The Alchemist's Code (12 page)

Giro expounded on the grape harvest from the mainland estates; Danese went back to glowing at his bride in wordless rapture. He held all the cards now.

Eventually I asked about the Tintoretto on the wall opposite me, although even at that distance I was sure that it was a
School of Tintoretto
Tintoretto.

“Oh, my father is the collector,” Giro told me. “He has a great eye for art.”

He glanced at his stepmother as if this was one of those in-jokes that all families share, and for once there was a hint of a smile in his eyes. It was instantly reflected in hers. That was far from proof of guilt—of course a woman and her stepson are allowed to share a joke about her husband's foibles! But by then my imagination was running riot and seeing double meanings in everything.

The meal ended at last. I thanked my host and hostess, congratulated the happy couple again, and was assigned to Fabricio to be rowed home to the Ca' Barbolano and my afternoon's labors, whatever they might turn out to be.

I had more immediate plans, though. I had sensed something far wrong at Ca' Sanudo and if anyone could reassure me about that noble house, it was Violetta. I asked Fabricio to let me off at the watersteps between Ca' Barbolano and Number 96, as if I intended to go along the
calle
to the
campo
. I tipped him more generously than usual, proving to myself that I was not Danese Dolfin. He flashed me an angelic smile as he thanked me. Not
another
, surely? My conscience roared at me for being an evil-minded prude.

I went into the alley, then retraced and emerged. I watched Fabricio row away as I walked along the ledge to the door of 96 and knocked, not having brought my key. If someone in the Sanudo family fancied handsome youngsters on principle—or lack of principles—then Fabricio was a logical choice. The serving girl, the gondolier, the
cavaliere servente
…madonna Eva herself.
Saints!
Even the cherubic footman, Pignate!
Messer
Zuanbattista Sanudo had a great eye for art, his son said. Had he meant beauty?

 

Draped in a gown of silver and violet silk, Violetta was seated at her dressing table while Milana brushed out her hair, but she twisted around to offer me a hand. She was Niobe, whose eyes are a gentle hazel, brimming over with pity.

“Alas! Alfeo, my poor darling! I do wish you'd come sooner, but I cannot dally with you now, or I'll be hopelessly late. Late even for me, I mean.”

Seized with guilt for causing such distress, I knelt so I could continue to hold her hand without standing over her. “I'm already late and I have all the time in the world for you. I need to ask you some questions.”

No matter what persona she happens to be wearing, Violetta can read me like a public inscription. A trick of the light, perhaps, but it was the shrewd gray eyes of Minerva that then appraised me. “Still on about the Sanudos? Ask your questions,
clarissimo
.”

“Why the Sanudos?”

“Because it is not like you to miss a hint, Alfeo.” Minerva's eyes twinkled with deadly humor. “I've been waiting for this.”

“Why did you point out Giro and Eva to me at the theater two weeks ago?”

“Because I had found you talking with Danese Dolfin and wondered if you knew who or what he was. You didn't.”

“Do you?”

“I don't like to gossip,” she announced with a coquettish toss of her head that Milana did not appreciate. “Is it important?”

“Of course it's important! Zuanbattista is one of the senior men in the government. Is he not vulnerable to blackmail?” I could not mention Algol, of course, but I was starting to wonder if there was a connection.

Violetta made a moue, considering. “I don't think so. The whole city is laughing at his wife but Zuanbattista himself is well liked and the seduction, if it happened, occurred while he was away on government business, so he gets a lot of sympathy. Girolamo doesn't seem to care about politics.”

“He is not one of your clients, is he? Or any other lady's?”

She chuckled. “His preferences do seem to lie elsewhere. He keeps his emotions under tight control, from what I've heard.”

“A cold fish,” I agreed. Sodomy may be punished by burning at the stake, but in practice is usually ignored or awarded lesser penalties, such as exile. “So, about three years ago, Zuanbattista goes off to Constantinople, leaving wife, daughter, and son behind in Venice, or at the country house at Celeseo.”

“Both. Mostly the mainland, but they came and went.”

“Both, then. Knowing his son's inclinations, he was probably not worried about Eva, and at his age he may not worry much anyway, as long as there is no scandal. Giro is in charge of the household. To discredit rumors of his illegal tendencies, he pretends to be having an affair with his beautiful young stepmother, who is younger than he is.”

“You're putting it too crudely, dear. Come around to the other side and hold this hand instead. He was seen squiring a beautiful woman. As long as proprieties are observed, nobody really cares.”

“But then he instals his catamite, Danese Dolfin, as his stepmother's
cavaliere servente
?”

Minerva regarded me under lowered lashes. “Or Eva hires Danese and Danese takes on additional responsibilities? It would be dangerous to make either statement in public.” Sarcasm dripped slow as syrup. “Or Giro stole his stepmother's gigolo for other uses?”

“Then who was Eva's lover? Danese or Giro? Or,” I added with a gulp, “did she have two?” This was Venice, where almost anything is tolerated, but even the canals seldom get as murky as that.

Violetta laughed. “Oh, my, darling Alfeo! Who are you to judge them? You claim you love me, yet you know how I earn my crusts. Forget Eva and wonder about young Danese. In whose bed did morning find him—Eva's or Giro's?” Her lashes fanned my fevered brow. “In my profession, one sees everything conceivable, or otherwise, but I am inclined to guess that Dolfin was the busy one of the three. Remember what Cato said about Julius Caesar?—‘Every woman's husband and every man's wife'?”

And now Dolfin had Grazia also. I could see why Eva had regarded him as an unsuitable match for her daughter. Poor Grazia! When would her gorgeous eyes be opened to the lecher she had married?

“I must go,” I said, rising. “Tomorrow?”

“Tonight,” Violetta said. “My evening is free. You can come any time after sunset and stay until dawn—unless you believe that overindulgence will be injurious to your health?”

“Madonna,” I said, kissing her ear, “I won't care if it kills me. Until tonight, then!”

G
et him to tell you the one about the sea monster,” I said as I went past.

The
vizio
was sitting in the
salone
telling stories to a pack of Angeli youngsters—Piero, Noemi, Ambra, and Archangelo. No prize for guessing who would be the hero of all of the tales. His eyes measured me for a gibbet.

The Maestro was at the desk, studying a manuscript folio of
Sun of Suns and Moon of Moons
by Abu Bakr Ahmad Ibn Wahshiyah, his favorite ninth-century alchemist, known to me as Abu the Confusing. There were no other papers in sight, other than the pile of cryptography books on my side of the desk. Since they had not been disturbed, I concluded that the Maestro was no longer working on the Algol cipher. He might still be working on Algol himself, though. Demons live a long time; Abu might have met him.

The room was suffocatingly hot. All the windows were open, but not a breath of wind came or went. I could hear the cries of the gondoliers on the canal below as clearly as if I were a passenger.

“You're late,” the Maestro said without looking up.

“I was following up a juicy piece of scandal. It seems that the Sanudo family is vulnerable to blackmail.”

That got his attention. “Blackmailing a member of the Ten would be a dangerous career. Are you suggesting that Zuanbattista is the traitor, Algol?”

That was what I was trying not to worry about. I liked Zuanbattista! He had been more than generous to me and unusually kind to his daughter. But it was possible. He had just returned from the Sultan's court, and a really suspicious mind, like mine, might wonder if his trumpeted success there had been contrived by the Porte to foster his political career here.

“I hope not,” I said. “He seems to be the injured party. His wife employed Danese, but everyone knows that already. His son probably has uncommon tastes, so he might be vulnerable.”

My master pouted, took a sheet of paper from under his book, and passed it over. “A fair copy, quickly.”
Fair
means
legible
.

I sat down, opened my inkwell, and then froze. The writing was even worse than his usual scrabbled hand, all badly spaced capital letters, but it was the meaning that stopped me cold:

I made that: “…grave scarsità di corde et aste nuove dallia Dalmazia risolta in estate ma cerco rematori…”
*

It went on to discuss powder and shot, caulking, and raw linen for sails.

I gulped. “Master, is this a report on the Arsenale?”

He was back in his book again. Still not looking up, he said, “Quite a detailed survey, it seems. The Ten will know whether or not it is accurate and how much damage such knowledge of our navy yard will do in the hands of our foes. Regrettably, that page does not identify the writer. ‘Quickly,' I said.”

I opened my pen box and chose a quill. I so often see the old rascal work wonders that I have come to expect them of him, but if he had broken the Algol cipher from the evidence of a single sheet, after the Ten's renowned experts had failed to crack twenty-four pages in God-alone-knew how many weeks or months, then that miracle would top them all. I passed over the fair copy.

As he read it, he held out a tiny hand for the original. “Now bring your friend in.”

His crabby tone suggested that he was pleased with himself. I went to poke my head around the door and whistle for Vasco, then went back to my chair.

The Maestro laid a ribbon at his page and closed the book. He puckered his thin cheeks in a close-lipped smile. “Ah,
Vizio
! I have a problem. Sciara dropped a broad hint that the spy known as Algol may have agents within the Ten. He instructed me to report progress to the chiefs, but even they must be to some degree suspect until we know otherwise, right?”

“I am not privy to such information, Doctor,” Vasco said stuffily.

“No, you wouldn't…I have some progress to report already and no further need of those papers you guard so diligently. Which reminds me.” The Maestro opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper. “This was on the floor in the dining room. It is yours, I think. Now, where was I?”

Vasco angrily restored the lost sheet to the others in his satchel. He did not look at my smile, which was a masterpiece worthy of extended admiration.

“When you take the documents back to the palace,” the Maestro continued, “to whom will you deliver them?”

Smelling traps now, Vasco was wary. “I shall report to
Missier Grande
, of course. He will probably send me to return the documents to
Circospetto
, but that will be his decision.”

Nostradamus nodded. “But Sciara reports to the Grand Chancellor. I must be confident that my information will not disappear in some unfortunate accident. Take a chair. No, on second thought take Alfeo's, where I can see you more easily. My neck, you know…”

I never heard him complain of his neck before, but he was certainly up to something. Suppressing outrage at being evicted from my rightful place, I yielded it to Vasco and then stood over him to watch.

“Alfeo, give the
vizio
a sheet of paper and a pen. Good. Now, if you please,
lustrissimo
, write the alphabet along the top. Capitals are easier.”

“May I help him?” I murmured, but Vasco managed to win through on his own:

The Maestro had even worse torment in store for him. “Now, write
B
under
A
and the rest of the alphabet until you reach
Z
again, and complete the row with an
A
.”

I was already flipping through Giovan Batista Belaso's
La cifra del Sig
to find the illustration.

“You see where you are going?” the Maestro said. “The next row would begin with
C
, yes? You would end by listing all Caesar alphabets possible with an alphabet of twenty-three letters. If you were to include some of the barbaric runes that northern tribes like the English and Germans use, you would have more.”

Vasco nodded uncertainly.

“Alfeo told you how easy it is to break a Caesar cipher. But if you use several Caesars by turn, then the cipher becomes unbreakable! Or so the sagacious Belaso believed and later authorities have agreed. The only thing you need to establish in advance with your correspondent is the order in which you will use the alphabets. No? Well, let us attempt an example. A little farther down the page write the sentence, ‘Sciara, who is furtive.' In uppercase letters, if you please.”

Vasco wrote,
SCIARA, CHE È CIRCOSPETTO
.

“And then put it in five-letter groups, as Algol does.”

The Maestro pressed his fingertips together, enjoying his lecture. “Now we shall apply the key, and in this case the word will be
VIRTÙ
, as that was Algol's choice. The man has a sense of irony, if not humor. Pray write that under each of the groups.”

“Excellent. Now leave a line and write out the normal alphabet again. Good. Under it write the Caesars you will use to encipher your plaintext.” He frowned at Vasco's blank stare—he is accustomed to dealing with my less-circumscribed intelligence. “The first row, you begin with a
V
…
VXZAB
…and end with
U
. The next begins
IJLMN
…”

It took a while and Vasco's rows and columns were not as straight as might be desired, but he got there. The Maestro was beaming.

“Excellent! We'll make a scribe out of you yet. Now to begin the encipherment! Under the first letter of the plaintext,
S
, you see the
V
of
VIRTÙ
, yes? So you find
S
in the normal alphabet, the one that begins with
A
, and go down to the alphabet that begins with
V
and what letter do you find?”

Thoroughly bewildered, Vasco did not find any, so I directed him to
P
, and he wrote it underneath the
S
, as instructed. The next letter,
C
, on the
I
alphabet, came out as
B
, and so on. By the time he reached the middle of the second group, he was managing by himself and I was making admiring noises.

“This is absolutely brilliant!” I said. “How in the world did you do it?”

The Maestro made no effort to appear modest. “The pattern you noticed indicated that a letter's position within each group was important, so I tried a frequency analysis on the initial letter of each group. It showed too many
B
's, so I hypothesized that
B
stood for either
E
or
A
, in which case the Caesar alphabet began with either
V
or
B
. Then I tried the second letter of each group, and so on. A rigorous analysis would require more plaintext than just one page, but I found enough clues to work out that the key must be
VIRTÙ
. It was not so difficult once I recalled the theories of Trithemius, Cardano, Porta, and so on. I'm astonished Sciara and his rabble did not see it. I admit, though,” he added, being hypocritically gracious, “that I have never heard of polyalphabetic substitution ever being used in practice.”

He had been lucky.
Che
is not merely a common word in itself; that combination of letters appears in many words in both Tuscan and
Veneziano
. Whenever it fell in the middle of a five-letter group, it had enciphered as my initials, which had caught my eye. In any other position it was represented by some other triplet, and with another key word it might always be. Then we would not have noticed the repetition. The best ciphers are broken because of human error, Nostradamus had told us, and Algol should never have left the ciphertext in five-letter groupings. That was incredible carelessness.

Vasco, meanwhile had completed the enciphering and was staring in bewilderment at the result:

He had not even noticed my
LAZ
in there.

“So there you are,
Vizio
,” the Maestro said. “That is how it is enciphered. Now let us try some deciphering. We need to know if the same keyword will work for all four intercepted messages. Page one of one, if you please.”

With surprisingly little help from me, Vasco managed to reverse the process and start recovering the original plaintext:

He stopped. “This is gibberish!”

The Maestro sighed. “Perhaps the key word is not the same, then.” He was carefully not looking at me, who could read over Vasco's shoulder. Unlike Vasco, though, I was reading:
11 Agosto. Il Consiglio dei Deci
…
*

“Let us try the final dispatch then. Page one of four, please.”

Again Vasco balked after a few groups, but this time a ray broke through the clouds. “Wait a moment! They begin with dates!”

15 Settembre. Il presidio…
*

“Why, so they do!” I cried.

The game was over. Vasco hastily covered his work with his hands.

“You don't need to see this!”

“Of course not,” the Maestro agreed. “You can let
Missier Grande
into the secret and he can decipher the rest.”

But I was confident that the Maestro himself would break the news to
Circospetto
, so he could watch Sciara gnash his fangs in mortification. Vasco looked at him as if suspecting the sort of elaborate hoax that I love to play on him every time I get the chance, but which the Maestro considers beneath his dignity.