Bemused and interested
by turns, Kydd clambered over the gunwale of the little coaster after
Lieutenant Griffith. The crew lounged about the lively deck under an
evil-smelling oil-lamp, watching stonily, the stout captain fussing them all
aboard with a constant jabber of Italian and waving hands. Sea-bags clumped to
the deck, and they were on their own.
Amati was clearly
tense, and answered the skipper in short, clipped phrases. 'He say he wan' you
to unnerstan' it ays forbidden to enter Venezia in th' night. We wait for day.'
Griffith grunted. 'Very
well. Get sleep while you can, you men.' The three seamen found a place under a
tarpaulin forward, over the cargo in the open hold. This was a tighdy packed
mass of wicker baskets containing lemons, their fragrance eddying around them
as they bobbed to the night current.
They awoke to a misty dawn, off a
long, low-lying coast stretching endlessly in each direction. They were not
alone: nearly two dozen other coastal traders were at anchor or moving lazily
across the calm sea, morning sounds carrying clearly across the water.
Kydd rolled over. He saw Griffith
waiting for Amati to finish a voluble exchange with the skipper, but Renzi lay
still staring upward.
'So we're t' see this
Venice, an' today,' Kydd said, with relish.
Renzi's dismissive
grunt brought a jet of annoyance. His friend had become vexing in his moods
again, dampening the occasion and making Kydd feel he had in some way intruded
on private thoughts. 'M' chance t' see if it is as prime as ye say,' he
challenged. There was no intelligible response.
Griffith clambered over to them,
steadying himself by the shrouds. 'The captain wishes you to be — shall we say?
— less conspicuous. Mr Amati says that there's every description of seaman in
Venice — Dalmatian, Albanian, Mussulmen, Austrians - and doubts we'll be
noticed, but begs we can wear some token of this part of the world.'
He looked doubtfully at
Kydd's pea-coat and Larsson's short blue naval jacket. The crew members wore
the bonnet-rouge, the distinctive floppy red headgear, and a swaggering sash.
The Englishmen paid well over the odds for such common articles, which brought
the first expressions of amusement from the crew.
The first diffuse tints
of rose and orange tinged the mists when a gun thudded next to a small tower.
As one, bows swung round and there was a general convergence on a gap in the
coastline at the tower, a cloud of small ships slipping through the narrow
opening, the trabaccolo captain at his tiller a study in concentration as he
jockeyed his craft through.
It was only a slender
spit of land, but inside was the Venetian lagoon, and Venice. The spreading
morning vision took Kydd's breath away: an island set alone in a glassy calm
some five miles off, fairy-tale in the roseate pale of morning, alluring in its
medieval mystery. He stared at the sight, captivated by the tremulous beauty of
distant bell-towers, minarets and old stone buildings.
The lagoon was studded
with poles marking deeper channels and Kydd tore away his attention to admire
the deft seamanship that had the deep-laden trader nimbly threading its way
through. The trabaccolo was rigged with a loose lugsail at the fore and a
standing lug at the mainmast, an odd arrangement that had the lower end of the
loose lug swung round the after side of one mast when tacking about, but left
the other on the same side.
As they
approached, the island city took on form and substance. A large number of craft
were sleepily approaching or leaving, the majority issuing forth from a
waterway in the centre of the island. They tacked about and bore down on it and
it soon became apparent that a minor island was detached from the main; they
headed towards the channel between, towards a splendour of buildings that were
as handsome as they were distinctive.
Kydd stared in wonder:
here was a civilisation that was confident and disdainful to dare so much magnificence.
He stole a look at the others. The crewmen seemed oblivious to it, faking down
ropes and releasing hatch-covers; Larsson gazed stolidly, while Renzi and
Griffith both stared ahead, absorbed in the approaching prospect. Amati
fidgeted next to the captain, visibly ill at ease.
They shaped course to
parallel the shore, passing a splendid vision of a palace, colonnades, the
brick-red of an impossibly lofty square bell-tower. 'Piazza San Marco,' Renzi
said, noticing Kydd's fascination. 'You will find the Doge at home in that
palace. He is the chief eminence of Venice. You will mark those two pillars -
it is there that executions of state are performed, and to the right, the
Bridge of Sighs and the Doge's dread prison.' He spoke offhandedly, and Kydd
felt rising irritation until he realised this was a defence: his cultured
friend was as affected as he.
Griffith broke off his discussion
with Amati and came across. 'You see there,' he said, pointing at a golden ball
displayed prominently at the tip of the approaching promontory, 'the Saluday,
the customs house of Venice. We shall be boarded, but Mr Amati says there'll be
no difficulties. They're much more concerned to levy their taxes, and foreign
seamen are not of interest to them.'
He gave a small smile. 'I will be a
factor from Dalmatia, Mr Renzi will be my clerk.' Griffith wore the plain black
last seen on Bacchante's surgeon. 'We may disembark and take passage to our
lodgings without interference.'
True to anticipation,
the revenue officials ignored them in favour of a lively interchange with the
captain, leaving them to hail and board one of the flat work-boats sculling
about.
They clambered into the
forward well and settled. 'Dorsoduro,' Renzi said briefly, eyes on the colourful,
bustling shore ahead. 'And this, my friend, is the Grand Canal.'
It was impossible
not to be moved by the unique atmosphere of Venice — a true city of the water.
Every building seemed to grow straight up from its watery origins with not an
inch of wasted space. Instead of roads there were countless canals along which
the commerce of the city progressed in watercraft of every kind in a ceaseless
flow on the jade-green waters.
They passed deeper into
the Grand Canal, seeing the mansions of the rich, each with a cluster of gaily
coloured poles outside, an occasional market, throngs of people going about
their business.
A bend straightened,
and into view came a bridge, a marvellous marble edifice complete with
galleried buildings all along its length. 'The Rialto,' said Renzi. 'You will,
of course, now be recalling Shakespeare and his Merchant of Venice’
The work-boat
glided up to a landing platform short of the bridge, and they stepped out into
the city-state of Venice. ‘La Repubblica Serenissima,' breathed Renzi. They
were on the left bank with its fish-markets, pedlars in sashes and pointed
shoes, peasant women in brighdy coloured skirts with pails of water on yokes,
shopkeepers yawning as they arranged their cheeses, porters trundling kegs of
salted sardines, all adding to the tumult with their florid Venetian dialect.
Amati wasted no
time. 'Follow!' he demanded, and plunged into the crowd. They fell in behind,
their rapid pace taking them into a maze of alleyways between many-coloured
buildings until they came on a dark and heady-smelling tavern. In the rank
gloom was a scattering of foreigners, hard-looking Armenians, Jews,
unidentifiable eastern races. The chatter died and faces turned towards them as
they slid on to benches at a corner table.
'Da mi quattro
Malvasie’ Amati snapped to a waiter. 'Sir, you stays here - please,' he told
Griffith in a whisper.
'Where are you
going?' Griffith asked suspiciously.
'The consul,
Signor Dandolo, he will come soon. I — I must go to my family, they expec' me.'
His eyes flicked about nervously as he spoke.
Kydd glanced
across at the heavy Swede, whose set face gave away nothing. Renzi looked
subdued. 'He don't want to be seen wi' us,' Kydd murmured, only too aware that
they were unarmed. Griffith looked troubled.
'We are enjoying
a visit to a furatole’ Renzi said, with a wry smile, 'a species of chop-house,
this one frequented by despised foreigners. Eminently suitable as a rendezvous,
I would have thought.'
Four earthenware
pots of coarse wine arrived, a litde later fish soup. The sailors tucked in,
but the penetrating strength of the anchovy stock dismayed them. Only Renzi
finished his bowl, with every evidence of satisfaction. Hard bread was all
that was on offer afterwards.
Short and stout, but
with dark, intelligent eyes and a quick manner, Dandolo arrived. He was dressed
in flamboyant reds and greens, and he quickly got down to business. 'Signor
L'ith ha' still not arrive. You must stay how long, one, two week? Then I mus'
find some lodging.' His eyes narrowed. 'You have money?'
Griffith brought a small purse into view
and placed it on the table. It clinked heavily. 'Guineas,' he said, but kept
his hand over it.
Dandolo kept it
fixed with his keen eyes. 'This Buonaparte is too lucky, he win too fast. All
Friuli is in danger of him. There are some 'oo say Venice is too old to keep
'er empire, others, it frighten trade, threaten th' old ways. The Doge is weak
and fear the Council of Ten — but now I must fin' you somewheres.'
Pausing only for a
moment, he turned to Griffith. 'Sir, you will come wi' me to the Palazzo
Grimani. The marinaio, they go to San Polo side—'
' Una camera vicino alia
Calle della Donzella, forse?’ Renzi interrupted, with a twisted smile.
'Si.' Dandolo looked
sharply at him. 'With the foreign sailor. You know this place?'
'Yes.'
There were amazed looks from the other Englishmen, the sort of admiration
reserved for those who had learned something of a foreign language.
'Y'r Grand Tour - ye must have had a
whale of a time!' Kydd chuckled.
Renzi grinned shamefacedly. 'We
stayed at the Leon Banco, on San Marco side. It was considered a dare to spend
a night with ... on San Polo side . . .'
Griffith had been as strict as the
circumstances allowed. Renzi, as master's mate, was placed in charge, and they
occupied the top floor of a doss-house for merchant seamen, a single dark room
with rag palliasses and a scatter of chairs and tables.
Wrinkling his nose at
the smell, Kydd crossed to one of the mattresses, threw aside the cover and
brought down his fist in the centre. He inspected the result: several black
dots that moved. He wouldn't be sleeping there that night. Renzi's face was a
picture of disgust. Below in the tavern a rowdy dice game was already in
progress, a swirl of careless noise that would make sleep impossible.
'So . . .' began Kydd. Larsson kicked
aside some palliasses to make a clear area, then dragged up a table and three
chairs.
They looked at each
other. 'Sir Alastair might come at any time.' Renzi's words were not
convincing, and Kydd detected a wariness.
'Aye,
but must we stay in - this?' he asked.
All eyes turned back to
Renzi. He cleared his throat, and folded his arms. 'The French are near.'
Kydd sat back: Renzi was now going to
make things clear.
'Venice is a very old,
proud and independent republic, and she has no quarrel with revolutionary
France. In the legal sense, therefore, we have as Englishmen a perfect right to
be here, no need for disguise, dissembling.' He pondered for an instant.
'However, it would make sense not to embarrass the authorities if they must
deny knowledge of the presence of English citizens to the French. I rather
think our best course would be to lie low and see what happens. We must make
the best of our circumstances, therefore.'
'We stay.'
'We
must.' There was a heavy silence.
'Why
is th' agent, Amati, s' skittish, then?'
'Here we have an
ancient and well-worn rule of government that is unique to this place. There
are no kings, rather they elect one who should rule over them - the Doge. The
first one over a thousand years ago, in fact. And there are nobles, those whose
names are inscribed in the Golden Book of the Republic, and honoured above
all.' He paused. 'But the real power lies at the palace in the hands of the
Council of Ten, who have supreme authority over life and death. They rule in
secrecy - any who is denounced risks a miserable end in the Doge's prison.
This, perhaps, is the source of his terror.' Renzi continued: 'But on the other
hand, even while we are here in durance vile, there are at this moment — and
not so very far from here — rich and idle ladies who think nothing of waking at
noon, supping chocolate and playing with their lapdogs.' He smiled at his
shipmates' varied expressions and went on, 'Should you desire — and have the
fee — you may choose from a catalogue your courtesan for her skills and price.'