DANTE FOLLOWED DEBORA AND ALESSANDRO as they led Katina’s horse between the trees, away from where he’d first regained consciousness. He was trying to take stock of events and come to terms with what Katina had done, the ire she’d incurred. Who were these Elders? Why were they so angry? Why were Katina’s partners so distraught? There were so many questions to ask, but who should he approach for answers? Debora and Alessandro were so … overwrought.
He studied them from behind. Their heads were close together and he heard the low mutter of conversation, but not the words. They were still reeling from what Katina had done. They were too polite to show it, but he knew they were shocked that Katina had Bonded him. Now his welfare had also been entrusted to them. Why were they so upset? Was it the Obbligare Doppio or was it that they saw him as a rival for Katina’s affections? He’d heard things about the Bond Riders, that the … relationships between them were very different and a lot more liberal than those in Serenissima. Rumours were that they didn’t marry, that they didn’t even necessarily have one partner, but a few. Sometimes, even those of the same sex. It didn’t bother him the way it used to. He’d fallen in love with Tallow when he still thought she was a boy. Were Alessandro and Debora Katina’s partners in that way? Was it sexual? If so, that would mean she and Debora … An image leapt into his head and heat suffused his body. He studied Alessandro with renewed respect. Maybe being a Rider wouldn’t be so bad after all.
He tried to ball his hand into a fist, but the wound was too raw. He glanced at the cut across his palm – the mark of a Bond Rider – a mark of separation and belonging that would forever denote his difference and new allegiance. His soul had been sundered until such time it could be returned. Only how could that happen now there were no Estrattore? Except Tallow. Tallow changed everything. For him, and the Bond Riders and, if what he felt deep inside was to be acknowledged, for the future of Serenissima as well. But it was because of her that the adventures denied to him as a chandler were now available. He knew he should probably feel infuriated, if not betrayed by what Katina had done. But instead, he felt gratitude.
The prospect of what lay ahead made him excited in a way he’d never been before. What made him rejoice the most was that, at the heart of it all, was Tallow. While he didn’t really understand what a Bond meant, let alone the nature of the Obbligare Doppio, he could already feel it transforming him. Awareness of his body, of his weariness and the injuries he’d sustained but which Tallow’s power cured were like a bad dream. His previous life, only a matter of hours old, felt like a childhood memory, only harder to grasp. Nothing seemed real anymore, except what he could see in front of him. Here. Now. Debora, Alessandro, the fog, the horse, the trees, the grass and marshes – and Tallow. Unlike his fading memories, every step he took, every intake of breath, only sharpened his remembrance of her, his desire to find her, to be with her. It was acute. Was that what a pledge did? Bond you to your promise so it became a part of your very being? Or was that just his previously suppressed feelings for Tallow finding expression?
The land suddenly dipped away and Debora and Alessandro halted at the top of a precipice. Dante joined them and looked at the sight that opened before him.
Nestled in a valley ringed by skeletal trees and with a stream running noisily through it were a scattering of stagnant ponds that seemed a feature of the Limen. Vapour hovered over the area, thinning in patches to reveal what might pass for a town. Pitched in a semi-circular pattern around a huge cave mouth that was cut into the cliff opposite were a series of dun-coloured, canvas tents, some large, some quite small.
Dante was disappointed. This was not what he expected.
‘Welcome to Settlement,’ said Debora softly, half-turning and giving Dante a small smile. ‘The home of the Bond Riders.’ She stepped onto the track and beckoned him to follow. ‘It’s your home now too.’
He didn’t respond.
‘Come on then,’ said Alessandro, and started to descend.
A steep path zigzagged its way down to level ground. Dante was careful to watch where he was walking: one wrong step and he was unlikely to survive the sheer tumble to the bottom, Bond Rider or not.
The lower they went, the more the mist cleared and sounds drifted towards them. Dante saw that the tents were actually quite complex. Some had flat tops, while most rose to elegant points, falling away to varying heights. Others were lavishly decorated, offering splashes of vibrancy in the dismal surrounds. It was only once they reached the floor of the valley that Dante saw green grass growing beside the brook that chuckled quietly over boulders. There were even a few pale flowers, their heads dropping so low, it was as if they were worshipping the water. Groups of people sat outside the tents chatting; others groomed horses, some of which roamed freely, while most were tethered in the trees that ringed the campsite. Smoke rose from fires, mingling with the mist, thickening it in parts. As they walked through Settlement, the talking ceased and, one by one, all eyes alighted on him. Tent flaps parted as men and women stood at the entrance to their homes, arms folded, either whispering behind their hands or studying the newcomer in cold silence.
Dante felt their curiousity, their fear, but also a simmering scorn and distrust. The smile that he’d prepared to greet them fled, and instead he simply gave gruff nods. One or two returned them before looking away. He swallowed. This was not going to be easy.
‘Friendly bunch,’ he murmured. ‘They know how to make a person feel welcome.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Debora. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve had a new Rider. They’ll get used to you.’
‘But not to what Katina has done,’ said Alessandro sharply. ‘It’s not you so much, Dante. It’s what you represent – the worst perfidy a Bond Rider can imagine.’
They walked for a while without speaking, accompanied only by the sound of horses snickering nearby and low voices.
‘You like your tents,’ Dante said softly as they passed yet another that had the Papermakers insignia drawn on it – an elaborate scroll with a felled tree across the centre.
Alessandro shrugged. ‘Sì, they’re convenient if we have to move suddenly.’
‘You do that often?’ asked Dante.
Alessandro thought for a moment. ‘Not in my lifetime.’ He looked at Debora.
‘Nor mine. It’s a precaution,’ said Debora quickly. ‘In case it’s ever required. That way, we can move swiftly and take our lives with us.’
Dante absorbed this information, noting the age of the canvas, the way the colour had faded, the damage the eternal damp had wrought on the sturdy fabric, how the trees and weeds grew over and around them. He wondered if these tents had ever relocated.
A gap appeared and he saw a wide path leading straight to the huge cave mouth he’d observed from the top of the pass. Outside were guards standing to attention.
‘What’s down there?’ he asked quietly, nodding in the direction of the mountain.
‘That’s the Elders’ Palazzo,’ answered Alessandro.
‘Palazzo? What? Like the Doge’s?’
‘In a way,’ said Debora. ‘We don’t actually have a Doge, though the Elders do have a leader. Like all our leaders, he’s of the Doge’s bloodline. He’s a Dandolo. The Elders are taken from the same families as those who have seats on the Council of Ten back in Serenissima.’ She flashed Dante a quick smile. ‘You’ve heard the expression “Com’era, dov’era”?’
Dante shrugged. ‘Of course. “As it was, where it was”.’
‘Well, the first Bond Riders took that to heart. They replicated Serenissima in the ways they thought were helpful. Making laws and providing leadership were paramount; they didn’t want a kingship or oligarchy, so they settled for what they knew – a Republic. “As it was in Serenissima so it shall be in the Limen.”’ Debora said it flatly, like a mantra. ‘The Elders live in there. It’s also where our laws are made and offenders who break them are taken.’
‘So, Katina’s in there?’
Debora nodded. ‘For now.’
Before he could ask another question, Debora and Alessandro came to a halt. Debora drew back the flap of a large tent that was striped in a lacklustre red and white like a giant paline.
‘You will stay with us for the time being, while you’re getting accustomed to your new life, and until either a sentence is served or you choose a partner.’ She gestured for him to enter.
With a glance at Alessandro, who was busy taking the saddle off Birrichino, he ducked under the heavy material and entered.
Inside offered a plush contrast to the barrenness of Settlement. A huge, comfortable-looking mattress raised on a wooden platform dominated the tent, taking up almost one complete side. Scattered with an assortment of coloured cushions and a large quilt that was tumbled into feathery knots, it was almost indecent. It looked used. Dante felt the colour rise in his cheeks, as if he’d stumbled upon an indiscretion. A low table and a few comfortable chairs added to this impression. Rugs, cushions and some large timber chests, upon which sat some ornaments and unusual small painted boxes as well as some well-thumbed books, and worn scrolls lined the edges. The items looked very old.
Debora roamed through the interior, lighting candles that, as they spat to life, gave everything a warm glow. ‘This is nice,’ Dante said, trying to break the awkward silence.
Debora smiled. ‘Well, it’s your home for now.’
‘What’s through there?’ he asked, pointing to a canvas wall.
‘Storage,’ said Debora. She didn’t elaborate. ‘Over there –’ she pointed to the other side where another flap hung ‘– is where we wash. But if you want a bath, you have to go to the river – of course, downstream.’ She pointed vaguely outside. ‘Are you thirsty or hungry?’
Dante had to think. Surprisingly, he felt neither. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate or drank. ‘No, not really, though I guess I should be. Where’s your kitchen? I can look after myself.’
Debora flopped into one of the chairs and laughed. ‘We have no kitchens, Dante. Bond Riders don’t eat or drink – not in the Limen. The need deserts us – it’s no longer necessary. Where time has no meaning, neither does anything associated with it, including that kind of nourishment. Our bodies go into a kind of stasis.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Age does not afflict us; not even sleep attends us.’ Her tone was wistful. ‘No, we seek another kind of nourishment, that which we can take from each other.’ Her eyes sidled to the bed.
Dante tried to think of something to say, but his voice stuck in his throat.
‘Though, while your body adjusts, you may feel the urge to consume food and drink; you’ll certainly need to sleep – for a few days at least. We have supplies in the central tent. I can organise something for you if you need anything.’
Dante shook his head. ‘No, grazie. Not yet.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, let me know.’ Debora slid off her boots. ‘There’s also a hot spring in the Elders’ Palazzo. You can’t go there yet, not until you’ve been formally presented and admitted to Settlement.’
‘When will that be?’ asked Dante. He wanted to sit down, but didn’t feel right without an invitation.
Debora shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ To Dante’s chagrin, tears began to well in her eyes. ‘I don’t know anything anymore.’ Her head dropped into her hands and she began to cry.
Dante hesitated only a second before rushing to her side. He put his arm around her and patted her clumsily on the back. ‘It’s all right, it will be all right. Please, Signorina … um … Signora … don’t cry. Katina is a strong lady, I could tell that. She’ll be back before you know it.’
A slight shift in the air alerted him and he raised his head.
Alessandro stood at the entrance, a strange look upon his face. Dante drew his arm away and stood. ‘Mi dispiace. I didn’t know …’
In two strides, Alessandro was beside Debora, pulling her into his arms. ‘Grazie, Dante. It’s all right. Leave us for a while, if you don’t mind. Go and explore your new world.’
Dante chewed his lip. ‘I don’t mind. I think I’ll go and wash. Clean the blood off me.’
‘Drying sheets and soap are in there.’ Alessandro jerked his head towards a chest. ‘Help yourself. While you’re gone, I’ll see if I can find one of my old shirts for you.’
Dante went to the chest and carefully removing the objects on top, opened it. He quickly pulled out a very used but clean drying sheet and rummaged till he found a bar of grey soap. Equipped, he hovered at the tent entrance.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ He looked helplessly at Debora, who was weeping quietly.
Alessandro frowned, then his face altered. ‘No.’ He smiled sadly. ‘You have done enough already.’ Dante bit his lip. ‘I don’t mean it that way,’ Alessandro added hastily. ‘You’re a decent man, Dante. The gods know, we need your kind here. You didn’t deserve this.’
As he left the tent, Dante wondered with a heavy heart what Alessandro meant.
DANTE WANDERED AIMLESSLY AROUND the edges of Settlement for a while, enduring the stares and whispers of the Bond Riders. No-one spoke to him; everyone stopped what they were doing when he approached as if maintaining some great conspiracy. He had to resist the urge to shout. Instead, he kept his head down and ended up walking away from the tents, towards the stream. He quickly disrobed and stood knee-deep in the water, daubing the dark stains off his shirt, scrubbing his body, washing off the dried blood and grit. The water turn red before it bubbled away and was refreshed.
Lowering himself in, he marvelled at how temperate it was, how soothing. If it wasn’t for the fog, and the absence of birdsong and animals foraging, he could have been in the foothills of the Dolomites over summer, rather than in the Limen.
After a while, he got out of the water and dried himself. It was so quiet, peaceful. Dressing slowly, he wondered how long he’d been gone. Without the sun, moon, or the bells of the basilica tolling the hours, he had no idea. There was nothing here to mark time. Flinging the drying sheet over his arm, he returned to the rock face they’d descended earlier. He found a small patch of grass, spread his towel out to dry, and let his thoughts run awry.
A noise above disturbed him and he leapt to his feet. A few pebbles were dislodged from the path and fell, striking him.
‘Watch it!’ he cried out.
‘Mi dispiace!’ said a deep voice.
The owner, a man leading a fine-boned chestnut mare, descended the last section of the trail and joined him.
‘Ah, you must be the new Rider,’ said the man and thrust out his hand. ‘I’m Cristoforo.’
Afraid lest the welcome prove to be a mistake, Dante took the proferred hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Dante Macelleria –’
‘No!’ said Cristoforo, squeezing Dante’s fingers. ‘Do not reveal your last name. That’s the privilege of the Elders alone to use. No allegiances here, no class distinctions, no houses or bloodlines. Only Riders.’ He grinned, to take the sting out of his words.
Dante withdrew his hand and nodded solemnly.
‘You’ve been bathing?’ asked Cristoforo, nodding at his wet hair, the drying sheet spread on the grass. Dante nodded. ‘Come, pick up your belongings and walk with me. I have to take Castana to the corral.’ He indicated his horse. ‘She’s missed her friends.’
‘You’ve been away?’
‘Sì. I think a long time. I certainly feel it.’
Dante studied him out of the corner of his eye. He looked younger than the Elders but older than Alessandro. His brown hair had streaks of grey, as did his beard.
‘Where have you been –’ began Dante, and then stopped. ‘I can’t ask that either, can I?’
Cristoforo threw back his head and laughed heartily. Dante’s heart lightened. ‘Vero. You cannot.’ He slapped Dante on the back. ‘And I will tell you this now, for nothing, Dante who-so-casually-reveals-his-family-name. Neither can you reveal to whom or to what you’re pledged – your Bond. Do not speak of it. Some will try to draw it out of you. But no matter who asks, do not tell. That’s your secret, the only secret you’ll truly be able to keep here. Or so they say.’
Dante frowned. ‘My Bond is not normal …’
‘So I have heard.’
Dante’s eyes widened. ‘How could you?’
‘Ah, news travels fast. There are Riders moving through the mists as we speak relaying what has happened. We are being recalled for the conclave – to hear the Elders’ decision over what Katina has done. Over you, I gather, as well. It will take the equivalent of weeks to gather everyone. I just happened to be near home. I am sorry that your entry into the Limen has been tainted by this, signor – it’s not your fault.’
‘So others keep saying. Well, Debora and Alessandro. But I am not afraid to bear the consequences,’ said Dante, thrusting his chin forward.
Cristoforo just grunted and arched an eyebrow at him.
They reached the edge of a crude paddock framed by a wooden fence. There were at least a dozen horses standing listlessly, the miasma swirling around their bodies. Cristoforo opened the gate and led Castana inside.
Dante watched him release the saddle and slide it off. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘What were you, you know, back in Serenissima? What did you do?’
Cristoforo flashed his teeth. ‘It may surprise you to learn that I was an apothecary.’ He slapped the satchel that swung over his hip. ‘I still collect herbs and plants. Riders are not immune to sickness or injury, though it’s rare. I do what I can. Sometimes –’ He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what I try. There are things out there,’ he said, gazing into the mist, ‘that hunger for us. And their need grows.’
Dante followed his gaze and shivered.
Before Dante could pose the question on his lips, Cristoforo snapped back to reality, turned away and began to wipe down Castana, using long, even strokes. ‘Serenissima was the same,’ he said, picking up the conversation again. Dante had to think what he meant. ‘Only fools believe they are immune, that they’re safe.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘Serenissima?’ Dante nodded. Cristoforo considered the question for a second. ‘Not as much as I thought I would. At first I did. But not for long. I missed my wife, my children. I missed the feel of pillows beneath my head when I slept; I even missed sleeping – and eating and drinking. But faster than I would have thought possible, my desire for these things faded. I came to enjoy what the Limen offers.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Time.’
Dante pondered that for a moment. ‘For what?’
‘For whatever one wants.’
‘Do you have a partner?’ asked Dante, deliberately avoiding looking at Cristoforo, but running his finger along the wooden railing of the corral.
‘Sì. I have three people I share my life with.’
‘What are their names?’ When Cristoforo didn’t immediately answer, Dante’s eyes flew to his face. ‘Mi dispiace. I’m not allowed to ask that, am I?’
Cristoforo laughed. ‘No. That you’re allowed to ask. It’s always best to be certain about relationships in a new community. You don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’ He folded the horse blanket and rolled it tightly before he replied. ‘Their names are Sandro, Regina and Maria. Our home is the one that carries the sign of the apothecary.’ He signalled somewhere in the distance.
Dante nodded. He hadn’t noticed it on his way through Settlement, but he would look for it in future.
‘Have you always been together?’
‘In here? Not always. Not all of us. I was with Regina first, but then, Sandro came and finally, we asked Maria to join us. Now, I barely remember time without them, even when I have to return to Serenissima. They are my family. My old one has long passed.’ He fell silent. Dante hoped he hadn’t upset him.
Cristoforo finished his ministrations and slapped Castana on the rump. She whinnied and trotted over to join the herd. He closed the gate and began strolling back to camp. Dante fell into step beside him. They walked through the barren trees and dry bush skirting the perimeter, circling back around the marshland that deceptively sprouted dull green shoots on what appeared like firm ground. But it also burbled and spat, exposing its treacherous composition. A light breeze sprang up, nipping at their clothes and bringing with it the fetid odour that haunted the marsh. It didn’t bother Cristoforo, but to Dante, it smelled like death – like what he’d smelled back in Serenissima as he lay on the Ponticello di Mille Pietri. He screwed up his nose and picked up his pace. Cristoforo chuckled, understanding what prompted this unexpected burst of speed.
When they reached the tents, Cristoforo stopped. ‘Here we must part.’ He regarded Dante for a moment longer before offering his hand again. Dante clasped it. ‘Buona fortuna. I think you’re going to need it.’
‘Grazie, Signor,’ said Dante, realising he’d been dismissed.
He turned away and ambled back through the tents. At least he’d met one person prepared to talk to him, despite all the secrecy. And he’d learnt some valuable things. He wasn’t to reveal his surname, ask where Riders went when they left camp or about Bonds. Especially about Bonds. But he could ask about partners.
An image of Tallow filled his mind. Her dark tangled hair, those amazing eyes and her soft mouth. He tried to shut her out, but she kept returning, skipping along the edges of his consciousness just as she used to skip along the fondamenta. He smiled. How could he ever have believed Tallow was a boy? He remembered that time back in his uncle’s shop. The way they’d huddled together on the floor, the feel of her slender, firm fingers against the back of his neck, the way she’d looked at him with such longing. Warmth flowed through his body, making him catch his breath. How could he have known she wasn’t?
He also thought of Katina. What commitment did she have to Tallow that she would risk both her reputation and life for the Estrattore? He shook his head. No doubt, he would soon find out.
‘Can’t keep away from trouble, can you?’
Dante pulled up short. To his dismay, the man called Santo strolled towards him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Dante swallowed. Not only had his walk brought him near the cave entrance, it had taken him into the company of the man who had tried to kill him. He looked around for the guards he’d seen earlier.
‘No-one to help you now, is there, ragazzo,’ spat Santo.
‘Signor, I do not seek trouble,’ said Dante, with a small bow and tried to keep walking. A hand clutched his shoulder and spun him round. A pair of ice-blue eyes glared into his. Santo dug his fingers into Dante’s flesh.
Dante inhaled sharply as the pressure increased. ‘What do you want?’ He refused to be cowed by this man. ‘What have I done to offend you?’
‘Your being here is an offence! Isn’t that enough?’ Santo shoved him hard. Dante staggered and slammed into the granite wall, falling to the ground. He quickly scrambled to his feet, his back burning.
He held his hands up in front of him. ‘Signor. I understand that the Obbligare Doppio is a travesty and I will do all in my power to rectify this as soon as possible.’
Santo sneered. ‘You? You can’t fix anything. You have no power, hear me? You are nothing.’ Trapped against the mountain, Dante saw that Santo blocked his way.
‘Then why are you so afraid of me?’ asked Dante quietly.
Santo’s eyes widened then his face turned red. ‘Why, you little bastardo –’ He began to draw his sword.
‘Santo!’ Another man appeared. It was Stefano. Although he was not quite as tall as Santo, he didn’t exude aggression, and his presence seemed to have a calming effect. Santo pushed his sword back into his scabbard and retreated a couple of steps.
‘What?’
‘What’s going on?’ Dante noticed Stefano’s refined accent, his bearing which – though he may never reveal his surname – indicated breeding.
‘Nothing, amico mio. I was just warning the new Rider to stay clear of the cave. If he doesn’t, he might find himself locked up as well.’
Stefano looked askance at Santo and then nodded his head in Dante’s direction. ‘He’s right, you know. You shouldn’t be around here. Didn’t Debora and Alessandro warn you?’
Before Dante could answer, he continued. ‘Where are they, anyway? New Riders aren’t allowed to just wander around the camp. It’s against the rules.’
More rules, thought Dante. He had so much to learn if he was to survive. This was nothing like he expected. Nothing. ‘I simply went to the stream, to wash.’ He indicated the drying sheet flung over his shoulder and his damp shirt.
Stefano and Santo studied him, their eyes raking him, judging him. He could feel simmering anger and something else behind their gaze.
‘Come on, leave him alone, Santo. This is not your problem,’ said Stefano finally.
Santo frowned. ‘But I only want to help –’
‘Santo!’ Stefano snapped. Santo shut his mouth. ‘Now is not the time or place. We don’t want another failure on our hands.’ He aimed the word ‘failure’ straight at Dante, a weapon drawn without warning. ‘I fancy a tumble instead. Something I know can’t fail to please me.’
‘And where you’re the victor?’ asked Santo.
Stefano smiled in a way that made Dante grow very cold. They both waited to see if Dante would react. He knew they were looking for an excuse to attack him. Well, he would not give them one. He stood his ground, meeting their eyes, maintaining his silence.
After a moment, Stefano turned and walked away. ‘Santo?’ he called.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Santo and then, with a quick look over his shoulder, stepped so close to Dante that their noses almost touched.
‘You think you’re some kind of hero, don’t you? That your Bond will change the world, save the Estrattore? Oh, don’t look so surprised – it’s pretty obvious what your Bond is, what it’s about.’ He jabbed his finger into Dante’s chest, right over his heart. ‘Well, let me tell you, you’re not going to save anyone – not Katina, not the Estrattore. You’re not even going to be able to save yourself.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Dante through gritted teeth.
‘Because Katina’s never going to succeed, and now she’s dragged you into her mess. So you’d better make your choice, decide which side you’re on and fast, because if you don’t, someone else will make it for you.’
‘And would that be you, then?’
Santo pulled away and burst into laughter. ‘Me?’ He was genuinely amused. Dante tried not to look thrown. ‘Oh no. Someone much more committed than me, Dante.’ He leant in again, his lips almost touching Dante’s ear. ‘Macelleria,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘will you live up to your name and do what needs to be done? Are you a Bond Rider or just a human? Time will tell. It always does. Even in here.’
He pushed Dante into the wall one more time for good measure before spinning round and striding away.
Dante stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Why did Santo say his name like that? If only the Elders were supposed to use it, then why did Santo deploy it so freely?
A chill gripped Dante as the meaning of Santo’s words hit him with such force it nearly knocked him off his feet. He fell against the rock, allowing its coolness to calm his burning rage. An anger tempered by dread. Lost in history and the fugue that attended thoughts and memories of his old life, he struggled to find what he was looking for – the implication of his family name. Nonno Renzo was so passionate about their origins, so determined they would understand them. As chandlers, part of their task was to render fat from animals. In order to do that, you first had to kill them. They took their surname from a trade that gave their own some status.
Macelleria: the butcher.
Dante didn’t remember finding his way back to Debora and Alessandro’s tent, but he did. Tired beyond reasoning, he staggered inside. They didn’t question him about where he’d been. Neither did he object when Debora helped take off his clothes and placed him under the covers on the bed. He was vaguely aware of movement beside him as they joined him, but sleep claimed him before he could protest.
MY SECOND DAY AT THE MALEOVELLIS’ began with a tour of the casa. After a morning wash and being helped into another dress by Hafeza, I was told to meet Jacopo. Instead of inviting me to sit, I was left standing outside his study while he finished reading a document he said was very important. When he’d completed this, he stood and rubbed his hands back and forth in a way that made me think of the actors in the commedia dell’arte. There was something exaggerated and rehearsed about his mannerisms. Straightening his togati, he limped towards me. As he passed through the doorway, he made sure his body brushed against mine. I instinctively recoiled.
I made sure to maintain a distance between us for the remainder of the morning. As his study was next to the stairs on the piano nobile, we began my introduction to the casa at the landing.
First explaining that the servants slept on the floor above, he pointed to the rooms on ours. The piano nobile was mainly bedrooms and studies. Hafeza was the only person not a member of the Maleovelli family to be given a bedroom – that is, if you didn’t count me. In an oily voice, Jacopo reassured me – at the same time pointing out my marginal position – that I was most certainly part of the family. Across the front of the casa was the portego, the main salon in which I’d met everyone yesterday. There was also a small dining room that ran off the portego and beyond that a reading room. At the other end of the corridor were two sets of stairs: one led to the ground floor, but if you stepped through a door, the other went down into the central courtyard. We didn’t use the external stairs that day.
Descending to the lower floor, the pianterreno, I was shown what was effectively the business part of the house. Like most nobiles’ casas, the Maleovellis’ was a combination of private and professional interests, the ground floor functioning like a warehouse and shop all rolled into one. Products were received and sold and transactions carried out. I could tell from the many rooms allocated to receiving goods that once the Maleovellis must have been very astute merchants. With one exception, the rooms were all empty, and our voices echoed into the cavernousness. This room still held some sorry-looking barrels stacked in a corner. The wood was split and the coarse grey contents had spilled on the floor. I recognised the smell of rats.
There was also a tidy office that faced onto the rear canal, from which Jacopo did his accounting and met with any visitors. As I stood in the doorway and peered in, careful to avoid Jacopo’s lumbering frame, I rested my fingers against the wood and learnt that, for all Jacopo’s bluster, it had been a long time since a stranger had crossed this threshold.
I followed him around as we slowly went from room to room and he told me of the Maleovellis’ history and the connections and influence they once wielded. Despite the evidence before us, Jacopo spoke as if they were still a force to be reckoned with. His voice became a monotonous drone to which I barely listened. Instead, when I thought he wasn’t looking, I allowed my hands to rest on the cool stone of the walls, brush the scratched wood of the banisters and even the creaking door that led out into an internal courtyard. Jacopo may have spoken of the casa as if it were bustling with servants and turning away visitors, but the elements around me told a completely different story.
Hafeza, Salzi and one cleaning woman were all the Maleovellis housed within their walls. A cook would come to the casa each day and prepare meals, but Hafeza or Salzi would often serve the family. They barely had any visitors. Nobiles had not been here for a long, long time – only debt collectors and merchants seeking recompense for their credit. The casa itself supplied me with the counter-narrative my instincts had already told me was fact. No wonder they wanted my help, they had so little to lose.
We left the cold, damp interior and wandered into what once would have been a lovely walled garden. I could see from the stained, lifting stones, the rusting bucket hanging over the well in the centre, the dead creepers that tangled over the walls and the vacant eyes of the filthy statues standing at intervals, that this was a neglected space. Even the gates that, Jacopo told me, led onto the calle that ran along the rear had once been grand. Now they resembled something I would have expected to see on a poor casa in the Candlemakers Quartiere, not gracing the entrance, or exit, to a nobile’s.
After lunch, to my eyes a veritable repast, which I shared with Signor Maleovelli, Giaconda and Jacopo, I was left to my own devices. My lessons with Baroque, I was told, would not begin for a few days. He was currently away on family business. I didn’t give him another thought. I was glad of the reprieve.
Instead of engaging in the siesta I knew was expected, I waited till the casa fell silent and continued my journey on my own. No-one had forbidden me, but all the same, I had the sense my solitary exploration would not be approved. So I hadn’t asked. I wandered around the portego cautiously, my ears pricked for any noise, my tongue ready with excuses. I quickly touched some objects and pieces of furniture, keen for the opportunity to do this properly another time. They didn’t tell me much more than I had already gleaned. The only thing was that the cumulative effect of so much extracting was making me feel both tired and very sad. This was not a happy casa. Not even the sunlight dancing through the windows and making the terrazzo floor gleam could hide that.
I halted before the windows and stared out. Over the top of the casa opposite, I could see the dome of the Doge’s basilica in the distance, a burnished copper glow in the afternoon. The pennants of Serenissima with their winged lion flapped over the palazzo. My eyes travelled over the rooftops and gardens towards the elegant facades of the casas and down into the campo below.
Large, with a central well, it seemed all but deserted at this time of day, but from the numerous balconies that faced onto it, I could imagine it being a beacon of activity. As if summoned by my thoughts, a senator, a member of the Great Council, strode across the cobbles, his red togati marking his office. He clutched a sheaf of papers beneath his arm. He signalled a greeting to a padre hovering in a doorway opposite. I hadn’t noticed him in his black cassock. He had a loaf of bread in his hand and was feeding the pigeons. There was an entire flock gathered at his feet, flapping and pecking. They squawked and scattered as the senator ploughed through their midst, oblivious to their presence. I stepped back from the window and studied the men as they conversed, sharing a joke before parting company. It was then I noticed a slight movement behind the windows across from mine. Then I saw another, and another. Dozens of shadowed faces were staring not at me, but at the activity below. I noted that they all belonged to women – women and girls. I saw young and old alike, their hair beautifully dressed, their gowns expensive, their jewels perfect, all framed within the glass. Trapped behind it forever, doomed to look out upon the world but, as Giaconda said, never participate. I sighed. For the moment, I knew how they all felt.
Tired of my exploring and the feelings it aroused, I crossed the portego and quietly entered the hallway. After the bright light of the main salon, it was very dark. Hafeza hadn’t yet lit the candles. Then I recalled she’d been sent to the market. It took me a few seconds to become accustomed to the dimness. I wandered back down to my bedroom at the other end of the corridor when a prickly feeling made my shoulders twitch. I paused, my hand resting on an old chair. I did not extract. I pretended to examine a tapestry, leaning in close to make out the stitching. I swung my head at the last moment and caught sight of Jacopo, hovering in the doorway to his bedroom. He quickly withdrew when he knew he’d been seen. How long had he been watching me?
I hurried to my room, slowing as I passed Giaconda’s door. I heard the low murmur of voices. Giaconda’s and another, deeper voice. Who was there? My understanding was that Giaconda didn’t meet with her clients at Casa Maleovelli. It was not deemed appropriate. Glancing over my shoulder, I checked to make sure Jacopo wasn’t looking. His door was now shut. Funny, I hadn’t heard him close it. I stopped. I longed to press my ear to the wood – both to listen and use my talent. Instead, I placed a finger on the gilded door handle. Ever so gently, I began to extract.
I almost fell to my knees. I staggered back as darkness entered my heart. I wanted to cry, scream, break something; anything. I needed to cough, to gag, spit out the vile taste in my mouth. The voices behind the door ceased. I heard a creak, of furniture or wood.
I did not stay. I lifted my skirts and ran, as quietly as I could, back to the relative safety of my room. I closed the door softly behind me and flew to the window. Swinging it open, I spat into the water below, breathing deeply to clear my head. What had I felt back there? What did it mean? Some great, dark, lurking secret was buried so deep that my as yet inexperienced touch could not release it.
I trembled, and not from the cold. As I shut the window and retreated to my bed, I was not all together certain I wanted to find out.
BAROQUE KEPT HIS HEAD DOWN and his ears open. For the last three days, having satisfied his primary duty to the Maleovellis, he’d kept vigil in the little taverna on the edge of the Tailors Quartiere in the hope that Katina would appear and he could start to fulfil his obligation to her. The taverna was quiet at this time of day; the regulars were already accustomed to the man who’d made the decision to patronise their local establishment even though he was not a tailor or from the quartiere. If they thought anything of his presence, despite the rumours of Estrattore and the arrests the Signori di Notte had made, they didn’t say. He spent good soldi and he’d asked for Katina. He was a friend of the Bond Riders and that was all that mattered to them. For centuries, the Bond Riders had made the tailors and now the current owner of the taverna in the quartiere, Signor Zano Vestire, very comfortable. If this man knew them and had been told to seek out one of their kind, they weren’t about to upset their best customers.
Pretending to take a long draught of his vino, Baroque kept the wooden goblet pressed against his lips and tipped back his head, but he barely opened his mouth. He made a show of pouring another round from the jug at his elbow. Whether anyone was watching or not didn’t matter. It was about maintaining his disguise. Years of practice had taught him that if he posed no threat, was quiet and became as familiar as not only the locals, but the furniture, then conversations would not be curtailed in his presence.
Yet again he was rewarded. The afternoon wore on and the group at the table beside him grew louder and less guarded in their choice of subject.
‘Didn’t have a chance. Burst in on them in the middle of the night,’ said one old tailor, blinded by cataracts, the enemy of his trade. Baroque knew his name was Signor Pugliesi. Despite his disability, Pugliesi still wore the tailor insignia on his jacket proudly – his scuola, or guild, had not rejected him. ‘Seven of them. Fully armed as well. No warning, nothing. The screams of the women and cries of the children could be heard right across the sestiere. They took the men in for questioning.’
‘That’ll be the last they’re seen, then,’ added another man grimly.
Pugliesi nodded. ‘They’ll make an example of them. No doubt about that.’
A man Baroque knew only as Cucito, in honour of his fine needlework, overheard them and slid off his stool at the bar to join the group. They gave him a rowdy welcome – him, and the extra jug he placed in the middle of the table. ‘I heard they’re searching for the candlemaker – the one who kept the boy hidden all these years.’
‘Boy!’ scoffed Pugliesi. ‘He’s not a boy!’
Baroque almost spat his drink back into his goblet. He had to resist the urge to turn round and stare. What did they know? He held his breath.
‘Have you forgotten? He’s Estrattore. They’re not human,’ drawled Pugliesi. Baroque let out a sigh of relief, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. ‘They’re direct descendents of the old gods. They’re part divine. He’s no more a boy than I am a courtesan!’
General laughter greeted that statement.
‘Shut up, you fool!’ snapped another voice. It was the taverna owner, Signor Vestire. He headed towards them swiftly and leant over the table. ‘We’re not supposed to talk about them,’ he hissed.
Pugliesi laughed. ‘Of course we’re meant to talk about them – we’re meant to talk about them until we’re so afraid, we’ll do and say anything the Doge and the damn Cardinale tell us to.’ He raised his goblet. ‘And you call me blind.’
‘We should be scared,’ stammered another patron Baroque didn’t recognise. ‘Estrattore are heretics. They’re evil – and don’t you forget it!’ He slammed his fist on the table. Everyone jumped. No-one spoke for a moment.
Signor Vestire looked at the man. ‘I wouldn’t believe everything you hear, Gusto. Nor what you read – if you can.’ The bell above the lintel jingled as the door opened and two men entered, calling out greetings. Signor Vestire went to leave but Pugliesi, with uncanny swiftness, reached out and grabbed his wrist.
‘I heard that this boy, this Estrattore, wasn’t evil at all. On the contrary, he brought happiness and health in his wake. He lived among us, not in some trumped-up casa they pretend is a religious house with servants and comforts of which we can only dream, or a treasure-filled church – he lived like us as well. Just like the Estrattore of old. Despite what the Church and its padres preach, what they’ll have us believe …’
‘He saved dozens from the Morto Assiderato,’ agreed Cucito. They all crossed themselves. Baroque forced his hands to stay still. Wouldn’t do to let them know he was eavesdropping. ‘How can that be evil?’
‘It isn’t.’ The taverna owner tried to wrestle from Pugliesi’s grip, but the old man wouldn’t let him go. ‘But that doesn’t mean this type of talk isn’t dangerous.’
‘I heard there are those prepared to die rather than let the Cardinale get his hands on the Estrattore. That there are some –’ he dropped his voice even lower; Baroque strained to hear ‘– that are even calling for the old ways to come back.’
‘Enough!’ said Signor Vestire, finally twisting his arm free. ‘Pugliesi, you’re as stupid as you are blind. I will not have this talk in here, do you understand?’
‘Stupid? Do you really think so? Or am I merely saying what everyone else is thinking? Allora, in which case, we’re all stupid, hey?’ Signor Vestire hovered for a moment before throwing his hands up in the air and, with an exclamation of annoyance, strode to the bar. ‘What can I do for you, Signori?’ he asked the new patrons with false bonhomie and began pouring drinks from a large bladder.
Pugliesi chuckled. It was a dark sound. ‘Interesting days, mi amici,’ he muttered. ‘Interesting days.’
‘What about the candlemaker? Has anyone heard what happened to him?’ asked Cucito. ‘The one who kept the boy. The master who disguised him as an apprentice. I imagine he’ll be in for some trouble.’
‘They say he’s disappeared off the face of Vista Mare,’ said another old man with a hunchback. He was familiar to Baroque. Another tailor who paid physically for his trade. ‘He’s missing. No-one has seen him since the boy jumped in the canal. He’s gone from his casa –’
‘– and straight into the torture chamber of the Cardinale,’ chuckled Pugliesi.
‘Sì, sì,’ agreed the men. ‘Or the Doge’s dungeons.’
‘All the same isn’t it?’ Signor Cucito shook his head sorrowfully.
‘He’ll not see the light of day again until it’s his last one on Vista Mare.’
Their conversation then turned to the resumption of trade now that the quarantine on the city had been lifted. Baroque ceased to listen and lost himself in his own thoughts.
What these men were muttering, heresy by any other name, was echoed in other parts of the Dorsoduro and Barnabotti sestieri. Ever since he’d left the Maleovellis, he’d heard similar sentiments. Treasonous sentiments. Whispered on the calles, in the shops, around campi and in homes. Not even the threat of the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte had cowed the popolani. Interesting times indeed.
This time Baroque did drink from his goblet, finishing what had been sitting there for a couple of hours. He’d done what he’d set out to do and could return to the Maleovellis triumphant. He had a great deal to share with his new employers and some that he would keep to himself.
But where was Katina? She’d released him and he was keeping his end of the bargain by waiting for her. Or was he? He still hadn’t made up his mind whether to tell her about the Estrattore. He wanted to sound Katina out, find out more about what the Bond Riders were up to, how desperate their need. Desperate people were prepared to pay a great deal more, as he’d discovered with the Maleovellis.
No. Best to keep information about Tallow to himself and protect the Maleovellis as well. At least until he figured out how he could best profit from everything. Anyhow, he reassured himself, his conscience was clear. He’d been told Tallow was a girl only after he’d promised to work for the Bond Riders. As far as he was concerned, he was under no obligation to report to Katina about anything other than a boy named Tallow. That he knew about an Estrattore named Tarlo – well, he’d have to think more deeply about when and to whom he revealed that – if at all.
Teaching the Estrattore was something he never anticipated doing. He was looking forward to it. No doubt it would bring unexpected benefits as well. He sighed and settled back in his chair. Outside, he could hear the wind whistling through the campo and along the rami. A light rain began to fall. One of the workers lit some rush lights, placing them on the rickety old tables. Their greasy smell combined with that of the wood smoke from the poor fire made the atmosphere thick.
It was clear Katina wasn’t coming. But why not? What was keeping her? When so much was at stake as well. For just a second, Baroque felt a flare of concern. Had something happened to her? He almost laughed at himself. Apprehension for a Bond Rider, for a soul-less one? Ah, he was getting soft. Was a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice about what he was doing – playing two sides against each other. Better that way. Well, if Katina wasn’t coming, it made his life less complicated. And if she did arrive after he left, at least the taverna owner would vouch for him.
Baroque reached for his purse and found the required soldi. They rattled as they hit the table. He grabbed his coat off the hook by the door and, with a wave at the taverna owner and a nod to the patrons, stepped into the darkening, cold calle. He’d return in about a month and, by then, he’d have a story. Whether or not it was the one Katina wanted to hear was another matter entirely.
‘ENTER,’ CALLED CARDINALE MARTINO from behind his huge desk in the south wing of the Doge’s basilica.
Aware of who entered, he nonetheless forced Captain Sansono to wait before he acknowledged him. He scribbled on his parchment, dragging the candle closer then finishing with a flourish. He peered closely at his work, proofing and sanding it dry before putting it to one side. Then he clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer and gazed at the captain.
‘You have news for me, captain? You have found the Estrattore?’ The Cardinale gestured for the captain to sit.
Swinging his sword over the front of his legs, Sansono gratefully lowered himself into the hard-backed chair. ‘Your grace,’ he began, moistening his dry lips. ‘We haven’t found the Estrattore, not yet.’
The Cardinale slammed a fist into his hand. The captain jumped. ‘Then why do you bother me at such a late hour?’
‘Because you ordered me to keep you informed, your grace. This is what I am here to do. Anyway, the padre told me you were still at work.’ The captain fell silent.
The Cardinale resisted smiling. He had struck a nerve. Good. These secret police, the Signori di Notte, had too much power. They did not like answering to anyone, not even the Council of Ten. Well, they would have to get used to serving him. And the Church.
‘What about the Estrattore’s master, the candlemaker – has there been any sign of him?’
The captain swallowed. ‘No, your grace.
‘And you do not believe the disappearances are related?’
‘No, I don’t. The Estrattore most definitely jumped in the canal. The candlemaker was seen in the quartiere immediately after. Witnesses saw him drinking in that taverna in which we found the body.’
‘Could it have been the candlemaker who murdered the owner?’
Captain Sansono frowned. ‘According to reports, he was very drunk when he left. It’s unlikely he would have had the capacity to return, let alone for such violence. Whether it was him or not, he hasn’t been seen since.’
‘The Signori found no trace of him when they searched the other casas in the area?’ The Cardinale asked the question lightly.
The captain shifted nervously. ‘I don’t believe they were as thorough as they could have been. It was late, your grace. They –’ He stopped and shrugged.
The Cardinale looked at him quizzically. ‘What is this?’ he said, and raised his shoulders up and down in quick succession – a series of shrugs. ‘Is this a special manoeuvre your men do, captain?’ He shrugged again. ‘Is this some secret signal to which I am not privy?’
‘No, your grace,’ said Captain Sansono quickly. ‘I … I meant only that tired men do not perform to the best of their ability.’
‘Ah, of course, I see.’ The Cardinale smiled. ‘How foolish that I would forget such a base need as sleep when there’s an Estrattore on the loose. When Bond Riders are walking our calles and murdering our sons.’ He curled his lips. ‘It won’t happen again, will it, captain?’
‘No, your grace.’
‘And you won’t deign to bore me with this either.’ He shrugged. ‘Will you?’
‘Never again, your grace.’
‘Bene,’ said the Cardinale softly. He reached for a piece of fruit languishing on the platter at his elbow. He saw Captain Sansono eye it longingly. He bit into it, the juices flowing over his chin. Using a cotton serviette, he dabbed them away. ‘Allora, what else do you have to tell me?’
Captain Sansono forced himself to meet the Cardinale’s eyes. ‘We have made four arrests, your grace. The Macellerias. They’re the family who hid the Estrattore for a few days. The chandlers. They currently reside in the Doge’s dungeons.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘Nothing. They’re not talking at all. They’re good men, your grace. Kind men, who love their families and their trade. They believe they’re protecting everyone through their silence. That’s the problem, your grace. No-one in the entire quartiere is saying anything. It’s like a conspiracy.’
‘Is that so?’ The Cardinale threw down the napkin, rose to his feet and stood by the fire. He turned his back to the flames, his hands clasped behind him. His scarlet cassock glowed in the orange light. ‘Why do you think this has happened, Captain Sansono? That these ordinary men would defy God and their eternal souls for the sake of one heretic? Is the faith of Serenissima so weak that the popolani do not speak out against iconoclasts? Where is their fear of God? Where is their fear of you?’ He looked directly at the captain.
The captain shifted uncomfortably. ‘I do not understand it either, your grace. It’s as if they’re bewitched. There are reports …’ he hesitated.
‘Go on …’ The Cardinale waved at him.
‘There are reports that in some sestieri some people have stopped going to Church. That they’re whispering about the old ways again. Not openly, but in secret.’
The Cardinale stared at Captain Sansono without speaking. Sansono clenched and unclenched his fists. Just when he was about to interrupt the silence, the Cardinale began to laugh. Not a quiet snickering, but a bold, rich laugh that forced the tears from his eyes. Captain Sansono coloured. He looked at his fingers then his boots. The Cardinale went to his desk and plucked the serviette off its surface, dabbing under his eyes.
‘Oh, my dear Sansono. Of course they’re talking about the old ways. They’re enamoured with this Estrattore, this little boy who saved them from the big bad plague.’ He held his arms up in the air. He shook his head. ‘To them, the Estrattore did what God and their prayers failed to, and now they turn away. They have become so bold. Correct me if I am wrong, but not even the threat of punishment loosens their tongues. Am I right?’
‘Sì, your grace.’
‘Well, then, it’s very clear what you have to do. What we have to do, Captain Sansono – remember, you are my sword.’
‘Sì, your grace. I am.’ The Cardinale’s eyes followed Captain Sansono’s hand, which had slid unconsciously to his weapon. Captain Sansono waited for the Cardinale to speak again. When he didn’t, he frowned. ‘Forgive me for my obtuseness, your grace, but I do not understand. What exactly is it that we have to do? Could you please enlighten me?’
The Cardinale stepped towards the Captain, who tensed. The Cardinale slapped him on the back. ‘Of course, amico mio. Of course.’ He returned to his desk and sat down. He pushed the papers further out of the way and splayed his hands against the wooden surface. The thick golden cross hanging around his neck gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Come closer, captain, come closer.’ He beckoned him forward.
The captain picked up his chair and moved towards the desk.
‘Closer,’ insisted the Cardinale.
In the end, Captain Sansono had no choice but to tuck his chair into the desk and rest his elbows on the Cardinale’s sacred surface. The Cardinale watched as the man’s eyes went from side to side as he negotiated the space, carefully lowering his arms.
Leaning forward, the Cardinale stopped only when the tip of his nose almost touched Captain Sansono’s.
‘What we have to do, my good, God-fearing captain, is make them so afraid, they will say anything. Anything, do you understand? We must do what is in our power to stop these sacrilegious whispers – whispers that will, if we don’t intervene, rise to shouts and rock the foundations of the Church and this beautiful country.’ His lips barely moved.
‘Sì, your grace,’ whispered Captain Sansono, his eyelids flickering nervously.
‘And this is how we will do it.’ The Cardinale paused. ‘Over the next few weeks, I want you to treat these prisoners with respect and kindness. I want them to receive good food, vino, blankets and I want you to talk to them. Become their friend. Even if they do not speak in return, you are to talk to them. Tell them about your hopes, your dreams, your family …’
‘But your grace, I have no family –’
‘I don’t care. Tell them – anything. Make it up. But let them think they are getting to know you. In turn, they will share something of themselves. And, from what they divulge, we will learn about the Estrattore.
‘In a few days, I too will join you and speak to these good men, these kind men, these foolish men. Together, we will show them the errors of their ways. Then, I want you to choose one – only one.’
‘What for?’ Captain Sansono’s eyes hadn’t left the Cardinale’s.
‘He will remain in the dungeons, but the others, we will release them – for now. I want them to return to their family, to their quartiere, their scuola. I want them to share their experiences with everyone. I want them to spread the word about how afraid they were and how well treated. How understanding we are. How good we are, how kind. How Godly. How, no matter what, the laws must be obeyed.’
‘What about the one left behind?’
‘Ah.’ The Cardinale leant even closer. Captain Sansono could see the pores in his skin, almost feel the grey stubble just starting to grow. His soft words just reached his ears.
‘I’m afraid that, like our beloved Lord, he will suffer for all their sins.’ The Cardinale pulled away and smiled. ‘You see, one of them has to pay. For the sake of the Estrattore, he will die.’ Captain Sansono stared and then nodded.
‘And,’ continued the Cardinale, ‘after him there will be others. I don’t care who they are, what they’ve done, or what they believe. But we will let it be known that they die for one reason and one reason only.’
‘The Estrattore.’
‘Sì, amico mio. The Estrattore. The Estrattore makes us do this.’ He began to laugh again. ‘Tell me, Captain Sansono, after that, will the popolani still think the old ways are good? When they so clearly result in so much death? Will they champion this Estrattore, indulge in conspiracy against God and country when it means that those they love continue to die?’
Captain Sansono returned the smile. ‘No, your grace. I don’t think they will.’
‘Neither do I,’ said the Cardinale as he sank his long, white teeth into another piece of fruit.
‘WE ARE VERY MUCH HOPING that the … ah … accommodations meet your approvals, Signor. Come, this way, please.’
Lord Beolin Waterford blanched at the senator’s hopelessly inflected attempts to speak his language and his thick accent. He’d tolerated it all morning as this representative of the Doge, not even one of the Council of Ten, but a nobile nonetheless, had escorted him from the dock on Nobiles’ Rise, where his own launch had left him, into a local craft and to this house on the Circolo Canal in the prestigious Opera Quartiere.
House or ‘casa’, as these Serenissians called it, was hardly how he would describe such opulence. The fat little senator had assisted him out of the gondola, the strangely ornate long boats that the people used for transport. It had glided in through the water-gates and scraped onto the ramp, throwing Lord Waterford forward and forcing a quickly stifled laugh from the gondoliers. He had ignored them and composed himself before leaping over the lapping water and onto the ground floor. He could see the street entrance at the other end of a long hallway that was dark and smelt of mildew and rotting fruit. Lord Waterford had screwed up his nose and reached, once again, for the scented handkerchief that he’d pressed against his face during the entire journey. He asked himself the question that had puzzled him from the moment he left his ship: how could a place that looked so resplendent smell so terrible?
When he’d sailed into the lagoon over two months ago, past the forbidding Arsenale, and set eyes on Serenissima, he’d been enchanted. It was unlike any city he’d ever seen. The last time he was here, it had been in a Kyprian corsair, and under cloak of darkness, so he hadn’t appreciated the beauty of the city or its liquid surrounds. This time, he’d had weeks of leaning on the ship’s railing, staring across the waters, to seduce him and make him long for landfall and the opportunity to explore.
At last it had arrived. Officialdom had stamped his passport, checked his papers and those of his men and extracted their outrageous fees, finally allowing him to fully appreciate this jewel of a place. Nothing, not his days of anticipation and ambivalence about what lay ahead, nor even his previous covert entry, had quite prepared him.
Waterford was enthralled as they rowed along the crowded canals, by some miracle not colliding with the other craft that crammed onto the motile streets. It was overpowering – the sight of so many boats, the shouting, the smells, the colour, the chaos that somehow never spilled into tragedy. And this was despite the huge losses the city had suffered during the recent plague.
Throughout the journey, he caught glimpses of stunted waterways between the elegant buildings, with their mixture of arched windows, colonnades and Gothic splendour; stagnant ponds that owed more to household rubbish than the sea for their existence.
When he thought this arrant disregard for the resplendence of the domain could get no worse, he happened upon areas that took his breath away – not in disgust, but awe. The pea-green water would open out, revealing its glowing sinuous path between eternally slanting homes, offering stuccoed and smooth façades of differing hues, hemmed with lichen and moss, and tall windows, some with lace verandas, all crowded with pretty faces – the women of Serenissima. There were striped palines and bobbing gondolas, scattered like party favours after a night of celebration. All of this was reflected in the water that embraced, reflected and inverted it, making it even more unreal and irresistible. It was Serenissima captured in its element, and he saw her with shiny new eyes.
His mind wandered back to his cold, distant homeland and he found himself thinking about his own wife and son and wondering how they were faring. Already he’d been gone from Albion for months, and the missives he’d received from his family had been short and to the point. Clearly, they had been vetted by the queen: they revealed nothing.
His instructions had been clear. The last, which had arrived just before he disembarked, was rolled tightly in his pocket. When he was alone, he would read it, but with the knowledge that other eyes had seen it first. Although the seal was intact, Waterford knew the Serenissians had opened and read the contents. Unlike the other correspondence he’d received, this one had not been delivered by a Mortian, thank the gods, but by a courier pigeon – easily intercepted.
The jarring enunciation of the senator brought him back to the present, and he followed him up a flight of stairs built halfway along the central corridor. Ascending at a moderate pace, he glanced into the rooms on either side of the ground floor. Additional barrels and sacks were being unloaded and checked, his people working frantically to bring order to the mess, to sort their cargo and begin distribution. It was a way of establishing ties – this issuing of benevolence through material goods. He was counting on it to open doors.
Which was why he didn’t argue when the agreement for renting the casa he’d been assigned was brought aboard. The oily Serenissian merchant who owned the property was bowing and scraping while justifying the disgraceful amount he was expected to pay for rent. He simply signed and paid. The look of disappointment on the merchant’s face was laughable. These Serenissians loved to barter. Waterford wanted it known that the Albions had money from which they were easily parted. He’d already set aside a huge sum for gambling in the infamous Serenissian casinos.
He had a reputation to establish, and that included biding his time before seeking an audience with the Doge. Though this would be a political faux pas, he would cite ignorance of alien customs as his excuse and instead focus on putting his men in place, contacting their spies and trying to understand this maze of a city and its secretive, greedy inhabitants and their peculiar ways before he was welcomed into the ducal palazzo.
Light spilled onto the top of the stairs and Waterford stumbled. He was still finding it hard to walk steadily. The floor kept canting, or at least his legs kept remembering the rolling deck of his vessel.
Before him, the senator paused with a questioning look on his face. Waterford cursed himself for not paying more attention before glancing around and, for the second time that morning, found himself lost for words. Now he knew what was expected of him, what the senator was waiting for – a response.
In contrast to the dinginess of the lower floor, the first floor was bathed in sunlight. A row of multi-arched windows on either end of what was a very long and narrow room, a vast hallway by any other name, pulled his eyes first in one direction and then the other. From the top of the pointed flexures, he was drawn to the ceiling painted with scenes from ancient times. Gods and goddesses gambolled with imaginary creatures who cheekily evaded capture or sought succour at a large, divine bosom. Figures robed in white waited in the wings, serene-faced and all-knowing.
‘Estrattore?’ asked Waterford, pointing towards them, tucking his handkerchief back into his sleeve. There was no need for its perfume now that the scent of beeswax and other odours filled his nostrils. At least this floor was clean.
‘Sì, yes, yes,’ said the senator, colour filling his cheeks as he glanced over his shoulder before rudely turning towards one of the many servants in the room and brusquely issuing orders for food and drink.
Waterford knew he’d touched a nerve, but he was surprised to see those the Serenissians considered heretics so brazenly portrayed. But it was a scene more reminiscent of fairytales and folklore; was that why it still remained? The Estrattore, considered monsters, could be tamed by being incorporated into history as myth?
Taken aback, he viewed the room afresh and noted the lavish furniture and portraits that adorned the walls, the scattering of elegant tables and the preponderance of coloured glass – wrapping the sconces, holding candles, decorating cabinets. It wasn’t to his taste. Nor was the gilt that the Serenissians overused on everything. Why, there wasn’t a corner of this room that didn’t emit a golden halo. It was, to his unaccustomed eyes, garish.
‘Signor,’ said the senator loudly, making him jump. For such a small man, he had a booming voice. ‘What is your, how you say it? Impressione?’
‘Impression?’ Waterford pulled a stray hair from his coat sleeve and let it flutter to the floor.
‘Sì,’ smiled the senator, his head bobbing like a duck’s, while his eyes followed the passage of the hair.
‘Signor. You may tell your Doge and the Council of Ten that, on behalf of my queen, I am humbled by such grand surroundings, which do great honour to both me and my country.’ Waterford spoke in fluent Serenissian.
The senator’s head whipped up and his mouth fell open. ‘You speak our language.’ It was not a question, and Waterford knew the poor man was trying to recall any conversations he’d had in Waterford’s hearing that would reflect badly on Serenissima. It was all he could do to hold his laughter back. These Serenissians, with their formality, their rigid rules. He also knew the fact he was assured with their tongue would be reported at the highest levels. Good. There were some areas in which he did not want to be taken for granted. He’d keep these wretched foreigners on their toes.
‘Who could not learn the most beautiful language in Vista Mare?’ Waterford bowed, his hand held over his heart.
The bloom that had filled the senator’s cheeks disappeared and his frown was replaced by a smile. He smoothed the front of his togati over his rotund belly. ‘I see you have learnt not only our language, Signor, but some of our ways as well.’ He looked Waterford up and down, reassessing him. ‘Come, I will show you the rest of the casa. We have spent many weeks preparing it for you. It was not only the Morto Assiderato that kept you on your ship, but our desire to present you with a residence worthy of your status. It’s our fervent hope that you find your wait was also … How you say? Worth your while.’
Waterford did not deign to reply, but followed the senator in and out of the various rooms that lined either side of the corridor. There was a library, a study, offices, the long portego at the front, a place to dine, to drink and, finally, to sleep, all lavishly and similarly decorated.
Waterford made appropriate noises of appreciation, strolling through room after room, but his mind raced. They’d prevented his ship from docking for weeks, even though they’d happily unloaded most of its cargo: the grain, spices, sugar, livestock, even salt, never mind the gold, furs, jewels and fabric. These were used to feed a hungry and frightened population as well as salve the nobiles, who had been forced to attenuate their extravagant tastes in a time of need. What was being stored below was not only personal supplies essential to the running of the house, but additional items to be used at his discretion. The plague, what did the senator call it again? Oh, yes, the Morto Assiderato – frozen to death – had become a convenient excuse to literally keep their new allies at bay, a means of demonstrating where and to whom power still belonged. Message understood, he thought as he continued to survey the casa he’d been allocated in his new role as Ambassador of Farrowfare in Serenissima.
It wasn’t until he’d shared an ombretta and some food – olives, cheese and pieces of rather stale bread – with the senator, farewelled him in a stately manner, given final orders to his major domo and endured the attentions of his young valet, Jack, that Waterford was left alone.
In his gilded bedroom, seated in shirt and leggings before the fire with a glass of ruby wine, a silver decanter brimming by his side, and a thick pillar candle burning brightly, Waterford finally unrolled his queen’s most recent instructions. Noises from below drifted through the gleaming floorboards as his weary men continued to labour throughout the night. Outside, on the Circolo Canal, and from within the quartiere, strains of music and a lone high voice came through the shuttered window, melodious tones that soothed. The pure notes of a young male – a castrati most likely – rose above the others, accompanying him as he read.
After the usual flowery formalities, the letter continued: