. Poor Christian slave that he is. He ignores what the pendant is, from whence it has come, and why Elena is to wear it now, every day. He is only a slave, Maffeo, sold years ago in this very campo.  Served the child’s mother a mere three years before she died.

Now the child’s dark pupils meet his. Her doe-like eyes are moist with supplication, as though she has sensed his fears and dearly wishes he would relinquish them.

“Maffeo. Oh, Maffeo. Let us climb the Ponte and watch the racers come!”

He winces. The sun has caught the silver on her pendant and he is blinded for too long.  Maffeo raises his hand and wipes his brow. He scrutinizes the crowds before him, lamenting once more that Francesco, the child’s father, is too ill to attend the festival. And then while he is still making up his mind, her hand has slipped out of his grip and in a flurry of ribbons, she has run out toward the Ponte.

“Elena!”

The clumsy Maffeo chases after the child. To shorten his course and evade the hawkers, he takes to an open space in the campo. But it is a mistake–the treacherous ground is thick with mud.

A horrified cry rises behind him.

A young patrician with one leg in bejeweled gold hose and the other in crimson, tries in vain to silence his compagne as this one baulks at the stain on her silk dress. Though she stands tall upon her wooden clogs, Maffeo’s clumsiness has soiled her train.

He mutters an apology and jostles past a clique of masked citizens who now scoff at him. He feels the iciness as their silver-coated masks bar his way.

“Watch yourself, Moor!” By Moor, he only means that Maffeo is darker than they are, for the slave has nothing of a Mohammedan.

“He is the Milanese mask maker’s slave. An imbecile!”

Maffeo shudders. He has lost sight of her. He raises himself on his toes to better survey the canal through the growing gathering. A brutal tap to his shoulder startles him.

“Are you dim-witted?”

It is once more the patrician. He is intent on preserving his honor and put the slave back in his place. Behind him, his compagne’s lips are bitterly pinched.

“I am sorry, Signore…” mutters Maffeo. The young man eyes him with contempt. Maffeo cowers but is no longer listening. He squints and gazes afar toward the bridge.

And then the silver on Elena’s neck blinds him once more. His eyes widen. He can see her now. Child of delight! He bolts. In his haste, a further spray of mud splashes the startled blonde whose veil is soon spotted brown. She gasps. But Maffeo has other concerns. He is still running.  He stumbles past a fortune teller.

From afar, the girl has reached the Ponte. There she is! She sighs when the first witch’s boat nears the ledge. Clap, clap, her little hands greet the winner with excitement. Maffeo is relieved. The crowd is cheering as each of the five racers reach the finishing line. One by one. Maffeo even finds himself counting as the boats halt. One by one.  Elena is ahead, running past the shop keepers and…

“Elena!”

In vain, he cries her name but her attention is elsewhere. The child is smiling from ear to ear.  A woman has approached her. Two large men stand by her side, each cloaked… in a witch’s garb. Maffeo can hardly breathe. There should only be five of them, he whispers to himself. He turns back toward the boats and counts the racers. Five. His head is spinning. Again, he counts. Five. The crowd begins to sing its discordant tunes amidst the sound of pipes and drums. Maffeo’s heart gives out.  So why are there seven?

Maffeo grimaces. He senses a cold fear run across his shoulders. He stumbles up toward the woman, out of breath. The crowd curses at this slave who will not hold himself properly in society. Maffeo ignores them all. He sees only her. And then the unthinkable happens, right before his eyes. The veiled woman leans forth to Elena’s neck. Her gloved hands unfasten Elena’s pendant. She slips it off her and kisses the child on her forehead. Elena seems startled. Her little hand rests on the empty spot where the silver once lay.

Maffeo gasps. He watches the veiled woman step back and signal to the two witches. He can see that the child has grown silent and ceased clapping. Something is wrong. Wrong, wrong, Maffeo! Stupid Maffeo! The witches move fast now. No one seems to notice them save for Maffeo. But Maffeo is too far. Elena’s little frame is clasped in the witches’ grip as they bolt through the calli, past the fishermen’s market.

They have disappeared.

Maffeo curses as he runs and grips his heart.

“Elena!”

His voice is lost to the pipes and drums. Maffeo is in tears. He holds his hands to his head in disbelief. The veiled woman has gone. He spins round, looking in all directions. Where is Elena? Where?

Maffeo takes a turn into another calle.  He has reached the place where the hooded men may have taken the child but now he is not sure. The alley is empty. Above him, a window opens just as peeled vegetables and urine are showered upon his shoulders. Maffeo cries out. He wipes himself with a handkerchief, eyes stinging, still searching in each calle. Then he remembers. On his way to the races early in the morning, there was a black gondola tied there. He had thought to himself, how odd it was that it should be here. He returns to it. Where has it gone to?

Further out, above the dove-gray lagoon, a thick winter mist has risen. The silhouette of a dozen gondolas blind him. And beyond, there are hundreds of them. Maffeo sobs. Dread fills him as he searches again for Elena.

Maffeo! So wrong, wrong.  Look what you have done! He feels the knot in his stomach and the tightness in his throat. He can see them now and his breath fails him. No breath comes as he stares.

The black gondola—for it is the same one—sweeps fast toward the East. The two witches are rowing further out, faster, faster.  Even if Maffeo tried, he could not reach them. They have begun a different race.

Poor Maffeo gives out a sob. Between the two witches, a little head bops up and down.

He calls and calls but his voice is strangled by the mirthful cheers rising from the campo. The witches gather speed. Strong and determined, they do not even look at the child as they row. They only look ahead. Rowing, rowing. Far, too far.

The mist closes around the black gondola, swallows it. Soon it is nothing but a black spot in the distance.

Maffeo weeps. What will he tell his master, the mascheraro?

“Ah, Francesco!”

The Armenian slave falls to his knees.  Before long, he has been tossed aside and kicked by the unforgiving crowd.

From the top of the campanile in Piazza San Marco, a bell begins to ring. It strikes midday on the 6th January.

A haunting sound it is. One, two, three… Each toll sends a dagger into Maffeo’s heart.

The bell echoes through the Rialto and beyond. It marks the day from which Francesco Visconti, the mask maker, will never again set eyes upon his daughter, Elena.

The Hidden Message

An entry from the cancelleria secreta

January, 1416

Grave words follow and he who is not intended to uncover them will be found and duly punished.

It has come to the attention of the Consiglio that the late Magdalena Visconti, wife of Francesco Visconti, the mask maker of Santa Croce, suffered from an excess imagination during her pregnancy.

Such were the images that visited this woman and imprinted themselves in her lost pagan mind, while she carried her unborn child and such was her restless spirit in absorbing all that was impure and unholy, that the nature of her child can only be deemed inhuman.

Our first witness was Signora Catarina Contarini, who claims that the child cast a spell on her. When asked how the jettature had operated, Signora Contarini informed us that during a visit to the Visconti atelier, the child had placed a curse upon her. Asked how she had done so–Catarina explained that no sooner had she placed one of the child’s creations upon her face, than she began to feel ill.

The child’s overwhelming use of her left hand, her remarkable art at such young age, her astrological profile–Moon in Scorpio with negative aspects—and Catarina’s alarming deposition, all led to an immediate inquest.

Following Elena’s imprisonment, the Consiglio has reached a startling conclusion: the child, Elena Visconti, is a jetatture with malefic powers.

6 June 1417

Unanimous decrees passed by the Consiglio dei Dieci are as follows -

Elena Visconti is dangerous.

Elena Visconti must remain in Constanziaca indeterminately.

Only select members of the Signoria are to know of her location.

PART II

Elena

The Art of Unmasking

Journal of Antonio Da Parma

2 January 1422

It begins. January has come and with it, the month of Janus.

Janus. Why can I not take my mind off him?

It is now two days since my clandestine entry into the chancellery. I live each moment as I can. By day, I hide in a church close to the Arsenale. It is understood that if ever my life should be in peril, that I should leave a letter hidden under the third row, for Esteban to find. At night, I sleep in a small room that Esteban is renting out for me. To all those who ask, I am his cousin.

There are armed sbirri well into the night, prowling in Castello. It is no question who they are looking for. But none have yet noticed me. Blanca’s masks and costumes have proven of great assistance.

Esteban wishes to take her to Aragon. He is more in love than I thought was possible but he looks at me with downcast eyes whenever I see him, as though he is guilty of some deed I know not of.

He is eager to greet me at the port tomorrow. He says he dearly wishes to show me something. Despite Esteban’s insistence we depart after the Befana, I refuse to leave Venezia. I wish to find Elena Visconti.

But there is yet, another errand, I must attend to. One that is long overdue. One that concerns two sisters. Two sisters whose names were listed upon the Consiglio dei Dieci’s secret parchment. Two sisters of flaming red hair. One a widow, the other a meretrice.

I have waited long to scribe the letter which I am about to pen. It will please me to do so.

For I know, already, that she has fibbed.

***

2 January

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Catarina Contarini

We must talk Signora,

Only two moons ago, I saw your sister, Blanca. She entrusted me with a secret.

How is it that you kept it so long from me?

I admit, that in my position, I can do little to protect your family’s name. If the Consiglio dei Dieci is intent on guarding one of their great secrets, then I do not find it surprising that they would resort to life threats on your remaining son and extort you at such a troubling time, going so far as miring your deceased husband’s name in sin.  Do you follow?

The Ca’ Contarini faced persecution at the hands of the Consiglio dei Dieci and to save your family, you chose to not tell me about Elena Visconti. This I can comprehend.

But Signora, I know about Elena’s abduction.

I understand your silence if you feared the Consiglio’s retribution. You have played foul, Signora, and you chose for so long to keep past misdeeds forgotten. But fear not, Blanca has explained it all on your behalf.

I have asked myself why the Consiglio has only now toyed with your family. I think I understand it. They fear that you might know something of your husband and daughter’s recent deaths. Could it be that they fear you might be inclined to speak of it, if only to alleviate your tormented soul?

We must talk, Signora. I would like to know more about Elena Visconti.

I will tell you what really caused the deaths of your husband and daughter. I will tell you how all these murders took place. I will offer you my protection.

My courier will wait outside for your response.

Deliver your reply to him in person. Do not follow him.

Antonio da Parma

***

January 2

Letter from Catarina Contarini to Antonio da Parma

Dearest Antonio,

I ignore what you speak of. Of course, you are welcome to my home. I shall await your visit the day after tomorrow.

Please, I forbid you to mention the name of Blanca. If in past letters, I hid one thing from you, it was that my sister has turned whore. I request your pardon for this omission but you must know the shame she brings to the Canal and the Contarini. Even as a Florentine, you must know the torment of making this indecency public. She is nothing but a meretrice and if there was a treacherous soul who would gain in sullying the Contarini and Canal names, it is her.

I know not what lies she has spread about me and about this Elena that you mention, but I should hope you would know better, Signore, than to trust in the lies of a cunning whore. She has always envied my successful marriage and my happiness. In her mind, it was she who ought to have received the Canal dowry and married Giacomo.

Do you think it uncommon for a woman to spread lies out of spite and envy? Surely in your experience as avogadore, you would have met such varieties of my species.

My courteous salutations,

Catarina Contarini

***

January 3

Letter from Antonio Da Parma to Catarina Contarini

Signora, it is I who is in the wrong.

I have been wrong about you on two accounts and I apologize.

I will state my meaning clearly.

In my previous letter, I inferred that you did not know the cause of these remarkable banquet murders. I offered, in exchange for more information about Elena Visconti, to illuminate you on this matter, at least for the repose of your troubled spirit.

It turns out, Signora, that the Consiglio dei Dieci is absolutely right in your regard. You not only know very well who engendered those murders, but you sought to protect yourself from that very person.

How do I know this? Do you remember my first visit? I left a message with your servant. What you ignore, Signora, is that I followed you on that rainy afternoon when you set off to Campo San Lorenzo with a certain parchment in your garment.

You hesitated at length to post it. In the end, you did not. And when you finally regained your home, it did not occur to you that you had left this parchment in your mantle.

When I visited you the following day, I took note of that still drenched mantle, near the door. You must forgive my curiosity, Signora, but while you disappeared into the kitchens, I wondered if perhaps I would retrieve, for myself, the parchment you may have left in your coat.

Look for it, Signora. Look well. But you will find that this wretched letter, which I first took to be a denunciation and which was written in your hand, is no longer in your mantle. Perhaps you have already discovered that it was gone. It does not matter. Yes, I have it with me, Signora. And if, back then, I did not understand its contents, now, I see that all along, you knew well who caused your husband and daughter’s death.

So now I come to the second reason why I must apologize. I had long believed you of unsound mind. I thought you emotional and distraught by your family’s accursed deaths. Why did I think this? I read that parchment, Signora. I retrieved it from where you left it on that rainy afternoon and upon drying it to a well kindled flame, I read it many times. Certainly the ink had run in some places, but your writing is sure and your hand is steady. You have passion, Catarina. The words could still be seen.

For so long, I thought that you must be prone to some emotionally induced madness. Yes, it is true. I thought you vulnerable and slightly mad.  Forgive me.

But upon reading it again, it all makes sense to me. And now, I ask myself. Why would you write to the Consiglio dei Dieci, the words, ‘it was the child, please protect me’, unless, Signora, unless you understood that the person of Elena Visconti had, by way of her sorcery, driven these men to their deaths, unless you understood that the only people who could protect you and who could perceive the significance of these words, signed by you, were those very people who had engineered Elena’s disappearance. Who else but the Consiglio dei Dieci.

As it turned out, I should tell you something. Something I know you ignore. The night before their deaths, your husband and his friends murdered the mascheraro, Francesco Visconti. If Elena is indeed a witch, something you once, yourself, saw fit to reveal to the C.X, she would have known of his murder. Why, she might have even set her vengeance upon his murderers!

But I come to the core of it.  You, Signora, did not know of Francesco Visconti’s murder. So why, would it even occur to you that the child, Elena Visconti, drowned since 1416, would want to strike at your family? And, I should add, why would she choose to strike at you, in the manner you most feared?  Was it perhaps to exact revenge upon you?

Revenge? What a notion! Had you, say, six years ago, come forth to the Consiglio dei Dieci with some spiteful reports regarding Elena Visconti, perhaps then, through your hand, a father may have been deprived of his daughter and a daughter forever lost to her home. But accusations of witchcraft and the like have a frightful bearing on their victim, Signora. In France, as in Castile, they lead to burnings. Would you have set your hand at such an act? I cannot imagine it to be so. Unless, of course… Perdonami. Another notion has surfaced—do you believe, Signora, that it is by any chance that Giacomo, on the night he died, murdered his own daughter? Might the loss of your own daughter be akin to the sort of retribution you dread? If so, I fear it has already struck.

So it is true. You denounced Elena Visconti to the Council and now, your fear of her speaks for your guilt.

I now come to your sister who you accuse of ill sayings about you. You should rejoice, Signora. Blanca did not once speak poorly of you, not at least, in the same terms you chose to apply to her. If she gave signs that you had abandoned her, it was only to share her distress and explain her cruel situation. Have pity on her, Signora.

But I saw upon her face the recognition of a certain pendant which I know has been taken from the child Elena. I can only surmise that Blanca was your corrupted accomplice.

Regarding lies of the sort you accuse her of proclaiming, I only have you, Catarina, to recall this proverb–women have two pockets, one for tears and one for lies.

To our coming meeting.

Antonio da Parma

Death to the Janara

A letter from Almoro Donato to the other Capi

3 January 1422

Prior to my monthly appointment as Capi, I have made a last visit to the Visconti offspring. What I observed does not favor us.

You have all witnessed the evil that Elena spawned on the night of the Winter Solstice. Elena’s powers accrue daily. The men who guard her fear her ever more. They wish to leave.

There remains the question of the Armenian slave, Maffeo. I fear he can no longer be trusted.  Till now, his guilt and his love of the girl bound him to our service for years. Without his familiar face, the girl would have lost her mind during years of captivity. The removal of his tongue saw that he could speak to none about her existence and location.  But at present, he knows what she is capable of and he is bound to help her escape.

I sense in her a growing will that if not contained, can endanger us all.  On the Winter Solstice, she found a way to dupe her guards.  Make no mistake– she will find another.

Our only recourse is the Beast. Soon after the Winter Solstice, this slave, a mountain Sard, was brought to Constanziaca to guard her prison. The Beast knows no law and bows only to his master. He will prove our greatest ally. He is of such baseness that her craft cannot reach him. Her power has no effect upon him. He can be relied upon.

A homing pigeon has been dispatched to the guards of Constanziaca. They will instruct Maffeo to poison the girl and report to us tomorrow. Should he fail, the Beast shall take care of both of them.

The Visconti offspring must die.

***

A letter from the Sbirri captain to Almoro Donato

Antonio da Parma has not been found, but we have a lead, Almoro–a parchment with your portrait. A cunning hand drew it and we know well to what designs.

We have interrogated the palace notary and several vendors from the Piazza. One of them remembers seeing a young woman, sketching by the latrines. We now know how Antonio entered the cancelleria secreta and very soon, we shall know the identity of the artist who engineered the mask to your image.

Donna Laura

Journal of Antonio da Parma

3 January 1422

Esteban and I walked along the Arsenal port, bathed in the gilded sunlight.  It was early in the morning and white pigeons circled around and above us, their wings, majestic in flight. The smell of the sea, of Venezia, pervaded the air. If it were not for my wariness and the omnipresent fear of my arrest, I would have been graced by our surroundings.

Yet I noted Esteban’s somber mood as we walked to the docks.

“Have the compagnia endorsed the document as valid?” I asked.

“That time will come when they shall,” he answered. But he seemed elusive.

“What of your demands? Gaspar’s will? Did it bear fruit?”

He remained in thought before finally speaking.

“I am blessed with a skilled lawyer, Antonio,” he said, gazing somewhat anxiously toward the Arsenal. “His most formidable skill to date remains persuading the world that he is a loyal husband and father. Fortunately cunning devils can prove useful. In answer to your questions, I have at last, recovered one thing that is dear to me.”

“Blanca spoke to me of this lawyer.”

He turned and gave me a strong tap on the shoulder.

“I am glad that she did.”

He seemed troubled.

“Where is Blanca?” I asked. “The day of your departure draws near.  I would have thought she would be here, preparing for your long journey on La Befana.”

“She is late,” he said, eyeing the port. He seemed all the more thoughtful. “She is late,” he repeated.  “Women! Always at loss about what to take with them and what to leave behind.”

I returned his smile.  “Soon, you will be a wealthy man, Esteban. I am pleased for you,” I said. “I hope you will be kinder to Venezia now that your long lost possessions are newly in your hands.”

“Ah, wealth! Ducats! Shares! A mansion! Yes, yes, I will be a wealthy man, Antonio.” He did not once look upon my face as he said those words. I felt that he must be mocking me. Then at long last, he evinced a smile, his eyes squinting across to the port where the waters glistened under the winter’s rays. There were brigs by the hundreds.

“Antonio,” he said, “you have met with Donna Blanca but you have still to set your eyes upon the most glorious creature in my life.”

I was startled. “How many women do you keep?”

To my great surprise, he laughed. His anxiety had left him. Now he seemed suddenly light hearted, as though expecting something. He tapped me again on the back, as friends do. I sensed a lightness in his voice.

“Donna Laura is no ordinary lady, Antonio da Parma. This, you will find yourself. In a moment. As for me,” he added, in a proud voice, “I rejoice that she is mine again. The day has come. I have waited long for this day.”

I could see that he was moved to the point of elation. Without warning, he moved toward the ships moored ahead, his mantle billowing in the cold draft. He gave a shout, motioning toward the distance. “Now, cast your eyes ahead, to the left and back of those galleys! You will see her.”

I squinted ahead behind my mask, wondering what could have seized the Catalan’s spirits to such degree. He beamed with happiness.

A shadow passed behind the galleys, moving swiftly, its wind-swept sails unfolding before me. I understood. I beheld, first, the white sails stretched taut atop a proud mast, and slowly, the gliding brig advanced toward us. On the prow, slightly blackened by years on the lagoon, were two gilded letters.

“Antonio, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Donna Laura!” bellowed Esteban, much to my amusement. He turned to me, giving way to much passion. “I vowed that I would take you to the Holy Lands. I am a man of my word, Antonio. When this is all over and you have found this Elena Visconti, if you are still alive, Antonio, you are welcome aboard. Come. Let us oar to her. The crew awaits.”

We boarded the Donna Laura among cheers and good spirits.

“Captain Esteban!” roared a round faced arsenalotto with a splendid moustache.

“Ronaldo! Ha ha! You rascal! So the compagnia finally let you bring her to me. Excellent!”

“She is not worn, Esteban. We’ll scrape her up and have her ready for touring the Levant in no time.”

“And so you shall, Ronaldo! So you shall. This delights me. Ronaldo, this is Antonio, a good friend. And one who keeps much to himself.”

I nodded and then let my eyes travel toward the tip of the main mast.

“So this is Esteban’s great secret,” I mused.

“You have seen nothing, Antonio.  Come.  There is something I must do.”

We moved out of Ronaldo’s sight and Esteban led me through the deck and toward a locked cabin. Outside, I noted two sailors opening an enormous wooden crate brimming with old condottiere uniforms, velvet gowns, wigs and other vivid costumes.

“These were all owned by Gaspar,” said Esteban as he followed my gaze. “Come.”

And before I could reply, he had seized a hatchet from the rigging deck. I looked further afield and noted that Ronaldo had joined the sailors and together they were amusing themselves with the lavish costumes.

“Come Antonio, leave them,” said Esteban. He seemed newly tense. His unusual disinterest in the garments alerted me to the importance of what lay ahead. But never in my mind, could I have imagined what he was about to show me.

He pushed the cabin door open.  A musky scent pervaded the air.  He inspected the inside walls as though to ascertain that nothing was amiss. Then he removed his mantle and folded up the sleeves of his silk shirt. Before I could comprehend what was happening, I saw him prod at the interior wooden walls with his blade. To my utter horror, Esteban raised the hatchet and began to pound against that wall. Shards of splintered wood flew up to our faces as he raised the hatchet again. I stood aside, horrified that Esteban seemed intent on demolishing his own brig. Was he mad?

“Esteban! Cease at once! Would you destroy your own—“

But Esteban was not angry. Not even drunk. The knot on his brow indicated that he was hard at work.  He struck at the wall once more, tearing away the fallen debris just as the wood was split. He struck as though it were a duty. He pummeled at the wood until the entire cabin wall had given way. I felt myself grow pale.

“Esteban, will you speak to me! Please tell me the meaning of…” There was a dint. Dull at first. I saw the glint in Esteban’s eyes. I came closer, standing just behind him, mouth agape, refusing to believe what I saw. I heard the scraping of the blade against a rocky, smooth surface.

Curse me. He had known it was there. The hatchet was tossed aside as he regained his breath. Sweat pearled down his forehead. In a swift motion he had stripped off his mask.

For the very first time, I saw his face. I saw the lines that creased his eyes and cheeks and I saw that they were ripe with emotion. I could not but hold my breath as I took note of that noble face.

I watched as Esteban advanced toward an inner wall, pressing his hands lovingly against it. In the place of the wood which he had destroyed, there stood another wall. And embedded within, like a picture in a frame… I blinked. There was a sarcophagus made entirely out of marble.

He stood before the erect sarcophagus, still exhausted from the previous moment’s effort. Then he began to laugh.  Joy, relief–his laughter was a blend of both.

“Antonio,” he whispered at last, his voice broken by emotion. “I must thank you for what you did.  I am in your debt. I will repay no sooner than you wish to leave Venezia. But do you know why I pained myself for this brig? Why it is that for years, I sought that Gaspar’s contract be honored and that this very brig and not another, be returned to me?”

“Who lies in the sarcophagus?” I asked.

“Gaspar’s beloved wife.”

He faced me. “You spoke of riches and wealth. But if I am rich, Antonio, it is through the friendship of one man. The man who rescued me from who I was, a fearful urchin in the streets of Barcelona, son of a slave woman. He was the one man who believed in me and taught me to never be afraid, to hold my head high. I owe him much. I told you he died of an illness. His wife, Laura, flitted away three weeks before him.  On the very day of her death, Gaspar heard rumors that he was suspected of treason.  Laura had wished to be buried in the hills of Aragon, but he had to abandon the idea of sailing out of Venezia. It was too dangerous. He risked being arrested.  He bemoaned fate, reproaching himself for never giving Laura the burial she desired in her native Aragon.

“But the worst was to come. A week later, the compagnia began to make things difficult for him, refusing to honor his contract. And then Gaspar fell ill.  I, alone, attended Laura’s burial.  One of the darkest days of my life. I watched the coffin being lowered to join hundreds of others and as I peered into the rotting church grounds, my spine grew cold. Gaspar was right. This was no way to be buried.

“But on his dying bed, Gaspar made a confession. He said that his wife’s body was embalmed in the old Arabian ways—a practice that had resurfaced in Aragonese royal circles—and that it was kept in a marble coffin. He said he had paid physicians an enormous sum for the embalming together with rosemary, wild thyme, mint and aromatic rose oils, and that he had hidden the coffin himself on the brig.  ‘But I saw her coffin being lowered into the church!’ No, he told me. Empty. The coffin was empty. He had let parishioners bury an empty coffin beneath the church tiles.  ‘Esteban, I have failed you. But please, promise me,’ he said. ‘Promise me.  Do not let her rot in the lagoon.  Sail to Aragon. You, Esteban, you are still young.  You shall do this for me. Do it for my sake.’

“I, Esteban del Valle, was determined to fulfil my vow.  But when Gaspar died, the compagnia rebuffed my lawyers until I had nothing to pay them.  The very men who had hired Captain Gaspar Miguel Rivera now refused to honor the condottiere’s contract. They seized the brig.  They went so far as claim that the contract had never existed. Gaspar’s entire fortune and his will to me, hinged on that damn contract. I lost my trading rights, along with this ship. I had nothing.”

He raised a hand toward the uncovered wall. “But look, Antonio! It has been here all these years. Donna Rivera’s coffin lies here, untouched. I feared I would not find it. But here it is.” He smiled. “She shall have her wish and I will honor my word. It is all thanks to you, Antonio.”

Again he pressed a strong hand to my shoulder and beheld me, barely hiding his emotions.

“And you thought I was a ruffian. But what do I see? The sun is high in the sky and you must keep your appointment with this old crone from the port. Let us tarry no further. You shall ask her about this…eerie place…”

“Constanziaca.”

“The very place.”

And we moved out, leaving behind the Donna Laura for our little boat. An oarsman waited. Esteban and I had conscientiously replaced our masks. The oarsman worked in silence.  Our vessel meandered between the giant galleys, toward the port.

I was still moved by Esteban’s speech and I pondered over Gaspar’s love for his wife. Esteban had surprised me. Now he was humming with a low baritone and his eyes shone. He still stared back at the Donna Laura as though to ascertain that she was not an illusion.

As for me, I pondered over this strange man from Africa, whom I thought I had understood only to be once again surprised and humbled. The devotion he had shown for years struck something familiar within me. Without a soul to confess to, he had played his cards so close to his chest. He had veiled his honorable motives behind a mercenary employment, offering dubious services to those who would pay. He had resorted to costumery and artifice while all along, in his noble soul, a secret torch of fidelity had burned.

I looked at him. In the warmth of his smile, I saw a free man; a man who had delivered on his promise to a friend.

There was something in that which I envied.

I was so lost in my musings, that for a moment, I did not notice the prow of a blackened galley shadowing us in the distance. It was moored, much like two others, seventy feet from our little boat.  The size of it was not large but I could discern letters on its side. At once the significance of those letters saw me rise to my feet.

“Esteban!”

“What is it?” He looked up.

“The third galley to your right, that to which the pigeons have flown at this instant. Do you see it?”

“Aye, I see it. An older model judging by the stern. It is not designed to carry a large crew. The model is possibly fifteen years old…”

“Yes.  But can you make out the letters in black and gold, on its stern? Look now.”

I held my breath as he squinted.

“I can see… There are only two letters… Devil take me!”

“C.X. You have read C.X.  Am I correct?”

“Damnation! Have they their own galley, now? And to think that I ignored this.”

“I would be careful if I were you. The port, it seems, has eyes. Hide well, my friend,” I told him.

“And you also, Antonio. It is you they seek. Are you certain you will be safe once you reach the charm maker?”

I nodded. But Esteban saw me frown. I was still perplexed at the ship I had seen. And I was a little sad to leave him. I stepped off the boat, wrapping my mantle around me.

“Esteban, if you leave Venezia, I will understand. But I must remain here until I find Elena.”

He stared at me with his usual noble expression and nodded.

“Do you think she will come?” he asked.

“Blanca? Of course she will. You ought not to doubt.”

He gave a half smile.

“She had long wanted to leave Venezia,” he said.

“And now she will have what she desired. Of course, she will come,” I added.

“Good. I wish you well, Antonio.”

“And you too, Esteban. I bid you farewell,” I said.

This was all I could say. There were too many eyes on the port to draw attention to ourselves.

***

After I had parted from Esteban, I ventured quietly into the cramped alleyways, on the edge of the Arsenal shipyards.

Before long, I had rediscovered the bustling campo where rowdy children played, dueling amongst themselves with wooden swords and bound sticks.

I was startled by a vicious grip on my left arm.

I looked down to the bony hand whose talon like fingers encircled my wrist. At once, I recognized the disheveled brown hair and the strange colored skirt of Zara, the fortune teller. She held on to my arm and would not let go.  Before I could protest, she raised my hand forcefully and pressed a gilded card, face down, onto my palm. As she curled my fingers to fasten onto the card, Zara’s large round eyes fixed me with a frightening intensity.

I shuddered at the power of her words. She spoke them as one utters both a warning and a cry of joy from deep inside one’s belly.

“La Torre!” she cried. Her voice made my stomach churn. I wrestled to disengage myself but she kept my hand closed tight onto the card, forbidding that I part from it.

“La Torre!” she insisted. She regarded me for a moment longer before pulling away. Then she bowed to me as though–and this is strange–as though she had been blessed and then she disappeared through one of the calli.

For a moment, I remained stunned.  I recognized the third card I had drawn, on my last encounter with Zara. It depicted a burning tower that had been struck by lightning.   To my utter horror, two figures toppled down from the tower which looked to be crested with a crown.

I could not comprehend why the Castilian woman would part from this card, leaving her tarocchi pack incomplete. Perhaps she had deemed its message so important, that she was willing to sacrifice it.  Alas, I understood nothing of it.

A little shaken, I slipped the card into my diary and ventured into the sottoportico.

Return to the Silversmith

When I reached the silversmith’s abode mid-way into the sottoportico, I found the old lady waiting for me.

“The amorous one has come,” she cheered.

I looked inside with apprehension. I was struck by the disorder in her home. I did not recall such disarray.

What was she hiding beneath that sudden gleeful expression?

I delayed no further and pressed her with the questions I had long asked myself.

“I want you to tell me more of what you spoke of last time.”

“Last time? I do not remember,” she said, as she stirred a giant ladle in a tin pot.

“You spoke of someone being held in Constanziaca. What is that place? Constanziaca.”

“Ah! Yes. Constanziaca.”

“Yes, Constanziaca. Where is that place?”

“My dearest Tuscan boy. You want to find her, mmm? Sit, sit.”

I did as she said, smelling the musk on her divan, much to my discomfort. She presented me with a cup of her steaming brew. I eyed it with suspicion. It was as black as the Mohammedan drink which I had never tasted but had heard spoken of.  Legions of sailors secretly swore by it and loved its scent, but it was forbidden and the most pious patricians spoke of it as the Devil’s drink. The liquid in my goblet was not as dark and did not give off an odor. I peered once more into my cup, deciding upon whether to drink the foreign liquid with its odd brownish hue.

“Try it! Try it! It harks from the Far East. I brought a sample from Constantinople. You will not find it anywhere here. I, alone, know where it can be bought.”

I took an immediate distaste to the brew. There was a bitter—no, tart flavor to it, even with the honey that she had no doubt added.

“What is it?”

“A herbal infusion from the land of the Catay. I do not know its name. But the little Catay men all drink it.”

I drank it straight, finding it less unpleasant with each gulp.

She stared at me with a certain contentment. I wiped my lips and placed the goblet on the small table before me.

“Old woman, I’ve not much time. Tell me, please. Where is Constanziaca? Is it far from here?”

She eyed me with malice.

“It is an island.” Her dark pupils glowed with curiosity and she continued to observe me.

“An island?” I blinked. For a moment, her traits had seemed less repulsive, almost beautiful. I closed my eyes and opened them anew.

“That is right, amorous one. An island. But you cannot reach it,” she snapped.

She seemed very pleased with herself even as she said those words.

“Where is this island?” I asked. I had not noticed how slurred my own voice sounded.

She did not reply.

She refilled my cup, placed it before me and returned to stir her pot. I watched her from the couch, as she hobbled about like a toad covered in her filthy rags. She had her back turned toward me, now. There was a gruesome efficiency about her as she ignored me and continued to re-arrange her pots, her pliers, canisters and numerous implements. All the while, she hummed some lascivious oriental tune.

Mercilessly efficient. The old crone had now forgotten her guest, as though she had completed a task…

And then, as I stared, she appeared to change form again.  At present she seemed graceful and much younger. I drew a breath, blinking twice. The woman’s hair danced to her hips.

“Magdalena?” I wiped my sweaty face, unsure of what I had seen. The old hag turned to me, a wicked glimmer in her eyes.

I rose up on the edge of my seat, still haunted by her strange behavior. She had completed what was intended of her. The room danced before me. My eyes traveled to the Catay drink. The dark liquid I had drunk… A wave of nausea ran through my chest. I rose, stumbling at once, sensing the weakness in my knees. I collapsed to the floor, cursing under my breath.

In my haste to find Elena Visconti’s prison, I had fallen into a trap. An eerie dimness clouded my vision. In a few moments, my intoxication would be complete. But there was still time. The old hag was humming to herself once more. She knew I could not run.  When I was certain that she was not looking, I slipped the pendant from around my neck and slid it beneath the rug. Then, breathing heavily, I somehow managed to retrieve my diary from my mantle and push it whole, underneath her divan.

I knew the warmth pulsating through my neck and head. The cursed old crone had laced my Catay drink with a strong dose of mandragora. Already I could feel my limbs weaken and my senses dull. I heard a stamping of boots through the sottoportico as muffled voices neared the door. The black-clad sbirri burst through, the clink of their metal swords merely startling the silversmith.

It seemed senseless but in a last effort to escape the sbirri, I attempted to crawl on all fours toward the bed. I felt a wrenching pain as a vengeful boot stomped upon my hand. Before I knew it, another boot had kicked me in the stomach.  I rolled to my back, horrified to see Malek’s scarred face peering above me.  A disdainful smile curled upon his lips as he drew his sword.

The last thing I saw before falling into the darkness, was her villainous mouth as she spat out with a flick of her black tongue, “Let me be! Lasciami! Take him! Take the Florentine and get out!”

Whispers at the Loggia

A message from Almoro Donato to the other Capi

5 January 1422

Favorable news.  Antonio da Parma lies in the Wells of the Palace at this instant.  He was brought to us by our trusted friend, Malek.

Yesterday, the avogadore remained in a pitiful state, intoxicated as agreed to by the foreign woman in the port. No trace of either his diaries or the stolen documents were found on his person. The woman’s house has been searched with no satisfactory results.

Antonio da Parma was questioned by the sbirri last night. He refused to reveal the placement of his journal. To date, I have delayed the application of The Question as I thought best to enquire on your position regarding this matter.  Please remember–the documents he stole from the cancelleria secreta must be recovered.

Resend this same pigeon and respond by midday. I will be at the Far East loggia on the balcony. I await.

***

Response from the two Capi to Almoro Donato

5 January 1422

Perhaps given the recent arrest of Blanca Canal it would be best to speak to the Doge and reveal all. He is bound to hear of her execution and put forward certain pertinent questions.  Should this unfold, the Consiglio dei Dieci will find itself in much embarrassment.

As for the prisoner, we concur with your judgment and advise that Antonio be placed under The Question. Even with the elimination of the Visconti girl, the cancelleria documents must be recovered. If Antonio is not predisposed to speak with you now, he will do so, once he is made to fear for his life.

***

Almoro Donato to the other Capi

5 January 1422

Perhaps it is my seniority that gives clarity in this matter but I must disagree on the first point.

Would you have us reveal to the Doge a secret that the Consiglio has successfully kept hidden for almost seven years? I will ask you to remember and hold fast to our motto— secretezza et iterum secretezza—secrecy, and then more secrecy.

It is inadmissible that Tommaso Mocenigo be informed on this matter.

Do not forget that the patrician murders have cast a shadow on the Visconti offspring.  To admit to our loose hold on her sorcery is akin to an admission of our guilt.  We would be held accountable for the events.

We must abide as we have up to now.  Fear not. The Doge is on his death bed and his health will not permit the level of enquiry that you suggest he will wish to apply.

The Visconti offspring shall die. Maffeo has failed his duty but the Beast will not.

She shall die.  The Doge need not know she ever existed.

As for applying The Question on Antonio da Parma, I will undertake the matter myself.

Tonight is the Eve of Befana.  It must be done without delay. I suggest we do so, two hours past midnight.

Antonio da Parma knows too much and it is unfortunate for him. Once we have discovered what we seek, his death must follow.

Another warning. A Florentine delegation is set to arrive this month. While I am presently aware that Doge Mocenigo is not partial to the proposed Venezia-Florentine alliance, we must preserve the amity between our states. Discretion is therefore of utmost importance: no Tuscan avogadore shall be found floating in the canals of Venezia. Let us be discreet.

The Wells

Journal of Antonio da Parma

5 January 1422

Awake in my cell, I had no sooner heard the Marangona toll and decided that it was the end of the working day, that I came face to face with Almoro Donato.  He crept forth in the darkness with a stern expression upon his face.  He had two guards by his side but he asked them to leave us.

“In chains, you have me in chains, Almoro. Perfid creature. And I know all. I know what you do with the people of Venezia and the wrong you have done to an innocent woman. I know of Elena Visconti’s abduction.”

“An innocent woman, you say?”

“Do not deny it.”

“She is a witch.”

“And yet you have use of her sorcery. Through her abduction, you deceive the people and yourself.”

“Deceive, you say? Your insolence knows no bounds. Elena’s craft lies in the masks she creates. Why should the Republic not make use of her? Does Venezia not employ hundreds of artisans in Murano? Elena is no different.  The techniques of glass blowing remain a guarded secret.  Elena’s art would have remained secret if you had not intervened.”

“You had her create masks of sorcery! What are you advancing, Almoro?”

“The popolani are like children. They are base. They do not know what is good for them. Venezia must be kept content. The ruling patricians are in a precarious state, Antonio. Have you never thought that it is too few in numbers, at the mercy of discontented laborers both in the Giudecca and around the Arsenal, under the constant threat of the dissatisfied foreigners that lurk in every calle and the mercenaries it itself employs? You are naïve. It takes a strong ruling hand to keep the popolani in its place. But it also takes vision. Yes, Antonio. Elena is like the Befana. She sends her gifts to the good people of Venezia and a mask of her hand is enough to bring much joy and contentment. To maintain one’s grasp on the popolani demands shrewdness and yes, some cunning.”

“And that would seem to be your great specialty, Almoro. Only I discovered this too late. Do you want to hear a story, Almoro? I’ve wished for years to tell you this. Did you know, Almoro that I delved further than you think on the identity of our Albanian murderer? And let me tell you what I found. He was no Albanian. And that you know very well. That was the ruse you employed to shield his true identity. Do you know this story, Almoro? It is the story of two twin brothers born of a Dalmatian seamstress living on Burano Island. The unfortunate woman had died in childbirth and her two children were given away to an orphanage–two boys. Two boys who grew to gain remarkable strength. And it came to pass that the Consiglio had been training them, training them like savages, training them to kill.”

Almoro emitted a dry laugh.

“Your taste for pathos is endearing.”

“Let me finish. It is too good a tale to waste. One of the boys had a harelip. For years, until manhood, he had suffered taunts for it. Years. But the mind is a fragile entity.  And then you lost him, didn’t you? Our harelip mercenary had been pushed to such lengths, he knew nothing except the pleasure of blood to appease his own wounds. He would have been forgotten and his pain would have gone unnoticed had we not seen the brunt of his blade strike down the women who would not have him. And you did this, Almoro! You did it.  You created this monster, just as you have created Elena.”

“I am once again impressed by your investigative skills, Antonio. But it changes nothing. You fool yourself and understand little of our designs. Elena exists for la Serenissima. There is much we could have achieved. Her masks were employed numerous times for murderous designs that you know nothing of.  As far as Constantinople, Syria, Egypt, Genoa and Bavaria, we had men dispatch coffers destined for those we wished to assassinate. Our political agenda would have been well advanced but she produced too few masks of that kind. She resisted.”

“Murderer.”

“Where men before us have used poison, we resorted to her sorcery. What of it? Crusading armies rise, armed to the teeth, setting out to rape and pillage as far as the Levant and you are not offended.  Why can you not consider that Elena’s powers could have served the same purpose? Imagine it–an army of masked assassins. Fearless mercenaries. Invincible!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Her design, Antonio. What we intended for her. She was to be the eternal guardian of the Republic. She was to create masks that would allow the bearer to feel no pain until the very end. Thousands and thousands of them...”

“And so the cruelty in your hearts knows no bounds.”

“Spare me your weak morality.”

“You took away her life and when she avenged her father, which you know well she did, you tried to cover it up by taunting the Contarini family. I know all, Almoro. I’ll not rest until the truth is out.”

His lips curled into a cynical smile.

“That would make you all the more dangerous, Signor da Parma. You are beyond reason and prone to ill-temper. You do not comprehend the Consiglio’s vision and its dedication to state security.  That is a pity. But do not please yourself in your illusions, avogadore. Your time in the Wells may extend for longer than you think.”

He paused, eyeing me with satisfaction.

“I have to admit that you were a perfect avogadore, Antonio. A remarkable intuition, you have.” Then looking at my chains, he added, “although it does not always serve you, wouldn’t you agree? Si, si. When we learned of the Contarini murders, there was much cause for alarm. Somehow, and we still ignore how, Elena had tricked her guards and slipped in masks destined for the Contarini household. Cursed masks.  You saw the aftermath. What if someone discovered the secret of these masks? What if the sorcery was revealed to all?  By law, we had to send someone to investigate the Carnivale murders. We had no choice. Blood had to be accounted for.  Someone had to be arrested.  And it was then, that I remembered you. Yes, Antonio. You! Your propensity for delusions was just what we needed to rebuff any findings about those masks.  And there you were, in Venezia, at the exact moment when we had need of you, so eager to please.  I knew you would have sniffed magic. I was willing to take that risk. But yours was such a corrupt nature that I could easily silence you for moral depravity.  This was why, from the beginning, I warned you.”

“Oh, you warned me!”

“Si, I knew that your distaste for authority would soon deliver the results I sought. And so I warned you not to delve into your false occult beliefs. I told you that we would have none of that. I never once lied to you. My advice was even recorded in the case deposition which you refused to sign. Your persistence is remarkable. Even with little evidence, you were amenable to believe in the signs of the devil.”

“And I was right. Do not deny it!”

“Oh no, Antonio. You see that is not how you will be remembered. This, is between you and me. Your persistence is now recorded as, let me remember the exact terms…ah, yes. You, Antonio da Parma, are the subject of fantastical delusions. Si, si. And I, as an old friend have reluctantly admitted to being cognizant of your past. Did you know, that I spoke up in a Collegio hearing, that I admitted to your nature and that I apologized for my foolishness in appointing you? You see how well this suited us, don’t you? In the eyes of the Signoria, your rationality as an officer of the law is under question.  That, Antonio, is exactly what I sought. Is it any wonder, given your impotence, if the Three Capi have been forced to propose an overriding summary for this case?  Should you resent the Three Capi for choosing to refute your far-fetched evidence? No. We have done our duty, Antonio. So you see,” he said, his lips curling into a wicked smile, “you were perfect.”

“Is it to jeer at me that you have brought me here?”

“I can see why you might be afflicted. Our word is all we have.  And your word is worth so little now. Sit, Antonio. Sit. I am old and to see you agitate yourself in this manner wears me out.”

I reluctantly sat back down onto the wet floor, cursing him between my teeth. He observed me with mock pathos.

“You must be cold. Shall I find a blanket for you?”

I met his question with a fuming silence.

“Your mantle,” he continued, pausing to gauge my response. “It did not contain the documents you have stolen from the Secret Chancellery. Now, Antonio, I know how fervently you put yourself at task for this case. And I applaud once again, this remarkable intuition of yours, but surely you know that your crime is punishable by death. I will ask you to remember your place and your chains. I will ask you to tell me where you have placed the cyphered message that you took from us on that night.”

“I have destroyed it.”

“You lie!”

“It is burned and forever gone.”

“Lies again. We shall extract this truth. As I said, I am weary and you are still not in the right mind given your recent poisoning. Perhaps we should discuss this another time.”

“You will not find it, Almoro. But hear me now, hear me this once. The truth will find you in time. When you least expect to see it again, it will come to find you. You and your vultures. You have taken an innocent child from her father and used a gift that she possessed for your own ends. You have converted her craft and reduced it to the vilest black magic. It is you, Almoro, who are the harbinger of this evil, not Elena.”

He stared at me with dismay.

“Why persist with your delusions, Antonio?”

His eyes were cold as he approached. He regarded me, his breath putrid against my face.

“Your innocent child has murdered five men and a young girl of her own age. Her heart is as black as her deeds. Must you be so conceited that you do not see the demon’s offspring even when it strikes?”

“Free her, Almoro. If you had released her and let her be, perhaps even her father would still be alive. Her actions are signs of desperation. You are the cunning liar. She is the victim who fights the way you taught her.”

He shook his head.

“You are beyond saving, Antonio. The devil has got to you.”

He sighed again, moving toward the prison door.

“As you like. Let me tell you something, Antonio. You speak of cunning? You believe we deceive the people? You vouch for their innocence. What you ignore is what people, even the patricians, are capable of when self-driven. Have you already cast from your mind the blasphemy on Francesco Visconti’s body? The dark designs of men should be evident to you. Even from those we least expect… Which reminds me, I know that a certain Blanca Canal assisted you into the Secret Chancellery. It took a little force but she has confessed her crime.”

“I do not believe you. What have you done to her? Speak!”

“Do you care for this woman? I am surprised. It seems that your shady acquaintances run deep, Antonio. But do you know who this woman is? And what she did? Did you know, Antonio that it was Blanca who helped abduct Elena Visconti on January 6, 1416? It was Blanca who deceived the child into taking her hand and who led Elena to the sbirri on Befana?”

“Why would she do such a thing?”

“Oh, my poor Antonio. You disappoint me. Why do the Veneziani do as they do? Is it not obvious to you? She needed the money. And I have to admit, Catarina could not have done it herself. She was too fearful of Elena Visconti. Who knows what may have happened. We devised a plan. We sought someone with no ties to the popolani, someone we could silence.  It had to be someone pure who could never give Elena the jettatura and who would inspire the girl’s trust. With Catarina’s help, we found the secluded convent girl, Blanca. She was lured by a generous reward and knew nothing of the child’s powers.”

“Was this, then, Catarina’s idea?”

“Surprised? She was once a determined woman. Age has filled her with doubts and regrets. Not so her own sister. But that will soon be taken care of. This evening, Antonio, we shall give the people of Venezia something to consider. Let no man think he is beyond the Consiglio. Let no man believe he can outwit us and threaten the State’s security. Blanca Canal has earned her rightful punishment. It is a pity you will not see her hang. Perhaps this would have inspired you to reveal where you have hidden this pendant and the documents you ruthlessly stole from us.”

The thought of Blanca Canal’s death filled me rage.  Almost instantly, I forgot my own plight and thought of Esteban.  I shook with all my being.

“If you do this, you will meet your death, Almoro. I have nothing more to say.”

He emitted a wicked smile.

“Your threats are empty. You should pray for her soul, Antonio. That temptress will have all she deserved. As for the Visconti girl…”

I felt my heart leap in my chest.

“What will you do? Answer me!”

He signaled to the guards outside. They approached to open the grilled doors.

“Answer me, Almoro!”  The grilled doors slammed shut.

“She is too dangerous,” was his last reply.

Maleficio

A diary entry from Esteban

January 5, Dusk

Darkness has set upon Venezia and I’ve not received signs from Antonio.

Where has the fool gone to now? Perhaps it is my fault. I ought not to have placed him in harm’s way. But it was my only chance to be free of my client’s demands. How could I not?

At present I am weighted by grief. Words run onto this parchment like a river of tears.

I ignore where to begin to recount all that has happened. I ignore how to put to rest the fury that burns within me.

There is no joy in writing this. In scratching those few lines, my quill cries and despairs.

There was growing unrest in the Campo di San Marco this evening. Upon my return, from the port, I noticed the burgeoning crowds near the flooded Piazza. “What is it?” I asked my gondolier. He shrugged his shoulders and answered that someone had likely been arrested by the sbirri. I ordered him to stop. I set off on foot, wading ankle deep through the filthy waters, until I reached San Marco’s Basilica.

I halted, shielding myself beneath the withered arcades of the Ziani Palace, looking on, as though the Venezia I knew had suddenly become a stranger.

Despite the rising lagoon, the Veneziani had spilled into the Piazzetta.  There were men and women from all walks of life. Patricians in blue and black velvet mantles, doctors and lawyers clad in black, lace makers and seamstresses in their simple blue frocks and shawls, poorer women in brown dresses and coifs. I wondered what this impressive gathering heralded. I wondered why they all stared ahead and had ceased to be merry. Carnivale! Where was the Carnivale spirit?

A haunting sound cleaved the air. It ran across the Piazza, rippling through the assembly, filling all those who understood it with a sickening dread. The crowd ejected gasps and muffled cries. Like me, they had recognized it.

One grasps only too well the degree to which one’s life is not one’s own, when one hears this sound. Try as one might to pretend and keep a mask of gaiety, the truth lies in that sound, the sound of the Maleficio.

There is, in Venezia, an elite who punishes at will, an elite who strikes at dissent and often, in a manner so swift, that gatherings such as these take one by surprise, even as one recognizes the bell that tolls. Would that we, Veneziani, realize that all masks are a dream that must end.

Maleficio, you treacherous lady of the campanile. For when we hear you, we do not even know who among us is to die. And when you have sounded, each of us awaits, holding our breath for that certain death.

I edged my way closer to the center of the square, sloshing about with my wet boots.

Who was it? Who would be punished for their crime toward the Republic?

The guilt of my recent embroilment with Antonio, and our intrusion in the Palace only spurred my speculations. Where was Antonio? Who would I see when the slowly advancing hooded victim had stepped up to be hung? Who would feel the tightness of the noose round their neck?

A female scream tore through the crowd. A woman, maybe a friend or relative, had recognized the prisoner. I squinted, but my vision was clouded by an orange mist rising over the lagoon, reflecting the unruly flames of hundreds of flambeaux.

I edged my way in, breathless with fear. I watched the darkening skies above the two granite towers.  Within seconds, the execution had begun.

I froze.

The prisoner’s black veil had been removed. I saw the woman’s eyes look upon the crowd with fright. And as she stood there, my vision of her as certain as the memory of her kiss, I sensed my very own pallor. What I beheld, her flaming red hair cascading down her bare shoulders, the skin of her back stripped and bruised, it all took my breath away. And somehow, behind my volto, I had become as white as they.

The wooden trapdoor collapsed from under her feet. Once again a shriek rose up from the crowd.  Blanca’s fragile neck was no match for the cruel rope. Her tender body had snapped instantly and with it, the chords of my heart.

Antonio’s Visitor

Journal of Antonio Da Parma

Eve of Befana

Upon Almoro’s departure, I was dejected and fearful for my life. Suddenly the Veneziani’s preoccupation with death became my own. After the midnight bell had sounded, I was stirred by a clanking of chains from the main prison door.  I saw the dancing light of a fresh torch gracing the filthy walls and soon it was paired by the sound of paced footfalls echoing in the flambeaux-lit passage. I rose from my slumber, my lips parched.  A gripping fear seized me.  I recalled that from now until the early hours of the morning, the palace would be near deserted. It was the perfect time for the three Capi to administer The Question and apply whatever torturous means they saw fit to arrive at answers they sought.  As light flooded the corridor, I sensed a dread I had never known. One does not truly comprehend the cruelty of The Question until one is victim of it. I anticipated to see Almoro with his questioners but instead I found at my grilled door what seemed to be a councilor of some sort and a feeble form who walked with a cane.

As the door opened, I saw that it was a much afflicted man, pale in face with a thin aquiline nose and eyes so transparently gray that they seemed to belong to another world. By the sunken cheeks on his pallid face I took him to be at least eighty in years.

“Bonna notte,” he began, his frail voice, at first, barely audible.

I stared at this figure. My fear had left me and I stood speechless, knowing not what was expected of me. I noted the rich weave of the old man’s mantle and the clean shiny silk beneath it. Slowly, he advanced a veiny hand in my direction as though motioning to me. At once, and in response to the gesture, his companion raised the torch into my face.

“Is that him?” asked the man.

“Si, si,” came the tired voice. The owner’s gray eyes would not detach themselves from me.

At this the man with the torch proceeded to unfasten my chains. How he had come into possession of the keys, I ignored it. I rubbed my wrists and ankles still staring in stupor at the silent hooded intruder.

“It is a grave offense to enter uninvited into someone’s home,” he pronounced, his voice soft yet firm. He spoke slowly, breathing with a gentle whisper between every few words. “Our neighbors, the Florentines, in their greediness as a State, ever eager for expansion of their own lands, sooner or later find that they are no match for the Duke of Milan whose domains they covet. Filippo Maria is no fool. And now, what do we have? We have ambassadors of the Florentines at our doorstep expounding to our Consiglio di Pregadi, demanding we forge an alliance against Milan. I have no doubt you have heard of the stirrings in the West.”

Seeing that I had lost my tongue, he signaled toward me.

“Come closer. Let me examine you. Ah. You are the Florentine avogadore. The one they spoke of. The one who has lost his mind to fantastical delusions.”

I nodded, a little at loss.

While the greatly aged man spoke, his torch bearing companion watched the corridor through the grilled door.

“We must not tarry,” he said.

“Si, si. You are right,” replied the man with the cane. “And your name?” he asked, turning toward me.

“Antonio… Antonio da Parma.”

His eyes glazed with a distant memory.

“Da Parma…si, si. That is the name. Now. You, Florentine must follow me. If you are to be saved at all, we must leave now.”

Not comprehending but relieved to be out of my chains, I followed them out of the cell, limping from my sore ankles. We passed through mazes of corridors underground until it seemed that we had now entered the Eastern wing of the palace. After shuffling further for what seemed an eternity, we ascended a spiral flight of stairs that abutted to a wall with a metal lever.

The man with the torch pushed this lever and the wall swiveled open. I noted the velvet lining on the other side.

As he stepped out of the secret passageway, the old man held on to the rim of the door with one hand. He had no sooner passed through than my eye rested on the gold of his signet ring. I was instantly struck by what I saw.

“Doge! Signor Doge!”

“I am Tommaso Mocenigo,” he replied simply, as his companion led the way through a sound proof corridor.

I remained stunned. The sovereign prince of Venezia walked ahead of me, ambling through a dark corridor.  My lips were sealed for the remainder of our short traverse, so baffled was I by the turn of events and the mysterious presence of the Doge in the prisons. We ascended two short flights of steps.

We had arrived into a spacious room adorned with rich tapestries. We were now deep into the Doge’s living apartments.

He offered me a chair at his large desk and sat himself in his own divan breathing heavily to regain his strength.

I was untied and free to move as I wished. I could better examine my visitor now. I drew a deep breath as I regarded his noble features–the stern lines of his brow and cheeks so pure, they seemed to have been carved out of marble.  Striking veins lined his temples, and he wore a short beard that was pointed yet sparse. His illness had left him drawn and frail. It had dug blue pockets of skin beneath his protruding eyes. If he was near death, that, I could not tell. But I thought it strange that the Doge held no ill sentiments toward me. What did he want? And why had I been freed from my cell by one such as him?

“Signore, perdonami for asking you such an impertinent question, but are you not ill?” I asked, too confounded by the turn of events to keep my mouth shut.

“Alas, I am,” he said between sighs. “For months, your Doge has been at his bed, weakened and the subject of much speculation in my own Collegio. I have at least my favorite councilor to keep me informed of any plots and the simmering tension within this premise. Even as I lay ailing on my bed, I learned that the walls of my own palace held secrets. What sort of doge would I be, if I did not spy on the spies of Venezia? You understand whom I speak of?”

I nodded, staring at him with an almost childlike abandon. There was in his refined manners something delicate that spoke to me.

“Besides,” he added, quoting a well-known proverb, “novelty pleases those who have nothing to lose.” I noted the glint in his eyes as he jested.

After he had recovered from his exhausting expedition into the Wells and his loyal councilor had brought him a glass of orange juice, he looked at me straight in the eye.

“Now,” he said. “Tell me, Antonio da Parma. I need to know the truth. Why did you do…as they say? Why did you enter unlawfully into the cancelleria secreta?”

I had wanted to protest but I offered no reply.  We are no sooner in awe of a great man than all pride and defenses abandon us. I took whatever he had to tell me with a meekness I did not know I possessed.

He saw that I did not respond and sighed.

“I knew there was more to you. I had sensed it from Esteban’s letters. Now, I am certain of it.”

“Esteban? Esteban del Valle?”

He smiled and closed his eyes. He had an air of serenity while I descended into stupor.

“Perdonami, Signor Doge, but you did speak of a Moor, answering to the name of Del Valle?”

“A remarkable man.  I met his mentor once, Gaspar Miguel Rivera when I served as Captain under Admiral Carlo Zeno.  Esteban del Valle works for me, Antonio da Parma. He brought you to me.”

“He what?”

“On the night you entered the palace, you were there because I wished to see you. In exchange, my spy, the only man I can count on these days, was to be given what was due to him. Why do you think you found the document you were looking for so easily?”

“You are Esteban’s client?” I was stunned. “Why would you want to see me?”

He evaded my gaze. “I have looked for years… But I will come to it. For now, I need to know the man who stands before me.  As for my purpose, I shall explain it. You were only to take the file intended for Esteban and I was to apprehend you in the stairwell as you came down.  But certain members of the Consiglio met in secret on that night and my efforts were further fraught by your insistence to enter our cancelleria secreta.  So I had to abandon my initial plan.”

“I never saw you…but I heard…upstairs.”

“Si. I was there, on the night. You were in the recesses of the Secret Chancellery. You were not meant to be there, were you? Yet I saw you reading. I saw you,” he said, eyeing me gravely, “from above.”

I startled. “You saw me? How?”

He smiled. “All things are possible when you know the way. And the Palazzo holds no secrets for me. Come now, I have been Doge and confined to this edifice for almost ten years. If there is a hole in a floor board, I should know of it.”

“Admitting that you did see someone, that someone may have been disguised. How do you know for certain that it was I?”

“It was your hands, young Antonio, which betrayed you. You wore a wrinkled mask on the night, but your hands, they are the hands of a young man. You did not wear gloves when you turned the pages of the registers and I saw your hands. And so it was that the enormous efforts you invested into fabricating this mask served you on two counts. The first, was to come to the aid of Esteban, an initiative that benefitted us both. But the second reason is unclear to me. Who you might be, I did not know. All I knew of you had come from Esteban’s letters. As for your face, I remember you, now, from an earlier time. When you first visited the palace and met with Almoro Donato, I noted you then. I remember every face that steps into the palace. My life depends upon it.  Now, tell me. Why did you see fit to peruse our Secret Chancellery and, I hear, to procure yourself with samples of certain documents, hmm?”

“I am afraid that I cannot tell you, Signore. Perdonami. But if you knew the reasons, your virtue would not stand against me.”

“Dio mio. By the tone in your voice, I sense the worse already. Is it that serious?” He observed me. I felt an almost childish discomfort under his gaze. There was a sense of peace and great wisdom emanating from him.

“Your Doge,” he said, “has been watched for over ten years in the palace. But these last six months, my illness has equipped me with powers of invisibility. At night fall, when I am thought fast asleep, I come and go as I please without as much as raising attention. And I have learned…” He paused again, as though preferring to keep to himself. “It does not matter.  Your reticence, could it have anything to do with our Consiglio dei Dieci? Something you are too afraid to tell me about our security council, perhaps?”

I bit my lips.  “Were I to speak, I would taint the very institution I have come to serve.”

“Hmm.”

I hesitated. But there was something welcoming about his countenance. The great Admiral Mocenigo who had once courageously led a Venetian fleet to rescue Christians at Nicopolis despite the dangers of his quest, was sitting here, before me. Surely he would understand.

“Signor Doge, I will tell you. A young woman is being kept prisoner in the island of Constanziaca. She has been branded a witch and is to be murdered.  Signore, she is innocent of the crimes laid against her.”

I saw the way his shrewd eyes grew more animated as I spoke.

“Constanziaca? Constanziaca, you say? There can be no one on this island, Signor da Parma.”

“Why?”

“Because hundreds of years ago, the earth shook and engulfed the land where it stood.”

“And yet…”

“And yet you tell me that the Consiglio are hiding a woman there? A witch, you say?”

“The island exists, Signor Doge.”

“Perhaps if the marshlands have surfaced there may be something… But of all places, they have made it a prison.” He paused.  “And you love this woman?” he asked, much to my surprise.

“I…”

I had no answer to give him. The suddenness of his response confounded me on the spot.

“Forgive me,” he said, sensing my discomfort. “Your Doge does not know who this woman may be. He likes to keep well informed of the affairs of the state but…” His eyes narrowed. “The affairs of the Consiglio dei Dieci grow more obscure every day. And in truth, it is the realm of the Consiglio to know all, to know more than its own Doge for the security of the State. If you say she is being held in the old flooded island, they must fear her. But… Si. I can see it in your face, young man. It speaks of longing and an agony that is beyond the Wells. You are in love.”

“I have never even met her, Signore.”

“But you have heard of her, you have endangered your life and the lives of others to near the truth about her person. May I ask…?”

“Ask me, Signore.”

“On the night you entered the Secret Chancellery, I could see you from above, through a slit in the floorboard. I saw your hands, the same graceful artisan hands I see trembling before me now. I saw the curl of your hair behind your ears and then when you reached for the final document atop the cabinet…I saw beneath your shirt, around your neck…a sprig of rue. It is a remarkable pendant. May I see it?”

“I do not have it on me, Signore.”

“Oh. That is a pity. You see, Antonio, this pendant is the very reason I pressed Esteban to bring you to me. It is the very object that, for years, Esteban has been searching for at my insistence.”

I stood, forgetting my pained ankle. “But why? Do you know this pendant?”

“Someone I knew, a long time ago, possessed one just like it.”

I heard the spasm in my own agitated voice. “A witch’s rue with six branches and a charm hanging from each branch? The cimaruta? Signor Doge, how would a person of your virtue have ever encountered a pagan object of this make?”

He did not look at me. He stared ahead, speaking softly, a tired glow in his eyes.

“When I was not ill, at least fifteen years ago, there was a Southern woman….”

“Magdalena.”

There was a glimmer in his tired eyes as he welcomed her name. “Si… Magdalena. A woman with child. Such an afflicting sight. I remember it well. And I asked myself in that instant, ‘Tommaso, have you ever seen one so pitiful?’ She was in bitter tears, by the Canal, staring afar. And I, the procurator of San Marco, I rode past in my gilded carriage. On that day, I had returned from a ceremony with the then Doge. No sooner did I regard her than my smile faded. She was staring into the lagoon with such intensity that at first, I feared she may have jumped if I had not stepped down and spoken with her.  I remember the tattered velvet of her train and the dark circles beneath her welling eyes. As I approached, I saw how she twisted her hands and shook from grief.  Yet in all that tragedy, in the face of such torment, she somehow stood proud, undefeated.  Around us, the other Veneziani passed her and gave her no time. They did not even look at her.

“I felt as though a gray cloud had been cast over my heart. I was convinced, right then and there, that a curse would befall me if I, Tommaso Mocenigo, Duke of Candia and Procurator of San Marco did not commit all I could to come to this woman’s aid. You see there was peace in Venezia, all around me was gladness and here, before me, was this beautiful woman pouring her sorrows into the canal.”

I held my breath. “What did you do, Signor Doge?”

“I was standing behind her. I reached to touch her shoulder. I longed to touch her if only to tell her that she was not alone. Her loneliness frightened me. And before I could even speak of my presence, she averted her face away from the lagoon. When she turned, I was stunned by a golden light that continues to baffle me, even today.

“In an instant, I grew to understand that this woman, who wore no jewelry, save for one item round her neck, had endured much, that she had pawned all she had to live rightly in Venezia. I ignore how I knew this. But that is what I felt. Her eyes were speaking to me in that moment and I was convinced in my mind that there, before me, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. An angel from the South, who would determine for me, my destiny. And there, on her neck, was that pendant I saw on you, that night. The very same pendant.”

“The cimaruta…” I was overwhelmed by the Doge’s tale and could barely speak.

Tommaso stared ahead as though I was not even in the room. Pools of emotion glistened in his eyes. He seemed enraptured by the memory.  “Si…” he whispered.  Then his voice was seized with a sudden passion and his tired eyes began to sparkle. “The cimaruta…branching down into stems of silver… Such a bedazzling sight! I never saw anything quite like it.”

“You saw right, Signor Doge. Magdalena Visconti was in great need when she arrived in Venezia. Her husband’s rival had cast them into poverty. Magdalena attempted all she could to save her husband’s honor.  Somehow she found an atelier. She exhausted herself until she and her husband restored their fortunes and became mascherari.” My voice fell back at those last words.  An absurd idea had crossed my mind. I could not imagine it could be true. Yet the question burned my lips. I had to know. “Signor Doge…did you…were you…were you the person who helped Magdalena?”

“Did I come to her aid? It was my duty. As procurator of San Marco, I was the representative of the Saints on earth.  The welfare of the popolani was my domain.”

“By the saints! Then it was you! All along…”

“I helped her. I went beyond what was expected of my role of procurator. I gave her all I could. She needed a home and a place to work.  I never asked any questions. I raised the sum. I gifted it to her and her husband. Such a strong, determined woman. She protested and offered to repay the advance I gave for her trade. But I refused.”

He paused, as though remembering something. “I did ask for one thing… I asked that she let me touch the pendant on her neck. She agreed. She closed her eyes, and in my trembling hands, I sensed its power. I felt the life within it. Just as I sensed the life within her, as bright and fierce as the moon. And do you know what she said to me then, Antonio?”

I was barely breathing. “What did she say, Signor Doge?”

“She stared in my direction with the whites of her eyes and pronounced words that I never forgot to this day. She said, ‘Tommaso! You will be Doge! And you will have the second sight, and in your reign, all you touch will be gold. The Lion of Venezia will rise.’ Yes… Just like that! I was astounded by the weight of those words. Me? Doge? I had in my forties served the Consiglio dei Dieci, in a time when it was not yet shrouded by evil secrets.  I had been councilor and I had been named Duke of Candia three years before. I was not to be pitied in my progression in the Republic. But Doge! As a believer, never in my mind could I entertain the thought that such a premonition could come to be realized! What magic, what sorcery if it were true?

“And for years, I did not believe Magdalena. With time, her words became a memory and nothing more. I was more certain that the plague would return to Venezia and that I may even die before her prediction came true. But almost a decade later, in 1414, when I was serving as ambassador in Lombardia, the news traveled to me in secret.  And such news! Dio mio! They told me I had been voted Doge. You cannot imagine the meaning I placed upon this.  On that very day, I understood that Magdalena had foretold the truth. This notion, this belief I now held in the woman with the pendant, it gave me the will to flee as fast as I could from Cremona–long before any ill-intentioned tyrant could have set upon me–to rejoin Venezia fast, and at last, to fulfil my destiny.”

“It was your destiny.”  I was surprised at the fervor in my voice.

He nodded.

“Destino…” he repeated. Then he looked to me and his traits relaxed. He seemed more at peace. “I had not spoken of this to anyone until I appointed Del Valle. Poor Del Valle. It was cruel of me to hold him back, yet I could not do otherwise. I could have aided him a long time ago.  But I wished to see her.  So I paid him, ducats after ducats.  All he sought was a document to prove his estate, a means to finally inherit what was rightly his. But I could not… I could not.  Forgive me. I needed him. Do you know how difficult it is to find men as loyal as he is? He was my eyes and ears beyond these walls. For years, while I remained confined to this palace, he looked for the pendant. He found nothing. I despaired that I had lost Magdalena. I ignored where she lived and what had become of her.  But the longing, oh, the longing. As death drew near, the longing grew stronger. I wanted to see her, see her, before it was too late.  I pressed Esteban to find me the pendant. I believed that if only I found the pendant, I would find her.”

The Doge’s tale moved me. I remembered how I had thought it curious for Esteban to have known of the Arsenale silversmith. But she was not the only one he had known of.  He had known of them all.

He had been looking for the pendant everywhere in Venezia, yet never knowing how close he was to his quest. How could he have suspected that his lover, Blanca, had once removed Elena's pendant in her very hands, before giving it away to the scheming Catarina. He never knew of it.  It had taken him years to find instead, the other pendant.  And as destiny would have it, it was I who wore it.

Doge Mocenigo had shut his eyes while continuing to speak.

“I will tell you that this second sight has been a burden for me. The knowledge of what is to come is never easy, Antonio. In one’s own vision of the future, how does one know the difference between what they wish to be, what they believe will be and what, for certain, will be? Sometimes, the certainty is there, but can it be trusted? And if I do not trust, who will? And what if I am right? I have hope that my Pregadi would take my words and understand. But will they?”

“What do you mean, Signor Doge? What future do you see?”

He looked at me and I at once sensed the burden upon his shoulders.

“I am dying, Antonio. I am too ill to continue as I have. The Doge should not be seen in the Wells, nor lurking through the Palazzo at night. I spend my days hiding in the shadows. Lassitude overtakes me and I feel trapped in this six room apartment. I feign to sleep when I am too tired to find peace. Only one thing keeps me. It is the certainty that Venezia is in grave danger. She may lose all she has. But,” he added, regarding me a moment with a quick smile, “perhaps that is not something I can share with a Florentine.”

He began to cough. I seized the moment. There was no time to lose. I had to tell him.

“Signore,” I began, my thoughts racing in my head. “The pendant you saw on my neck belongs to Magdalena. It is hers. The child she once carried, this child has grown. She is the young woman I spoke of, the woman whose life I must save.” I caught my breath.  But it was no use.  I could no longer contain myself. “Signore, I know well what a nagging thought can do. I have felt, ever since I arrived to Venezia, that my destiny was tied to Magdalena. I saw her in dreams and sensed her presence on occasions. I have felt this more strongly upon learning that she had a daughter. I feel that I must find this young woman. Elena Visconti haunts me. She has been haunting me ever since I set foot in Venice. I know this is mad and you must think me a fool but I… I have to see her! I must be set free to see her!”

He fell into a long silence as though he were considering my words and carefully weighing their madness.  I began to feel impatient. The old admiral belonged to another time with his slow movements and his deliberations. I was already rebuking myself for having spoken in such haste.  His next words stunned me.

“I understand you, Antonio.” His voice rose. “In the words of our great Petrarch, ‘you wish to go beyond the fire that burns you’. I see it in your eyes.  This sentiment you have, that something must be, I know it well.  I know how it devours and urges.

“Then I will ask you to yield to what must be. Pay heed to your inner voice, as I do mine. Let it guide you to your destiny.  As for your Doge, he has not saved the mother only to see her child perish.”

Without hesitating, the old admiral turned to his desk.  He retrieved an old scrolled map that he unfolded before me. “Constanziaca, you say? Constanziaca is a marshland island to the east of Lido. It lies…” He paused to reflect, his white fingertip hovering above the naval parchment. At last, his eyes shone and I discerned a triumphant smile. “Here,” he said, pointing to a place on the lagoon.

He examined me as I took in his precious instructions.

“And so Antonio, the Signoria has taken enough of your time.  The Consiglio dei Dieci have done you a great injury.  You are free to leave.  A great adventure lies before you.”

“You have my gratitude, Signor Doge. But how will you explain…”

“You escaped. They will have to believe it.” He smiled. “My councilor will show you a passage that will lead you to safety. From whence you came, through the Wells you were led to my apartments.  But there is another secret passage. I have a water door that leads to the Rio Canonica. You shall hide in a gondola, beneath a pail of straw and rejoin the straw gondolas at the mouth of the canal. There are so many of them there, no one will suspect.” A sparkle illuminated his eyes.  “This admiral would have done the same.”

I kissed his hand.

“I bid you go, Antonio. Pray for me, your Doge, that I may persuade my Pregadi and save Venezia from the wars Francesco Foscari would have her wage upon my death. You do that for me, Antonio?”

I knelt before him.

“Thank you, kind Doge. I will pray for you.”

“And I am pleased to have at last seen you, Signor da Parma. But make haste now, before danger lurks. Do not tarry any longer. I have seen what I wanted to see.”

Last Letters

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Esteban del Valle

6 January 1422, past midnight

My friend,

I know all that has taken place and the grief that you suffer.

I have been in prison; in the Wells. It was your client, an exceptional man, who released me.

There is not much time to explain. A gondolier awaits and I’ve only enough time to slip this letter beneath the church stool we agreed.  I will leave another letter for your friend to deliver to the Signora Contarini and then I shall wait at the port.

Esteban, I fear that Elena Visconti will soon be murdered.

I never thought I would ask this, but I am in need of your help.

Esteban, you were right. Everything you said about me and about that pendant in the Piazza—the pilgrims and their faith—it is all true. I do not expect you to understand but I must save Elena.

I know that you’ve plans to leave tomorrow night and yet I beg of you, please rejoin me at the port by dawn.

We must sail to her. I know where she is.

***

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Signora Catarina Contarini

Signora, allow me to bid you goodbye.

You need not account for your deeds to me as I know them all.

I regret the loss of your sister, whom I know you will mourn, as it was never in your heart to cast her aside. Had you not been impelled to run from your callous past, you would have shown her the love that she, above many, deserved.

I believe that justice is served, Signora, by your grief. You grieve your husband, your daughter and your sister. I believe justice is served by the shame of what you have done. I believe that justice is served by the anxiety you will forever feel regarding the honor of your good name.

Alas, I cannot vouch for the Consiglio dei Dieci. I am advised by our own Doge, that their intents are shrouded in more mystery than ever before.

Perhaps you will be spared from any torment on their behalf. And perhaps not.

As for the one you fear most, the one that you, through your jealousy, your spite and connivance, have wronged beyond imagining, know this–I shall find her and set her free.

I will ask you to keep well the pendant that your sister seized from Elena six years ago and passed to you. I believe, it lies in one of your cassoni. Keep it, Signora. It will preserve you. It already has.

Forever we part,

Antonio Da Parma

A Finder of Lost Things

Journal of Antonio da Parma

6 January 1422, Feast Day of La Befana

The Doge was right. No one suspected that I would be hidden beneath the straw.  And before long, I had dived into the icy lagoon and swum across as far from the palace as I could.

The moon shone her rays to guide me.  I felt no cold in her arms, only a deep need to be delivered to the world the way Venus, herself, emerged from the waters.

And so it was, that as suddenly as I found myself in the dreaded damp Wells of Venezia, I came to be out of them–reborn, invigorated and welcomed by the dark of the moon.  I had a thought, perhaps a memory but also a presentiment, that Diana is at her most vengeful during the first and third quarters of the moon. I watched the crescent, wondering what the day would bring.

When I was as far as possible from Rio Canonica, I handed a coin to a sleepy gondolier. He pocketed it before grumbling a few words and resigning himself to oar in the direction of the sleepy Arsenale quarters. There, I hoped to send letters and return to the silversmith to recover my hidden journal.

I had only a few hours before the rays of dawn when I hoped to rejoin Esteban at the Donna Laura.

My adventure out of the Wells had left me both speechless and determined.  I had searched deep into the wells of my own heart and discovered a love I never knew existed. A love that had haunted me for years.

It was still early in the morning as my footfalls echoed in the near empty streets of the Arsenale. Fumbling from calle to calle, I found the sottoportico where lived the charm maker.  I had resolved to force myself into her home and retrieve my belongings from their secret hiding. I only hoped they were still present and had not been discovered.

As for the old silversmith, I ignored what punishment to inflict upon her, but I imagined that the mere sight of my person, so late at night, would be sufficient to instil in her a fright she would not forget.  Even if she were to report me, I would be long gone once Esteban and I had taken off with the brig.

I ventured inside the sottoportico, weary of any sbirri and fearful that the Consiglio dei Dieci’s spies lurked at her door, but the flooded passage lay deserted. To my dismay, the silversmith’s home was not even locked shut. I pushed on the small door.  The sodden wood gave way, coming to rest halfway through its hinge.

Immediately, a wretched odor harangued my senses. I pressed the edge of my mantle to my nose and sloshed forth. I found an oil candle by the door and lit it.

The woman’s home had been ransacked. The acqua alta had seeped in and her belongings were strewn recklessly, matting the wet floor. Silver jewelry had been recklessly poured out of their coffers.  Now they shone in the dirty water among inverted pots and canisters.

With a pounding heart, I stumbled to the soaked divan. My hand reached underneath, groping frantically for the bound journal first and then for the pendant, beneath the rug. But I saw nothing of my diary nor the pendant.  As much as I searched, pushing the spoiled divan aside to glare at the empty spot beneath it, I could not find what I sought.

Wherever it was, the ink would have long run, I thought.

By now, the stench had risen to nauseating levels.  I looked to the woman’s bed.  On the floor, beneath a mound of tattered rags, I saw the outline of a swollen foot.  As I neared the linen pile to see what it covered, the origin of that horrible odor was at last laid bare.

Was this the work of the sbirri? No.  It could not be the sbirri. It looked as though she had been tortured to extract what little she knew. The cold of winter had stiffened her and she lay frozen, in the very state whence she had died, the blue terror on her face, still vivid. I raised my torch. The blood had crusted around the dozen stab wounds covering her limbs and wart-ridden face. Marring her neck were numerous bruises. Strangulation?

I was certain that this was Malek’s work. I realized that if she had been murdered, it was because the Consiglio dei Dieci’s spy had succeeded in retrieving my journal.

I reached forth to touch her clammy skin. She had been dead for at least two days. Yet last night, when Almoro had spoken to me, he had clearly no knowledge of the whereabouts of my diary.  How could this be? Was my journal still in Malek’s possession?

I was perplexed.

The campanile bell sounded in the distance. The blue light of dawn filtered through a crack in the roof. It was time.

I raised myself to my feet. The proofs I had worked to collect, the notes I had meticulously penned, the letters I kept–all was lost. I felt mortified. I knew I could scribe it all again from memory, and so it was the feeling of loss for Magdalena’s pendant which was strongest. I felt vulnerable…and afraid.

Outside, the bells had quietened. I resented their abrupt ending, almost as though their silence had sealed me to a dismal fate.  The pendant was lost.

At last, I resigned myself. I had tarried long enough. I had to meet Esteban and carry out my plan.

Before deserting the silversmith’s home, a flash of silver caught my eye. I cast a glance at the old hag and to my surprise, I discerned the gleam of a crescent moon peering from the recesses of her clothing.

I ran to her and leaned by her side, reaching for the shiny metal that sprung from one of the pockets. It seemed she had redeemed herself for selling me to the sbirri. The brave woman had hidden it and Malek had not known of its existence. Trembling with relief, I slid the pendant out and ran out of the sottoportico. A triumphant smile curled my lips as I raised the cimaruta to the waning moon.

***

For what seemed hours, I remained, a darkly cloaked masked figure, sitting by the port like a mendicant, waiting for Esteban. I had put away all thoughts of my lost diary and a new anxiety had seized me.

Esteban was horribly late. I began to feel dread—without him, I may never find a safe passage to Constanziaca. Already, the hardy Arsenalotti set off for their day’s work, pouring in large bands into the port and still, there was no sign of Esteban.

A sharp pang tugged at my chest. After all, our bargain was complete. Why should he come to my aid again? Perhaps he had only befriended me to meet the requests of his client, Doge Mocenigo.  Would he have even saved my life if it had not been for this pendant and the Doge’s demands?

I thought of Blanca’s horrible execution. Could I blame any man for shunning company after losing the woman he loved? The notion that Esteban might no longer wish an encounter with me became real. Perhaps he had already sailed for Aragon, if only to escape the evil of Venezia.

Without Esteban, I would never find Elena.

When I had sunk further into despair, then paced back and forth along the quay, my spirit assailed by morbid thoughts with every moment of passing time, I discerned, almost as though in a dream, perched high on the upper deck of the approaching Donna Laura, the unmistakable silhouette of my Catalan bravo.

A sigh of relief heaved my chest.

Later, as I oared to the Donna Laura in a fisherman’s boat, all I saw was the dashing Esteban. All I felt, was gratitude and the tightness in my throat.

He was armed, regally cloaked in a wine mantle of rich velvet. He stood, ever tall, his grief concealed, the edge of his crimson turban fluttering in the morning breeze. The only dash of white, was the pristine collar of his silken shirt beneath a gilded doublet. His mask was made entirely of gold. It seemed engraved and ended above his lips. It barely hid the warm gaze he cast at me as I ranged my boat alongside the brig.

I must have seemed haggard after my recent stay in the prisons. The distress of the last hours spent alone, in hiding, showed upon my face. Yet Esteban regarded me proudly.  He seemed quietly glad of our meeting again.

He held my hand for an extended moment, longer than was necessary to haul me aboard. As though he were reprimanding me for having doubted.

C.X.

The morning of La Befana glowed like a thousand sunsets, splitting orange and yellow hues in the clear sky. Like the soot covered witch rowers who would soon set out from San Toma, we were embarking upon a race, a race that would mark six years since Elena had first disappeared.

“This is my plan, Esteban. It is sunrise. We still have hours ahead of the Consiglio, but we need to move fast. You will have your crew paint the hull of the Donna Laura in black and lay out the carved initials, C.X., upon the prow. It must be done swiftly.”

He regarded me with saddened eyes, still grieving from the loss of Blanca.

“Your will, Antonio.”

“You will fly the Lion of San Marco on the main mast. At a distance, the men on the island will not see the difference. The Consiglio’s men shall believe that we answer to the same master.”

“It will be done.”

“There is one more thing… Would you still have one of Gaspar’s red naval costumes?”

“Several.”

“Excellent. We shall have two crew members fully decked in what you can find in the condottiere’s chests. The Consiglio dei Dieci sail with their own guards. This will not look out of sorts. When we advance toward Constanziaca, no one will question or stop us.”

“And what if they do? What if Almoro is among them?”

“Do not fear, Esteban. Almoro is confined to the palace for the entire month of January. He now depends entirely on his spies and mercenaries.”

“What if the naval officers apprehend us? What then?”

“Then I have another plan,” I said. “Leave it to me.”

Esteban looked at me as though he were seeing the avogadore for the very first time.

“And after that? Once you reach the island, what then, Antonio?”

I was astounded by my next words. But I spoke them with such certainty that even Esteban was surprised. “La Torre.  She is in the tower. We will find her.”

I knew not how long I had before Elena’s murderer set out after her. But my plan was to arrive in Constanziaca by the early afternoon. From then, I knew not what we would face.

We set out before midday, the Lion of St Marco whipping the cold air. Esteban looked nervous, more anxious than I’d ever seen him. I had resolved not to question him but he was the first to speak.

“It may well be, Antonio,” he said, “that the scarmitor who ambushed you in the Giudecca gardens will soon meet us again.”

“How do you know?”

“A sentiment I have had that he is the Consiglio’s favored weapon for such tasks; one they can dispatch in times of dire need. This is one such dire moment. They are looking for you. They have fear of you, now, and what you know. And from what we both read about Elena, they will only send the best after her.”

I nodded, the glint fierce in my eyes.

“The affairs of the Consiglio dei Dieci grow more obscure every day,” I said, paraphrasing Mocenigo’s words. “Malek. If it is him, can you fight him?”

“I shall try, Antonio.” His voice was bitter. “But I have thought back to what we saw in the gardens. And the more I have thought of it, the more I understand why I was struck, then, by his manner of fencing.”

I knew instantly what he was about to tell me.

“The man is a sinestra,” I said. Like his twin brother, I thought.

“Aye, the man’s leading hand is his left. He is faster. But that is not all. He uses both hands. It is unclear which arm will lead at any moment. He takes one by surprise. There lies his secret feint. There is that and there is his knowledge of Fior di Battaglia.  He has been taught by one of the greatest. I am no match for this man.”

“Esteban—”

“It does not matter. I am prepared to fight him, Antonio. I shall fight him. But if my sword fails, I will ask you…”

“I know. Laura will be buried in Aragon. I promise you. But Esteban…”

He shot me an inquisitive glance. I met his eyes, unflinching. I wanted to tell him of all I had learned about him while in the palace. But there was little time.

“Doge Mocenigo does not choose the wrong man,” I said finally.

That was all I needed to say. I detected an unmistakable curl at the corner of his lips.

“Indeed, he does not,” he answered.  Then he withdrew to speak with his men.

I watched him stride away. I was moved by his silent grief and the quiet understanding between us. I hoped that his sword would save us. I needed Esteban to overcome.

In truth, I had grown attached to him.

There was something in the quality of the day, like the eerie passing of the Three Fates over the Donna Laura. A faint glow enveloped the jade-green lagoon, as the Arsenal’s bank loomed to our left.

We had no sooner neared the crest of Lido Island, when a military galley apprehended us from afar. It ranged itself in our path, the Lion of San Marco mirroring our own. A canon shot was fired.  I gritted my teeth and observed the naval officers ahead. Soon, and much to my alarm, the galley was abreast our own ship.

“That officer does not appear to recognize the C.X. initials, Esteban,” I called out. But the brig’s fate was in my hands. I had to think fast. Esteban had already run back to my side.

“It is a patrolling ship. What shall we do? Think of something, Antonio. If they recognize you, they will arrest us all.”

I motioned him to the cabin where I began to remove my clothing in haste.  “Esteban, I shall need that priest frock you mentioned a while ago. I have an idea.”

“Your will.”

I had no sooner worn the priest habit and a white haired wig than a naval officer threw a plank over our brig and began to scale up with a dozen armed men.

Undeterred, I stood before the edge of the plank.

“I would not step any further brigadier,” came my bellowing voice. “This ship is infested with the peste!”

A look of horror passed over the men’s faces. They stumbled back. The brigadier straightened up and held up his sword for good measure.

“Your documents and your motivation for crossing this far into the lagoon has not been ascertained. I will be forced to refuse you passage.”

“My motivation!” I thundered. “Brigadier, shame upon you! The devil’s craft is upon this ship. Do not, I warn, step forth any further, or you shall be struck by the peste and can bid farewell to your families.”

The guards gasped at my words.

The first officer raised his hand to hush them.

“What nonsense is this? Present your passengers!”

“I could not. Only the will of God is keeping me alive. But the illness has already spread on this vessel. The miasma onboard is such that even my escorts are doomed to die when we reach the island.”

“What island?”

“What island indeed! Do you not recognize the emblem of the Consiglio dei Dieci? This is a secret dispatch which demands your silence. The Consiglio dei Dieci has entrusted me with escorting the Florentine ambassadors to the lazaretto.”

A frightened look passed over the brigadier’s face.

“What do you know of the lazaretto? What do you know of Santa Maria di Nazareth?”

“Only that we must hasten and deliver these cursed ambassadors to the lazaretto without delay. There, we shall await for forty days and hope to God that the work of the devil has spared our bodies. I will ask you, now, to return to your ship and let us pass. If you fail to do so, the mark of the devil may soon descend upon you.”

The officer swallowed nervously. I had expected him to note the curious make of our ship with his discerning eyes, but he seemed blinded by my unexplained knowledge of the lazaretto.  That seemed enough to convince him that only the Consiglio could have sent us. At last, he motioned to his guards. I watched nervously as the naval detachment retreated, faster than it had approached and as the other ship moved out toward the Arsenal.

“Full speed now, Esteban,” I whispered. “Santa Maria di Nazareth lies across the Lido. We must contour it fast. Sail out further and beyond the lagoon. Do it fast before they even take note of our lie! We need to be well ahead of them.”

“It is done.”

Then he turned to me, and his voice was a blend of curiosity and surprise.

“You play the part of the priest convincingly, Antonio. It was your best performance yet.”

I did not reply.

We sailed swiftly, maneuvering as fast as the wind permitted. We were now miles away from the patrolling ship and sailed out into the lagoon, further to the East. When we passed other armed ships, the letters C.X. had their magical effect and we were not disturbed. Instead, we watched as naval men gaped at our brig and whispered amongst themselves.

In the next hours, our dark vessel glided over the glistening lagoon, like an avenging phantom. I followed the Doge’s instructions, until I discerned a patch of low lying land surrounded by swamp waters.

I felt the thumping beats of my heart. The misty vision grew sharper. At first, all I saw was the outline of a white monastery towering above little white houses and then as we drew closer, a distinct silhouette of ochre bricks arose from the mist.  The tower of Constanziaca!

“Can we reach it faster, Esteban?”

“The wind seems to have turned, Antonio. It is not to our advantage. But I will see what can be done.”

While Esteban spoke to his men, I looked to the approaching green swamp ahead. It was a fragile landscape of wild trees, dotted with little white houses surrounded by marshlands. I had understood from the Doge that Constanziaca was now a low lying island. It would have flooded over the autumn and the ground appeared muddy.

Where the lagoon waters had receded to dangerous levels, we anchored the brig and took a barge out, wading the rest of the way through the shore, knee deep in mud.

Much to our surprise, there were only four men, not even soldiers, guarding the island’s shore. They were gathered around cinders, the remains of a large fire. They were agitated by our presence. They looked askance at each other and muttered words of confusion in a dialect I did not understand. I saw that one of them was a Dalmatian.

Esteban swept his cape over his shoulder.

“We have come to see the girl,” he intoned in a deep voice as though presaging doom.

One of the men squinted ahead and perceived the C.X. on the prow of our anchored brig. He stepped forth.

“Signore, there is nothing more to see here. We have burned all the masks,” he said. “The girl will soon be dead.”

I started.

“What do you mean?”

“He is already here.”

I glanced at Esteban, barely containing my horror.

“Has he come alone? The assassin, is he alone?” I asked.

“They are six men with him. They must have reached the tower by now. That, or his work is finished. The devil take her! We are leaving.”

The manner in which I glared at him, I might have outdone a jetatture.

The Path to Evil

“He is the warden of gates.

He opens and closes the doors to the invisible world.

He looks after passages. He is a gateway.”

The tower was several miles off from the monastery. We headed in that direction. By now, the moisture had fully seeped into my felt boots and the wet earth was icy against my feet. Esteban, too, was soaked in mud. But he had not said a word since we’d started walking.

“Do you think it is him?” I asked. “The masked man from the Giudecca?”

“It is him without a doubt, Antonio,” replied Esteban. He led the way to the green wood encircling the tower.

We arrived at a square clearing paved with marble. I stood at the gateway, staring into an encircled garden. The path was edged by thick rows of brambles as high as Esteban’s shoulder.

“We must cross the path and hopefully it should lead to the tower. I can see it just ahead of us. It is not far.”

Esteban eyed the brambles with suspicion, but he led the way with large strides, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

We stepped in carefully, making our way through the narrow path.

I noted slender marble columns within this strange garden. They seemed dispersed at intervals among the tall thorny hedges. I read the engraving on one of the columns.

“Siena,” I read.

“Donatella,” read Esteban.

We took a turn and were confronted with a node within the garden. Before us were two paths.

“Which way now?”

“Simona,” murmured Esteban.

We opted for a right turn and advanced through the hedges.  Once again, we were met with more marble engravings and more thick hedges.

“More women’s names,” I said, as we took another right turn without thinking.

“Dolce… Diana…”

The hedges grew taller. They were now higher than Esteban.

“Something is amiss,” he said.

“We are in the right place, Esteban, I can vouch for it. Look, I can see the tower, still! This way.” This time we took a left turn.  I stared uneasily at yet more signs, some in black, some in gray marble.

“Serena… Dolce, again…”

After three more right turns, I could still make out the neck of the tower and what appeared to be a grilled window in the top chamber. But the hedges were now so high that the path had darkened and the tower’s rampart was only just visible.

“Serena, again,” came Esteban in an exasperated voice. “We have erred off course. We are further away from it.”

“No, that cannot be,” I said, eyeing the grilled window with apprehension. I felt short of breath.

“It most certainly is the case, Antonio.”

“Where are you going? Esteban!”

“I think we need to head back this way,” he said.

“Esteban. Esteban, do not venture any further.”

“Why? What is it?”

I took a deep breath and sighed heavily.

“Do you know what this looks like to me?” asked my tall companion.

I could barely hear him. My vision had grown murky. I took in deep breaths. I felt at once elated from being so near, so near to her...and yet, I knew I had to leave this garden which only dimmed my senses.

“We are breathing in a poison…” I sighed. “Those hedges, they are grown of a plant I have encountered in my youth. It is Ligustrum vulgare. The berries and pollen are both highly poisonous.”

“For this to be true, we would have to consume them first,” protested Esteban.

“I am afraid not. The air on this island is damp. In this strange garden, nature’s vapors infuse the fetid air.  They combine to produce a lingering blanket of poisonous fumes. When I was a child in Tuscany, I nearly died from inhaling such pollen. We must not remain here a moment longer.”

“We are in agreement about that. But there is one problem, my friend. This place is a maze–a labyrinth, if you prefer.”

I gazed around me. “No…” My breath became heavy. Esteban saw me clutching at my chest. He was not pleased.

“A maze, Antonio. As surely as I stand before you. Years ago, I overheard pilgrims speak of how such mazes featured on the floors of several churches in Rome and France. There is from, what I remember, in Rome, a church called Santa Maria di Trastavera. One can find an old labyrinth of marble on the inside pavement.  Pilgrimages to the Holy Lands and into Castile are expensive and taxing on those who are ill.  Believers who wish to atone but cannot risk the long journey, must do penitence in other ways. They must pray on their knees as they traverse the labyrinth inside these churches. Antonio, the gardens in which we find ourselves and that you have called strange are nothing but a creation to symbolize a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Only, it is we, who are the pilgrims. It is said that as we near the center of the maze, we arrive to the gate of Heaven and have negotiated our sins…”

“And if we do not?” I gasped.

“In your situation, I would rather not we failed, Antonio. We must return to the ship or else find Elena. You must choose.”

“I must go to her.”

“The men who built these hedges knew what it represented. I see its other meaning now. Only the pure, those who have expiated their sins, may cross the maze and reach Elena. Antonio, don’t you see? She may corrupt you. That is the other significance of this maze. You will encounter evil once you have found her and your soul must be pure. Are you certain you are prepared for this?”

He seemed not the least affected by the vapors.

“Do not speak in such terms, Esteban. It is all senseless, hundred year old superstition. Malek is not pure.  He is one who has been given the key to this maze.  Another man may not traverse, but if he sins, it is only because he dares take a path forbidden to him.  And soon…” I began to cough. “Soon, his death arises, not from sin, but from the poisoned fumes in these treacherous confines. The only evil I see, Esteban, is within this maze. We have to reach Elena,” I said.

I had spoken in a fever. Hives had broken on my hands and I felt blisters on my neck. I wiped my sweaty brow and examined the incomprehensible names surrounding us. A sense of doom chilled me. We had not much time and we had already wasted it in mindless erring.

“We are lost,” I said.

“That is unfortunate. Of all the evilness, that is surely the most terrifying.”

“Si, si, we are completely lost, Esteban,” I said, biting my lips and trudging upon my wobbling knees. I had to think and in haste.

“This does not bode well, Antonio. How shall we near the tower?”

“I ignore it. But wait, please let me think. Those signs…”

“Useless.”

“Wait, Esteban. There has got to be a way.”

Leaning against one of the columns to regain my senses, I examined the sign to my left and the one to my right.

“Women’s names… Countless women’s names that repeat. They are not unique. Except—”

“They all begin with an S or a D. Is that what you are thinking, Antonio? You’d best think fast then. We are running out of time. You look as pale as death.”

He reached to support me.

“Yes, yes, S or D…S…”

“Devil take me! At this rate, we shall never get out of here.”

“Wait! What strikes me is these marble columns. Look, Esteban, look! They always come in pairs and always at a node. One in the gray marble and one in the black. One in the gray… and one in the black. Almost as though there are instructions for going in…and going out.”

“Antonio da Parma, I would gladly pursue this proposition but given that these instructions spell out names, and only women’s names, we are far from grasping their meaning.”

“Si, si, I come to that. Wait a moment, Esteban.”

It occurred to me that I could no longer see the tower. We seemed completely buried in this infernal maze of privet, thorns and marble. Esteban stood still, his breathing slow and calculated. He did not relish our entrapment. I had a vexing thought that our ingenious friend, Alberti, ought to have joined us to the island. The one aid I needed most in our present predicament was a man with his vision; a man who could see the marble signs for what they were. Someone who could read beyond those names… D or S. Surely the youth would have seen through these signs and derived the path to the tower. If only I had one iota of his genius. If only…

“Esteban, I had an idea come to me. What if the women’s names were to mean nothing?”

“Antonio, we must not tarry.”

“Yes, I know. But indulge me for I think I have found the key to this absurd maze. At the present, we can only work with what we know. And what we know is that there are signs in gray that lead to the tower, and signs in black that lead out of the maze. Although it may be the other way around…but we shall determine this in time.”

“This is the problem, Antonio. We have no time. We must think fast.”

“I am. I am, Esteban. I come to it. What if the meaning we seek did not reside in those names? What if Siena, Dolce, Serena, all lovely women, are mere words. Words intended to confuse and confound the intruder of this island. After all, the purpose of the original Cretan labyrinth was to discourage trespassers. For those who understand the code, the names mean nothing.” I repeated this to myself. “If the names mean nothing…if the names mean nothing…then at the very least…” I recalled all the engravings we had encountered. “I think I have it, Esteban! We must assume that the maze has been created in the same spirit as the code which was employed to conceal the Consiglio dei Dieci’s secret files. Think, then. What if, what if the first letter…” I recalled how Signor Alberti had discovered a changing code in the secret message of the chancellery. “Si! That must be it! The code lies in the first letters.”

“The first letters? You mean, the S and the D?” Esteban’s eyes glowed behind his mask. He reached to support me once more as I trembled from the effects of the miasma.

I grabbed his arm and stared at him. I was suddenly cognizant of an idea that was so simple, so verily childish that I wondered why I had not thought of it previously. I tapped Esteban on the shoulder.

“No, Esteban. Not S, not D. But rather, S for sinistra and D for—“

“Destra! Destra! Antonio da Parma, you are a man of great sight!” I thought he would leap from joy. But he resumed his gravity. “We must carry it out.”

“Precisely! Let us proceed. We shall assume first that the gray marble dictates the way into the maze and toward the tower. An S will see us turn to the left and a D to our right.”

We set out, carefully determining the correct path each time two options presented themselves. It occurred to me as we crossed the maze, and determined that black marble was the color of choice to the tower, that the presence of such labyrinth ought not to have been a surprise. If the Consiglio dei Dieci were convinced that Elena Visconti was an accursed being, they would have counted on the belief that the evil spirits animating her could only travel in a straight line.

Elena Visconti was surrounded by a labyrinth, because those who kept her believed that such a maze would baffle and contain her evil energy to the island.

They were truly frightened of her.

The poisonous miasma seemed to dissipate as we progressed.  The path had widened. As we neared the tower, I found myself breathing with less difficulty.

“We are close, Esteban. I sense that she is near,” I gasped, still feeling a little weakened.

“I fear something else, Antonio.”

“What is it?”

Ahead, the tower stood, flanked by a small church. We had only to cross the final privet-lined path and we would find ourselves at the feet of Elena’s prison.

“A maze, Antonio. A maze is a frightening portent,” continued Esteban. “Think like a treasurer, da Parma. If you find yourself relying on only one labyrinth to ward off intruders and there are no guards, nothing surrounding the tower…” He sighed. “I have a sentiment about this.”

“In Greek mythology there is usually a Minotaur by now,” I said, half-musing. But Esteban shot me a dark glare.

“I fear as much.”

No sooner had he spoken, that we stumbled upon a masked corpse. There, at our feet, lay the body of a man, bludgeoned to death. Beside this body, footprints much larger than that of an ordinary man were imprinted into the mud.

The Minotaur

“A third body,” I counted, as we neared the tower.  We had found a dead guard, five steps from the doors and another at the threshold.  Esteban observed the muddy prints.

“Can you hear this, Antonio?”

“Hear what? What is it?”

“Something is in the tower, Antonio. A giant with enormous limbs, nay, a beast.”

“No such being exists as a Minotaur, Esteban,” I muttered, still panting.

“With such footprints, it is a man at least eight feet tall.”

I looked up, still gripping Esteban’s shoulder.

“And yet he protects her. These guards came with Malek and all have perished.”

I eyed the tower, knowing not what we would find. My spirits remained dim on account of the confined air we had breathed while inside the maze. Or was it that I was so near her that I now no longer thought for myself?

Before us, she stood. A solid edifice of mud and stone that time had not yet conquered. Here and there, dark green vines clung to her narrow form. And as my eyes lifted toward a grilled window, high above, they crossed the unmistakable C.X. carved into her heart of stone.

“We have found her,” I said, scarcely believing that such a prison existed.

“We must hurry. Can you walk?”  He let go of my arm.

“I think so. I will follow closely.”

And then I saw him.  A small, thin man lay dead in an alcove near the tower’s entrance. He wore only a coarse tabard and a pair of miserly hose that were covered in mud. I could see from his clothing that he had once been a slave. His frozen fingers still clung to what appeared to be a vial of poison. There were icy tears upon his grimy face and a dribble of spit from the corner of his lips.

“Poison,” said Esteban. “We must go.”

I pressed a finger down the dead man’s mouth to inspect the color of his tongue. But the man had no tongue.

“Why would he kill himself?” I asked. I sensed the horror of this place and the sad expression in the man’s eyes haunted me.

“We will never know, Antonio. Let us not tarry.”

He kicked the doors open and we entered.

My heart thumped in my chest. There was something I sensed inside this fortress, even though I had jested of it earlier. I knew, no sooner had we entered the tower’s belly, that Esteban was right. A beast lived in it. A distinct human smell, the odor of unwashed flesh, it filled my nostrils.  From above, we heard a cry of agony followed by a monstrous roar.

Another guard lay by the stairwell, a hatchet in his belly. In the darkness, we scaled the spiral staircase until a further guard tumbled down, his skull landing with a crush against the stone.

We moved fast, ascending each step of this infernal tower, guided only by the ferocious moans overhead.

Halfway up, I found a lit torch and peered up into the dark circular passage. Again, the sound of the beast carried to my ear. Or was it a man? I did not know. I could hear Esteban’s furious breathing.

“He is protecting her,” said Esteban.

“Five have died. Only one guard remains,” I said. “Whatever is up there will either thwart us or aid us. If this beast has taken it upon himself to guard her, he will kill us once he has dealt with Malek.”

“There is only one way to find out,” said Esteban. He unsheathed his sword and darted up, his heels fast up the cold steps.

We scaled the last of the staircase, winding our way up toward a faint light overhead. I could barely feel my legs.  The noise rose in pitch until we were very near it.

And then at last we reached the top. I had not fully recovered from the maze’s fumes and felt short of breath. The hives on my neck and arms caused a burning pain, sending waves of nausea through me. Sweat glistened on Esteban’s temples as he led us past a lancet and through a short corridor.

And that’s when I stumbled upon the sixth body.  I fell upon my knees, barely hearing Esteban’s warning. For a moment, so close to her, I felt as though death had overcome me. No breath came. I gasped.

As I looked up, I felt a jolt so that all my senses were suddenly awakened like never before. I think to that moment and I remember that a voluptuous sensation coursed through my body and that for a short time, in which I heard nothing and saw nothing, it seemed that a gilded mist blurred my vision and that I was floating.

And then it was gone.

Before I knew it, Esteban was screaming my name and a blinding light had pierced through the corridor. My breathing had returned.  It seemed as though every beat of my heart found another throb to echo its own. That sound! I was deaf to all but that sound. Its rhythm found me. I dropped my flambeau, stunned by what I saw. From within a recessed chamber, the sunlight shone through a tall grilled window and into our eyes. And there, before us, a dark silhouette espoused the sun’s rays. She emitted not a sound. But I recognized her.

“Elena…”

Before her and just outside the chamber, two men wrestled. I say two men, but it seemed to me that one of them was a beast.

Even before I could see it, the smell of it reached me.  It gave off an offending odor and its belt reeked of sweaty leather. The head of a hollow-eyed goat rested upon his Herculean shoulders.  And on this white hairy head, there were wooden horns that curled to each side. They could have pierced any man. He wore a coarse goat skin that only one with his build could carry. Already the blood soaked it, as Malek came slashing at him with two daggers.

I heard Esteban gasp. But Malek paid no heed to the noble arts. In a clean under strike he had lodged his dagger into the beast’s upper thigh.  And though the giant’s legs were as thick as columns, I saw that his fur-lined boots had begun to trudge the ground. Now Malek was certain of victory. Again, he struck.

The creature gave out a harrowing cry. It came from deep within and spoke of despair and sadness. I remembered the tears which the man with no tongue had also cried and I understood.

Both had wished to guard her life.

Malek

né lanza né azza né daga contra mi vale

Chi contra me farà ben lo farò languire

-Fiore dei Liberi

This giant man with the head of a goat, he lay upon his back by the entrance to Elena’s chamber. He was barely breathing.

At my side, Esteban had slipped a dagger from his boot. He placed himself in guard, preparing to counter Malek with both sword and dagger.

“Take her and leave,” he ordered, in a voice that I barely recognized.  And before I could respond, he and Malek were thrust into a merciless combat.  Counters of blade, violent locks and deathly grips ensued, as the two masked men fought.

I bolted toward the chamber. But my attempts to near Elena were thwarted. Sensing my advance, and having already felled Esteban, Malek now stood in my path.  As I drew out my rondel, I saw that Elena stood safely in retreat. In this vast chamber, filled with artisan implements and masks, and which resembled an atelier rather than a prison, she seemed occupied with a curious object, around which she motioned three times as though summoning something.

I had no time to watch her. Malek came at me. From the corner of my eye, I sensed the waning sunlight and I saw that Elena waited. She waited for something.

Malek gripped my wrist, causing my rondel to slip from my hand.  Malek’s leg came beneath my knee, sending me to the ground.  Malek’s fingers clung at my face.  He would have gouged out my eyes, if Esteban had not countered for me. I rose, only to find that the two swordsmen were now engaged too close to the chamber door and that I could not enter.

The Catalan fought valiantly, countering every lock and bind with a martial prowess I knew not that he possessed.  The Dei Liberi scarmitor was an ever silent opponent. Artful and cunning, master of deceit, he seemed to sense each and every one of Esteban’s plays. He fought just as Esteban had foretold; for every counter, he had an answer and often, Esteban knew not the hand that would deceive him, from behind, from the side and from below.

Esteban was toppled to the ground countless times but nothing could keep him from rising anew.  Yet I saw the look in his eyes when he was struck underhand and his opponent gripped to his neck. At that moment, I would have run to Elena’s side were it not for my fear that Esteban would soon lose his life.

There was in the Dei Liberi arts, a deathly nature and one that had soon disarmed Esteban.

And then two things flashed before my eyes at a moment where I understood Esteban had lost.

The first was her face. Her face, which I remember now, was beyond her years. She held in her hand, a large bull’s mask that had been fashioned with black leather and inlaid with gold. It was the face of the Minotaur.

She had dropped to her knees before the dying giant and removed his goat’s head. The man’s true face was scarred beyond belief but Elena did not flinch. Years of captivity had hardened her.

Before I could comprehend her designs, there was a fleeting movement by the window, and I noticed the second thing.  It was the setting of the winter sun, heralding the time of the moon.

In the corridor, Esteban lay flat upon his face, his right arm in a twist behind his shoulder, disempowered by Malek’s powerful grip. A moment of rage took over me. I seized upon the discarded goat’s head. I surged forth, ramming the wooden horns into Malek. But I was too slow for this skilled scarmitor. He met my pathetic attempts with a masterful block and before I realized it, I was savagely propelled against the stone wall.  The goat’s head fell to the ground.

Esteban had since scrambled to his feet while I lay upon the floor.

“Esteban!” I threw out my rondel. Esteban’s hand closed tight upon it. In this short lapse of time, his eyes crossed with mine. I saw a glimmer of gratitude and then a dark light passed in his pupils.  Any doubt, any residue of fear that I had ever sensed in him, had now vanished. With his free hand, he clutched disparagingly at his bauta, peeling it off in distaste.

At once, I saw what in all his life, Gaspar Miguel Rivera had hoped to see. Esteban’s resplendent face was stripped bare for all to see. The ebony of his skin glistened.  In the whites of his eyes shone a knowing light that I knew had equally empowered his spirit. Nothing would stop him. It was as though in that last moment, he had made a decision that he would fight to the death.

Elena had secured the leather mask on her guardian’s face.  It vaguely occurred to me, that after all this time, the giant still breathed in shallow spurts.

But I took no notice of it.

My lips trembled as I watched Malek and Esteban wrestle to the ground. I closed my eyes and felt the pendant in my hand.

I knew no nobler moment than when Esteban died.

The Dark of the Moon

If I am writing this, it is because I was fortunate enough to escape from a sure death. Not from any admirable physical feat on my part–that would be impossible.

In truth, I was no match for this beast. This monster of a man who had murdered not only my friend but my hopes.

Yet, strange as it was, as I shut my eyes and sensed the cold silver of the cimaruta beneath my fingers, I felt perfectly safe. A blanketing warmth descended over me.  And even if my intrepid Esteban was no longer at my side and the most dangerous mercenary that had ever lived now stood menacingly between me and Elena, I experienced a comfort that eludes all reason.

But first, I must speak of the moment that followed, when I re-opened my eyes.

It often seems as though I have always lived at the crossroads, wandering between doors.  Once again, I was thrust into this familiar nether world and the secret visions which had guided my senses since my arrival in Venice, arose anew.  For in the instant when the light in Esteban’s eyes glazed over and when Malek’s cruel blade had drained all life from the handsome bravo, I was standing by the chamber door. And at once, by my side, I felt my Catalan friend’s hand upon my shoulder. He gave me one of his dashing smiles before walking off into the corridor, the red of his mantle fading into the gateway of spirits.

There was grief, yes, but it passed, glorified by the beauty of his courage and his loyalty. I would not easily forget.

The moments after that, however, are difficult to remember. My memory remains clouded, as though I had fallen asleep. Or perhaps I clutched to denial upon witnessing the confirmation of all that I had ever believed.

I knew I was in grave danger without Esteban to guard me. I knew nothing of martial arts and all I could claim to protect the young woman who had haunted my dreams and, I confess, brought me here, all I had was an undying devotion. It was not enough. And Malek now eyed me menacingly.

What ensued took my breath away, such that, even today, I find it difficult to recollect in great detail.

Elena stood at the doorway of her chamber and from it, there glowed a light. This golden light, not only did it blind, but it also seemed to give off a scent, like misty fumes rising from another world. There it was–the light which poor Angelo had seen rising around the mascheraro’s atelier soon after Francesco’s murder.  It was the power of the Moon. The power of Diana.

Before me, the bloodied mass of Elena’s guardian seemed to stiffen. Behind his new mask, the beast’s eyelids flicked open. The lights of his eyes turned to gold behind the leather slits. Even the long straps which bound the mask to his face, seemed to take life, curling off the ground.

Surrounded by a gilded haze, Elena’s dark silhouette had not budged. She was looking at him with a beckoning smile. I sensed a shiver run down my spine. I knew now, all there was to know about Magdalena’s daughter and the hairs on my head were raised from the sight of it.

For the man with the leather mask became suddenly possessed by something that was born of her. Elena’s vengeful will seemed to inhabit this giant who rose from the ground.  Her hold on him was the enchanted mask he wore. I now understood what had brought Giacomo, Guido, Ubertino and Balsamo to their deaths.  Elena’s black spell had stirred the dark force in each of these men, turning it against them. Their moral afflictions had been violently surfaced to the merchants’ detriment; Ubertino’s gluttony, Guido’s boorish love of drink, Rolandino’s seething resentments toward his trade partner, Giacomo’s mercenary drive to safeguard family honor, and Balsamo’s lecherousness and vanity.

Just as Elena had suspected, the tormented slave who loved her and had sought to protect her, turned violently to the source of her torment and I sensed that even Malek took fright.

The mercenary’s gloved fingers tightened upon the hilt of his sword. His footing became anxious as he eyed the beast before him. The Minotaur advanced.

Malek struck. He struck, at first with disbelief and again with despair. The Minotaur’s limbs seemed stiffened by a force that knew no bound. He suffered every blow, endured every cut, without a start.  Malek sought to block him, but the Minotaur did not bend, did not budge. He neared upon his adversary, stiff as granite. He clamped the assassin’s face to the wall with his enormous palm.

One blow from the Minotaur and Malek’s sword fell to the ground. The Dalmatian now fought hand and teeth for his life but to no avail. The blocks and grips he had up to then, so masterfully employed were ineffective against the giant’s might. For the first time, I watched Malek’s crushed temple pearl with sweat.

Then I saw him stoop and pull out a rondel from his boot.  He stabbed repeatedly at the beast’s exposed flesh. Elena’s guardian seemed immortal. No degree of slashing and cutting, no loss of blood seemed to perturb him. It was as though her will had eclipsed any pain, until… I felt a knot in my throat. Malek had driven the length of his dagger into the Minotaur’s belly.

A cold fear ran over me. The rondel became lodged so deeply, that even Malek wrestled to retrieve it. The Minotaur’s bellows echoed throughout the tower. He collapsed to the ground with a resonant thud. I lunged toward Elena, seizing her hand and preparing our flight.

Malek had found his sword while I seized Esteban’s. Malek advanced.

I raised the Aragonese blade, ready to parry. The engraved silver hilt glowed like gold, responding to the lunar forces around us. Malek struck. The impact saw me stumble back but I held on.

“Run Elena! Flee now!” But she would not budge and her gaze fixed the Minotaur. There was in her expression, an implacable grip that urged him on.  Gold rays illuminated her face and in that moment, I could not say whether she was Magdalena’s daughter, Magdalena, or both.

Malek came at me, his blade vengeful and merciless. I was felled in one strike. As I hit the ground, I remember staring at the blood gushing from a deep wound in the Minotaur’s chest and my surprise at Elena’s glowing eyes.

Just as he had taken Esteban’s life, the fiercest mercenary ever dispatched by the Consiglio dei Dieci, would take mine.

Yet from behind the ever advancing Malek, when I believed all hope was lost, I saw the Minotaur stir. I saw him heed to the call of the Moon. Lunar forces inhabited him anew, raising him to his feet. I saw the towering shadow behind Malek. The Minotaur’s powerful arms were upon him, lifting him off the ground.

He still held him high as he advanced toward the lancet by the stairs. Malek’s limbs flailed savagely above the Minotaur’s head, but the Minotaur held on. The gold light shone bright behind his leather mask.

Elena raised her hand toward him, ordering him with a flick of her wrist.  I watched, breathless, as the Minotaur hurled forth with a thunderous roar.

Gold lightning seem to strike the tower, as Malek was thrust through the lancet and catapulted out.

Elena closed her eyes.  As eerily as it had come, the gold light thinned out, until it was at first, an orange mist and then no more. The Minotaur came crashing down, his body lifeless and limp at her feet.

La Torre

“His, is a double nature.”

When men of history look to the past, they will discover, among the great leaders of Venezia, an old Admiral who presaged many things and performed life deeds that marked him as a man of wisdom, generosity and peace. A man whose reign as Doge was denoted for its wealth and fortune.

It will appear that Tommaso Mocenigo was a man with an apparent gift for divination.

It has already been two years since the beautiful gold ring I saw on Mocenigo’s finger was taken by the Consiglio dei Dieci who broke it to pieces as per tradition. Two years, since the Mocenigo seal was destroyed.  Two years, since the then procurator of San Marco, Francesco Foscari, defeated Senator Pietro Loredan to become the new Doge of Venezia. Two years, since he forged an alliance with Florence and led Venice into a war against the Duke of Milan.

As I reflect upon Doge Mocenigo’s words on Foscari, I witness Foscari’s self-aggrandizement traits and his authoritarian disposition.  War rages on. If Milan falls, will Foscari cease his conquest of the north, or will he pursue further? Only time will tell if Mocenigo’s prophecy for the fate of Venezia will come true. But one thing is certain, the lagoon city has tipped into the edge of chaos. It is at the brink of change, and if the wise Mocenigo was right, it is a change that will see the Republic topple down from the wealth and power it has known.  Already this war has come at great cost.

Shortly upon Mocenigo’s death, the peste resurged in Venezia. The lazaretto of Santa Maria di Nazareth is now well established. It has begun holding the ills and those who are suspected to be afflicted; an island with its dark secrets, perhaps one among many.

In Florence and parts of my native Tuscany, the spreading peste has spurred religious sermons against those deemed responsible. As I write, Bernardino di Siena continues to stir the crowds, preaching at length against sodomy, casting blame on all sodomites for the horrors of the peste.  The cities of Venezia and Florence have redoubled their efforts to bring suspected men to justice and everywhere, most notably in Florence, this has led to persecutions.

I reflect often on my self-exile from Venezia. I know I could never return. Even Esteban’s cunning disguises would not serve me.

I am not only the man who seized documents from the Consiglio dei Dieci. I also took away their greatest secret.

Summoning the Dark of the Moon, Elena sent tongues of fire to topple her own prison.  I remember that as we emerged from the maze, I looked back and saw that even the forces of nature had responded to her call.  Before I could understand it, a burgeoning mass swelled into the sky and lightning struck the tower.  When the thunder resounded, the flames had already risen high into the darkening skies.

The image of this burning tower remains imprinted in my mind–surging tongues of gold, like the gilded tarocchi card that Zara pressed upon my hand and which I still keep to this day. I have since learned of its meaning.

We fled. We took to the Donna Laura and deserted Constanziaca.  I held Elena close, inhaling a scent I had known in dreams and could scarcely believe was now within my reach. We watched the flames rise up, until the tower was nothing more than a charred silhouette. When at last, raindrops descended upon us, the fire had long swept through the island’s poisonous maze.

In a whisper, I bid my last farewell to a friend–a guide of pilgrims, travelers and Doges alike.  I never knew whether he had wished to aid a friend, or if grief and the loss of Blanca had urged him to give away his life.

I will never know.

Somehow, Elena and I found a passage to Sicily and on to Tunis, before reaching the Catalan coast. The crew knew enough to find the old Anselm Turmeda and to seek his help.

Upon our arrival in Aragon, I took it upon myself to carry out Esteban’s wishes and honor the man who had raised and given him a new life. Donna Laura Rivera was buried in her homeland, in the princely hills of Aragon, at the foot of a castle, in a cemetery whose name I no longer recall. She will never know the indecent fate of thousands who lay in piles, at the mercy of the lagoon waters, beneath Venezia’s churches and paving stones. I know that Gaspar Miguel Rivera smiles upon me.

We did not return to Tuscany.  We ventured further South where our names would not be known. I sought to purge my memory of all the dire moments I had lived in Venezia before Francesco Foscari’s election as Doge. But it has been difficult.

I watch myself often as I cross the streets. Here, in Benevento, where the janaras are still strong but unseen. What have I to fear, you ask? Have not my visions left me, now? Have I not found myself? Now, that Magdalena is at peace. Now, that my dreams have met with reality and now that she is near me. Elena, stavo sognando di voi.

La Torre. I found my fortune in the Tower’s meaning. Where I had once known order and followed the dark designs of other men, where I had once erred in confusion, unsure of my meaning, now there was only chaos and its certainty.  The meaning of La Torre was to break from all I had known and embrace what had called my name for so long.

It was through Elena that my denials ended and that I could at last embrace my nature. When I first set my eyes on her, in that tower, it was as though I had been struck by lightning. A bolt passed through me, shattering my illusions, such that all my senses were awaken. I had resisted once, but now, I was swept by this truth and sought to be transformed by it. I understand that for many years, I had been ever drawn to it.

And now I am free.

But though I am free, free as Aradia wished us to be, I can never find peace. Peace is elusive for those, like us, who wander between worlds. We are followers of the sacred huntress and yet often, it is we, who are hunted.

Many months after we arrived in Napoli and crossed to Benevento, I received what appeared to be a letter in expensive Fabriano paper. It had journeyed all the way from Venezia and was in poor shape when it was delivered.

When I opened it, I saw that it was embossed with the Contarini seal and signed with great flourish. Before even reading it, I took note of the signature and realized, to my great surprise, that it had come from Lorenzo Contarini.

***

June 1426

Letter from Lorenzo Contarini to Antonio da Parma

Signor Avogadore, or should I say, Antonio da Parma?

It has taken me years to find you. At last, here you are, in the most unexpected of places.  Here, I am told, you have influence and you are well treated.  Important or not, you will read what I have to say.

The last time we spoke, years ago, my life was toyed with by a merciless thug who you, and I believe, a friend of yours of the name, Esteban del Valle, overpowered in the Giudecca Gardens, before returning me safe to my home.

No sooner had I returned, that my mother, who, if you remember, had already taken upon herself the grief of two family members, blanched at my sight. Had I been a fool, Antonio, had I been mindlessly taken by the love of my life—whom I have since married despite the rising hatred toward Jews—I would have cast aside the Giudecca incident and resumed my amorous adventures without a thought for what had taken place.

But Lorenzo Contarini is not a fool. And if I had little time for my father, I knew he would have done all to protect his family. I know that the moment he discovered, through a servant’s indiscretion, that his wife played a part in Elena Visconti’s abduction, he had this very servant murdered. I know this, for I helped him get rid of Luca.

So it is that Giacomo Contarini, the man who I once deplored as a father, has taught me an important lesson. Had you not uncovered this for yourself and scribed notes from his own diary into yours, I may have not resolved differences with my late father. But thanks to you and your wonderful prose, his soul is at repose knowing that his son looks up to him.

We are not murderers, Antonio. We are merchants, houses of trade. And when one’s social standing and honor hinge on one’s reputation, you will understand that one often needs to take certain measures.

So I return to that night–the night when my life was spared and I witnessed the alarming tears in my mother’s face. At this instant, she had not revealed her torment. But she was my mother. And as a son who owes his life to his mother, I did what a good Venetian patrician does; I employed spies to protect the casa. And among them, I had the ingenuity to employ a spy to watch you.

It matters little who this spy was. But it soon became clear to me, that you possessed incriminating evidence against my family.

I will agree that the Consiglio was a thorn in our side. Any knowledge of Elena’s abduction and her powers for sorcery was something they were ready to silence at all cost. They have since left us alone, just as we have endured in silence.

But you, you are different, Antonio. To have a Florentine, such as yourself, so privy to our secrets, could only pose us with further inconvenience. What if you had shared your knowledge or resorted to extortion?

I later learned that the sbirri had arrested you. At that time, I had a clearer picture of what you knew. My mother had shown me your fierce correspondence and while she was shamed by the accusations you placed upon her, I saw that she was also more determined than ever to thwart you.

She and I were bound by blood and a common understanding.

My spy soon advised me that the sbirri had been searching for hours in the old silver shop where you had been arrested. It appeared they had not found what they sought… Although I ignored what that object could be, I had great hopes.

And what do you think I did, Antonio?

I returned to this place, this silver shop, in the middle of the night. I found the old hag and I questioned her. Of course she claimed to know nothing. It took certain means of persuasion before the ugly witch consented to grant me your precious diary.

Its pages, including the evidence you retrieved from the Consiglio dei Dieci, are long destroyed now, burned in the mantelpiece of the Ca’ Contarini. I remember that I watched every leaf of paper shrivel and turn to cinders. And while many years have passed, it always pleases me that I was able to do so.

I was content until I learned of your escape. Since then, I did not rest until I had found you. And now that I have found you, I feel that I am closer to understanding my father than I ever was.  Do you see my meaning, Antonio?

You must know that my mother wears her cimaruta at all times. She has faith in the power of the talisman to protect her, but she refuses to wear any mask unless she is certain of its maker. Though you are several days journey away from us, she lives in fear nevertheless.

She is terrified of her–that spawn of the devil, who lives with you and whom you have since taken as your wife.

I am not.

I know what you and your witches do by the walnut tree, in the groves of Benevento. My spy has told me all. And I have asked myself many times whether Elena Visconti might not have cast her spell on you.

But with all I know, I am now forced to accept an idea that has long taunted me and which I once refused to acknowledge.  And so, at present, I ask myself a different question, and even before it is answered, I am filled with a loathing that vexes my soul.

What are you? What are you, Antonio da Parma?

You almost had me fooled, avogadore, you two-faced consort of witches. But I have God on my side and I’ve nothing to fear.  I am not the one who will be running for years to evade the Consiglio dei Dieci’s spies.

And Antonio, if you ever return to Venezia, you and that offspring from hell who masquerades as a woman, you will know, that when Giacomo set out to murder Francesco Visconti, there coursed through his veins, not just petty jealousy, but the undying passion and determination of the Ca’ Contarini to protect family. If you as much believe that this same blood does not flow through my veins, then let this warning redress your error.

I will be waiting.

Lorenzo Contarini

Epilogue

It is not known what befell the island of Constanziaca. But time has long seen the lagoon waters rise. The island has disappeared, drowning its secrets with it.

The world’s first official lazaretto was built in Venice in 1423, on the island of Santa Maria di Nazareth, known today as Lazaretto Vecchio.

From April 1423, shortly after Francesco Foscari’s election, the Council of Ten acquired unprecedented powers.

Between 1428 and 1500, a staggering number of men suspected of sodomy were persecuted, exiled, imprisoned or put to death in both Florence and Venice. This violent movement, led by such government bodies as the signori di notte in Florence and the Council of Ten in Venice, arose from fear of God’s displeasure. It came to be known as la grande paura.  This ‘great fear’ has been attributed in part to one of the most influential religious forces of the time– Bernardino di Siena.

In 1436, it was declared that a guild for the Venetian mascherari should be formed. Non-existent until then, this guild of mask makers operated like hundreds of other guilds in the Republic. Like all guilds, it served to maintain control over the popolani.  No man or woman in Venice could practice a craft without first joining the relevant guild. By their nature, guilds imposed guidelines for good practice and punished those who did not abide. In certain cases, the guilds moved against strangers or foreigners from working in the Republic. Where once, it would have been possible for foreign mask makers to operate independently, producing masks irrespective of guidelines and standards, now the mascherari of Venice laid down stringent rules. Had she lived in Venice then, one such as Magdalena Visconti could never have begun her magic trade.

By the 16th century, over fifty percent of Venetian patrician women ended in a convent - most nuns were confined against their wills. By that century, Venetian convents were seen by some as nothing more than ‘public whorehouses’.  The San Lorenzo convent was a wealthy convent with a reputation for hosting a salon like gathering place for licentious patricians in the 17th century.

Born on 14 February 1404– an Aquarian, the exceptionally clever Battista Alberti, who later named himself “Leone”, lived to become the epitome of the Renaissance man. During his life, he demonstrated genius as an artist, a mathematician, an athlete, an architect, a writer, a philosopher, a linguist and a cryptographer.  In 1466, he forged the Alberti cipher, a code that proved impossible to break in his time. He is considered the father of Western Cryptology.  Leon Battista Alberti’s genius was to be equaled by only one man several years his junior–Leonardo da Vinci.

The Venetian cancellerias, known today as the Venetian State archives, are the world’s second largest after the archives of the Vatican. They are also the world’s oldest and most detailed, with documents dating from the 9th century. Today they are housed in the Convento di Frari, in San Polo.

Elected shortly after Doge Tommaso Mocenigo’s death, Francesco Foscari went on to wage a series of ruinous wars against Milan until 1454. As predicted by Doge Mocenigo, Foscari’s focus on gaining terrafirma, came at a great cost. Francesco Foscari was later blamed for failing to prevent the losses of Venice’s eastern territories. In 1453, Constantinople, the center of Venetian trade with the Orient, was taken by the Turks.  The effects on Venice would be devastating for years to come.

To the question—“Did Venezia lose all she had?”—we can refer our reader to her subsequent losses in 1509, and her devastation under Napoleon from 1797. As far as we know, Mocenigo’s prophecy came true. To this day, he is noted for his wisdom and his uncanny insight into the future.

The witches of Benevento have kept their secrets until today.

Aradia

“It has been written that you shall be free,

And so shall you be free,

In body, mind and spirit.”

“Everything which lives is of male and female essence.

Do not exalt one without the other.

Come to know both as to be complete.

Blessed be the free in spirit.”

Glossary

Armizare – literally ‘Art of Arms’; the term for martial arts in medieval Italy

Arsenalotti – inhabitants and workers of the Arsenale; also called, Castellani; they were members of the popolani, which means they could not vote

Avogadore – antique term for the Italian word, Avoccato (lawyer); a custodian of the proper administration of judicial matters according to the law; a guardian of the public interest who was called upon to apply and enforce the laws of the Republic; invested with certain inquisitor powers

Bauta – a full-face mask, dating as far back as the 13th century, when the first document quoting its name was written; worn by commoners and nobles alike to protect one’s identity; due to its shape, it tended to modify the voice’s pitch

Bravo – a ruffian, usually armed, prone to thieving, murdering and other dangerous exploits; often patronized by highly placed members of society

Ca’ – Venetian short form for Casa

Calle – a street

Calli – plural of street

Calza – male hose; also a club or guild where membership was usually reserved to patricians; as early as the 14th century, the make and color of a patrician’s hose might indicate the Compagnie della Calza (Trouser Club) to which he belonged

Camicia – a long sleeved linen or silk blouse usually worn beneath a doublet

Campo – a square; in Venice these were, and still are, numerous; a campo is usually attached to a small parish community and comprises a well, stores and a church

Cancelleria – chancellery which today, are known as ‘archives’; a restricted bureau within the Palazzo Ducale, where government documents were filed and stored; the initial home of the Venetian archives before files became voluminous and were stored elsewhere

Candia – the Duchy of Candia was the official name of Crete during the period in which it was colonized by the Venetian Republic

Carampana – a Venetian term for prostitute, meaning a woman of vulgar aspect or ‘slut’; so named after the Ca’ Rampani area, in which prostitution proliferated since 1358

Carnivale – season of feasting and masked reveling which commenced before the Nativity and ended on Shrove Thursday at the start of the Lenten period

Casa – term for ‘house’ but also, its residing family; can apply to the buildings owned by a certain Venetian family

Cassoni – plural of cassone; a marriage chest, usually made of wood

Cioppa – a pleated coat with hanging sleeves; a type of tabard

Compagne – the term for young men and women who dressed together in costumes during the late 14th and early 15th century

Compagnia dei corrieri – postal system; in Venice, this was established in the 14th century

Condottiere – a mercenary of varying rank, usually employed in the army

Deliberazioni – ‘deliberations’; largest body of non-Council of Ten documents held within the cancelleria secreta; comprising pacts and treaties originating from the Senate, instructions to ambassadors, foreign policy, home government relations with Rome and report by governors

Denuncio segreto – secret denunciations which any Venetian could make against another provided there were two witnesses for the deed raised; encouraged by the Council of Ten to keep the population in check according to a principle of divide and rule but also to keep the Signoria informed and in power

Dottore della peste – a medieval physician specializing in the treatment of plague victims, usually bearing a beaked mask containing several herbs known for their air purifying properties

Fabriano – the name of a powerful feudal family who dominated the early paper manufacturing process in Italy; from the 14th century, Fabriano paper factories existed in Florence, Bologna, Parma, Milan and Venice and the paper making techniques which had originated in China and were first brought to Spain via the Arabs, was a closely guarded secret; over the course of the 15th century, vellum was gradually superseded by paper

Felze – the cabin in the center of a gondola; this was eliminated in later centuries as it encouraged various intrigues

Filze – a file; in the context of the Venetian archives

Fio – term for ‘son’ in the Venetian dialect

Fondamenta – the street running along the canal

French Disease – or the pox, were both names for syphilis; in Italy, the disease was not officially identified until its spread during the Napoleonic invasion, when it was attributed to the French

Gazzetta – literally ‘little magpie’; a coin that was usually paid to hear the latest (oral) news before the advent of the printed news

Il Fiore – an Italian collection of 232 sonnets imitated from the 13th century French courtly poem, Le Roman de La Rose

Jettatura – the evil eye

Jettature – a projector of the evil eye; person known for casting ill-will upon another, usually via a compliment that one does not mean or which is filled with spite or envy

Maleficio – one of the five bells in the San Marco campanile tower; it would announce executions

Mamluk – mostly Turks; slave warriors of medieval Islam, who, in Egypt and Syria, overthrew their masters and formed the Mamluk dynasty; the Mamluks ruled Egypt and Syria from the 13th to 16th century

Marangona – one of the five bells in the San Marco campanile tower; it would announce the beginning and end of the working day

Mascheraro – a mask maker

Meretrice – term for a public prostitute; prostitutes were legal in the Venice Republic

Molo – the narrow embankment between the Palazzo Ducale and the lagoon, during the 15th century; there is today a much broader promenade extending to the lagoon known as Riva degli Schiavoni

Mosche – tiny pieces of dark fabric, usually taffeta, placed in selected spots on a woman’s skin as beauty marks; they were worn to highlight the whiteness of a woman’s skin

Muda – the armed convoy entrusted with escorting merchandise and protecting the interest of Venetian merchants from pirates and other threats at sea; protection by the muda was one of the advantages of becoming a Venetian citizen

Natale – Italian for Christmas

Nicolotti – a working class dweller living in the west of Venice (originally from the parish of S. Nicolò dei Mendicoli); had a long rivalry with the Castellani; also part of the non-voting popolani.

Nona – one of the five bells of the San Marco campanile tower; it rings to signal noon

Nonne – a nun

Occulto – hidden; and pertaining to supernatural forces

Parrochia – a parish, one of many in Venice; self-contained religious communities originating from the isolated nature of some Venetian islands prior to the advent of bridges

Piazzetta – the smaller square beside the Palazzo Ducale, flanking the Piazza; it faces the lagoon and is overshadowed by two granite towers erected in the 13th century

Ponte delle Tette – literally ‘bridge of tits’; a San Polo landmark so named after its resident prostitutes who were encouraged to exhibit themselves by the Signoria in the hope of luring men and hence discouraging increasing homosexual practices

Puttana – a whore; the plural form is puttane

Relazioni – dispatches from ambassadors posted outside Venezia; reports that the ambassadors read to the Senate upon their return home

Rio – a canal stream

Sala Gradenigo – a large room the in Eastern wing of the Palazzo Ducale; used for meetings of the Great Council until 1423; it has now been destroyed

Sala di Maggior Consiglio – commenced in 1340, this large room in the Southern façade of the Palazzo Ducale would eventually replace the Sala Gradenigo; it was first used when  Francesco Foscari became Doge

Saracen – a term used in medieval Europe to denote a Muslim or an Arab

Sbirri – plural of sbirro; armed law-enforcers some of who answered to the Council of Ten

Scarmitor – a master of arms; someone trained in swordsmanship

Sestiere – a district; Venice has six including San Marco (home of the Basilica), Castello (home of the Arsenale), San Polo (home to the Rialto bridge and market), Santa Croce, Dorsoduro (comprising Giudecca Island) and Cannaregio

Signori di Notte – the lords of the night; armed spies, operating in secret, and usually answering to the Council of Ten

Sinestra – Latin word for ‘left-handed’

Sinistra – Italian for ‘left’

Sottoportico – a passage beneath one or more buildings’ foundations; a porch which passes between houses.

Strega – Italian for witch

Tarocchi – Italian for Tarot; the 15th century Italian Tarocchi is one of the oldest known and was believed to have originated from Spain; cards were initially based on Mamluk card games which were prohibited on account of their Muslim origin

Volto – an oval shaped mask which covers the lips

Wells – the dungeons on the lower levels of the Palazzo Ducale

Zoccoli – tall platform shoes worn as early as the 1400s in Italy and Spain; from the Italian word "zocco," meaning a stump or a block of wood

Table of Contents

The Mascherari

Acknowledgments

The Republic

Character List

PART I

A Dream in La Serenissima

The Mask maker of Santa Croce

A Cry in the Campo

Murders in Venezia

The Testimony of Lorenzo Contarini

The Third Body

In the Prisons

Carampane

The Mascherari

The Moor

A Woman’s Secret

Rolandino

Catarina

Angelo’s Flight

In the Atelier

To the Canal and to the Roofs

Catarina’s Story

The Milanese

The Giudecca Gardens

Esteban’s Story

Catarina’s Torment

Giacomo’s Diary

Strega

In the Library

Magdalena’s Pendant

Schemes in the Piazza

The Pendant Maker

Blanca’s Secret

In the Cancelleria

Non Scribatum

The Deposition of Signor Vivaldi

LA BEFANA

Maffeo’s Lost Deposition

The Hidden Message

PART II

The Art of Unmasking

Death to the Janara

Donna Laura

Return to the Silversmith

Whispers at the Loggia

The Wells

Maleficio

Antonio’s Visitor

Last Letters

A Finder of Lost Things

C.X.

The Path to Evil

The Minotaur

Malek

The Dark of the Moon

La Torre

Epilogue

Aradia

Glossary