A
S THE FINAL
bars of the first act of
La Traviata
swelled and filled the theater, Claire decided that listening to Verdi in La Fenice was about as close to a vision of heaven as she’d ever been able to conjure up.
She and Gwen occupied a box, or
pepiano,
in the fourth tier of the round, five-tiered gallery, and the view of the stage and the theater was dazzling. With its ornate rows of gilded tiers, its celestial blue domed ceiling, its numerous crystal sconces and sparkling chandelier, it was rather like being inside a jeweled Fabergé egg.
What appeared to Claire as astonishing excess, a venue designed to host women in rustling silk and men in powdered wigs, was in fact a theater meant to embody republican values and symbolize the Enlightenment. Completed in 1792, the 175 boxes of the theater originally known as La Fantine were deliberately egalitarian in design; this lasted until 1807, when an impending visit from Emperor Napoleon had prompted the destruction of six of the
pepiani
to make way for the Imperial Box, which still faced the stage from its commanding position on the second tier. La Fantine had twice risen from the ashes, the first time in 1836, when its reconstruction had inspired its present cognomen, The Phoenix. In 1996, La Fenice had been gutted by fire once again, but years of renovation had resulted in a spectacular restoration.
Claire would have been content to remain in her seat during intermission, but as the houselights came up, Gwen complained of a severe thirst that could only be slaked by a trip to the lobby and the purchase of a soda that would probably cost ten times its usual price. They left the
pepiano
and joined the rest of the audience, who unhurriedly made their way to the Sala de Appollonia. As they slipped into the line at the refreshment counter, Claire spotted Andrew Kent at the opposite end of the room. He stood with Gabriella Griseri and a few people Claire recognized from the conference. To her enormous surprise, Andrew caught her eye, then briefly whispered something in Gabriella’s ear and began making his way through the crowded lobby toward her.
“And I was having such a perfectly nice evening,” Claire grumbled. “Come on, we’re going back.”
“What are you doing?” Gwen protested as Claire steered her out of the line.
“Avoiding Andrew Kent.”
“Why?”
“It’s one of my few pleasures in life.”
“But you’re not supposed to be hiding. You’re supposed to be in the lobby.”
“There’s no rule that says you have to go to the lobby during intermission.”
“But I want a soda. I’m really, really thirsty.”
“We passed a water fountain in the hallway just a moment ago.” They hurried through the lobby’s red-velvet-draped door and ran into Hoddy Humphries-Todd.
“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “Going back to your seats so soon?”
“We’re hiding from the English guy,” Gwen said glumly.
“I do hope you don’t mean me.”
“Oh, no,” Gwen said. “The other one.”
“You’re hiding from Andy?”
“Not hiding, exactly, just avoiding,” Claire said.
“I’m sure there’s a difference, but in case there isn’t, why don’t you both stand behind this curtain and I’ll keep a lookout,” Hoddy said. He craned his neck and peered into the lobby. “He’s heading this way…now he’s stopping…looking around…appears confused. Ahhh…excellent. That git Nigel Carothers just started chatting him up. Fat chance Andy will get out of that in less than twenty minutes. He still looks bewildered, but I think he’s given up the chase. You’re safe, at least for the moment.”
“Can I please go get a soda?” Gwen asked.
“Okay, but don’t talk to him, all right?”
“Why would I talk to him?”
“Just don’t.”
“And don’t talk to that Nigel, either,” Hoddy called after her retreating back. He shrugged at Claire. “It’s a bit of advice I feel honor bound to offer: never have anything to do with men named Nigel. They’re always trouble.” He paused. “Are you going to keep me in breathless suspense, or are you going to tell me why you were trying to lose the old boy?”
“It’s hard to explain. We just don’t hit it off.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Do you know him well?”
“We were at Cambridge together. Still are, actually. I’ve always found him a nice enough fellow. A bit stuffy, is all. Honestly, I don’t know why some people take an immediate dislike to him.”
“Because it saves time?” Claire offered.
A grin stole over Hoddy’s face. “I think I’m going to like you. Even though I didn’t see you at my lecture today, which may be unforgivable.”
“I spent most of the day in the Marciana
.
But then,” she admitted, “I played hooky in the afternoon.”
“Hooky? Is that some sort of game?”
“No, it’s slang for skipping school. Instead of working, I went for a vaporetto ride on the Grand Canal, then found an empty table on the Riva and simply looked at the lagoon—”
“For hours,” Hoddy finished the sentence with her. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it? Sort of hypnotic, the way the water shimmers and changes colors with the changing light. Don’t feel guilty. The sudden lack of desire to place nose to grindstone is a common problem here. Researching my thesis took twice as long as I’d planned,” he admitted. “By the end of two years in Venice, I was in a very bad state with my supervisor, quite dissolute, and exceedingly happy.”
“Except that I have only a few more days left,” said Claire. “I really can’t afford to waste time.” She turned to peek out the doorway. Andrew Kent was still talking to Nigel, and Gwen had moved to the middle of the refreshment line. Oddly, though, she was facing away from the counter and looking around the room expectantly.
“Last night, you asked me about courtesans,” Hoddy said. “La Celestia and…what was the name of the other one?”
“La Sirena.”
“Perhaps it was La Sirena…,” Hoddy mused. “I woke up this morning thinking about something I’d read in Fazzini, a terrible story about a courtesan who was murdered. I think it might have been one of the courtesans you mentioned.”
“Which one?”
“I can’t remember. I read this years ago. I only recall that it was a brutal murder, and the murderer was never found.”
“When did this happen? Do you remember the year?”
“It was around the time of the Spanish Conspiracy, or just after.”
“But I just read the volume of Fazzini’s diary that covers those years. There was no mention of a murder.” Claire thought back to her first day at the Marciana
,
when she had skimmed through the book page by page. “I don’t see how I could have missed it.”
“I’m not at all surprised you overlooked it. I recall that it was a huge tome. Fazzini was an obsessive diarist who recorded absolutely everything, including what he ate for breakfast every day.”
“No, in fact it was a very small volume.” Claire paused as the light dawned. “Did you read Fazzini in English or in Italian?”
“Italian.”
“The English version must be abridged, then.” With growing excitement, Claire wondered how many other extraordinary bits of information had been left out of the books she’d read. What if Fazzini mentioned who had attended the courtesan’s debut that night? Or La Sirena’s real name? She’d ask Francesca for the Italian edition tomorrow. Maybe there was hope for her dissertation after all, in spite of Andrew Kent’s greater authority and head start. “Do you know much about the book Andrew Kent is writing?” Claire asked.
“On the Spanish Conspiracy? Obviously there’s some publisher interest already. Not surprising, since his last did so well.”
“But do you know if it’s finished?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I should think he’d be close to finishing it, otherwise why reveal his findings in these lectures?”
“That’s what I thought,” said Claire, disheartened.
“No doubt it will lead to another round of awards and accolades for Andy. Not that I’m jealous, mind you. It’s good to see him so happy and productive.”
“This is what he’s like when he’s happy?”
“I guess I should say ‘happier.’ He’s had a difficult few years.”
Claire recognized gossip when she heard it. She wrestled with her conscience for a moment and lost, something she decided she could feel bad about some other time. “Difficult?” she prompted.
“Andy’s a widower. His wife died two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” said Claire, chagrined. “I had no idea.”
“No need to be sorry. I don’t recall that anyone liked her very much. ’Cept Andy, I suppose, and I think even he was rather lukewarm toward the end.”
It was impossible to tell if Hoddy was serious or not. “What was she like?” Claire ventured.
“She was an archeologist, an expert on Mesopotamian cave dwellings. Brilliant by any standards, but she had an unfortunate, droning sort of voice. That combined with an extensive knowledge of igneous rock formations made her one of the most horrific bores this side of Babylon. Bloody awful at parties—she used to simply stun people into a coma. Once, while she was lecturing, she put an entire class to sleep.”
“How did she die?”
“A tragic accident. She was thrown by her horse.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes, it was. They had to shoot the horse.” Hoddy clucked and shook his head. “Seems you can’t let a good horse live, not even a champion, if the damn animal kills somebody.”
“How long has he been dating Gabriella Griseri?”
“About four months, I believe.”
“They seem a rather odd couple.”
“Not when you look beyond the surface. After that series based on Andy’s book, he’s the current darling at the BBC. They think he’s going to be the next Jonathan Miller—popular history for the masses and all that.”
“What’s that got to do with Gabriella?”
“It seems that RAI just pulled the plug on her show. Apparently Italians are as wild for reality shows as Americans, and the highbrow programs are being sacked more viciously than the Goths sacked Rome. After all, who wants to listen to Luciano Pavarotti discuss opera when you can watch a group of attractive young people eat worms? The rumor is that she’s looking for new opportunities and is quite prepared to leave Italy and take her lovely self north to be adored by the British viewing audience.”
“That explains it, then.”
“It also occurred to me that she just might be in love with him.”
“Really?”
“Just because you don’t fancy him doesn’t mean that no one would. I know any number of students, past and present, who’ve had serious crushes on our poor Andy. And I can’t help but notice that you seem to be awfully interested for someone who saved herself so much time by disliking him right away.”
“It’s not for the reason you think.”
“I don’t expect this affair with Gabriella to last, however.”
“Why not?”
“Andy has a son. He’s young, eight or nine, I believe, and a real terror. Somehow I can’t imagine Gabriella playing stepmummy.”
A bell chimed and the houselights dimmed briefly. Gwen rejoined them as everyone began returning to their seats for the second act.
“Do you ever get up to Cambridge?” Hoddy asked as they walked along the corridor.
Claire shook her head. “I’ve never been.”
“That’s too bad. You really should come visit us sometime. It’s a lovely town. And there’s terrific shooting in the countryside.” Claire and Gwen looked at Hoddy quizzically. “Oh, that’s right,” he corrected himself. “In America, you call it hunting. You don’t have ‘shooting’ in America, do you?”
“Sure we do,” Gwen replied. “In America, people shoot each other all the time.”
“Look!” Gwen exclaimed as they walked down the steps of La Fenice after the performance. “It’s Stefania and Giancarlo.” The brother and sister were standing near a fountain in the middle of the square adjacent to the opera house. Gwen waved to get their attention.
“Good evening,” Giancarlo said as the four of them met halfway. “May I talk to you for a minute?” he asked Claire, with a meaningful glance at the two girls. They moved a few feet away for more privacy as the two teenagers watched them with eager interest.
“About last night…,” he began. “I would like the chance to explain. Will you join me for dinner tomorrow?”
25 February 1618
V
ALERIA, THE UPSTAIRS
maid, carried a tray set with Florentine china and breakfast pastries into the bedchamber. La Celestia lounged in a chair next to the crackling fire, still wrapped in her sable-lined dressing gown. The slight puffiness in the courtesan’s face and her sleep-heavy eyes attested to the early hour. The maid glanced discreetly but with noticeable displeasure at the person who had disturbed her mistress’s morning, a man in a crimson toga who stood at the window, looking out at the drizzling rain and the gray sky.
“Will that be all, my lady?” she asked, curtsying.
“Yes, Valeria.” La Celestia smiled to herself as the maid left the room. She’d seen the look Valeria had given her guest. Her maid seemed to have a particular dislike of senators, though La Celestia didn’t have the slightest idea why. With their robes off, they were just like other men.
Except for this one, perhaps. Not that she’d ever seen him without his toga, or had any desire to. An encounter might make him more amenable to her influence, of course, but that wasn’t possible. He’d been unmanned years ago, before he was yet of age. Her most potent manipulative skills were of no use in this case. It made her uneasy in his presence and wary of his power.
La Celestia poured cups of wine as Girolamo Silvia turned from the window. His countenance never failed to distress her. In it, familiar features had been sharpened and narrowed, and the result was an unattractive, distorted reminder of another, more handsome face she had once loved.
“I expected more from you,” Silvia said as he walked to the chair opposite hers and sat down. In spite of his unpleasant appearance, the senator carried himself with dignity. His limp was noticeable only if one knew to look for it.
“Is it not too early to talk of such business?”
“Not for me,” he replied. “But then, unlike you, I conduct my business during the day.”
Not all of it, La Celestia thought. What about those secret meetings of the Three, the long nights in the Court of the Room of the Cord?
“I told you from the start what I wanted,” Silvia continued. “I don’t like being disappointed.”
How dare he come here to threaten me?
La Celestia felt her bile rise, but kept herself in check. As much as she would have liked to throw him out, she could not afford to make the senator her enemy. “I did what you asked,” she said sharply. “I introduced Bedmar to a girl. The rest was up to you.”
“You have a selective memory, I see. I expressly told you that I wanted a full accounting of the ambassador’s actions.”
“And I told you what I wanted in return. Until you make good on your promises, I see no reason for procuring this intelligence.”
“I made you no promises. What you expect is impossible.”
“Your own family bought its way into the aristocracy,” she reminded him.
“My ancestors didn’t purchase their nobility, they were admitted to the Libro d’Oro in recognition of their outstanding service during the War of Chioggia. And that was more than two hundred years ago.”
“Contributing three thousand ducats to the state coffers didn’t hurt, I’m sure.”
“The fact remains that no new families have been admitted to the Venetian aristocracy for two centuries. The rules for inclusion in the Libro d’Oro are set. It’s an impossibility for a courtesan who isn’t even a Venetian citizen.”
“You know it’s not for myself. My daughters are of noble blood. All I’m asking is that you help Caterina and Elena become legitimized so that they can marry nobility, as they should.”
“Large dowries will go a long way toward gaining entrée into the aristocracy. I know a few impoverished nobles who would gladly overlook the girls’ illegitimacy for the gold.”
“But if my daughters are not legitimized, my grandsons will not be entered in the Libro d’Oro, or be allowed to serve on the Great Council.”
“Such grandiose plans for the future, La Celestia. Does the little courtesan from Treviso envision a Doge among her descendants?”
She knew it was unwise, but she couldn’t curtail her sharp tongue. “At least I have descendants.”
The sour look that crossed Silvia’s face was a warning she’d gone too far, but was somehow satisfying. “Conferring legitimacy is not as easy as you imagine,” he said.
“Surely you wield enough influence. Can you not see how important it is? By the Virgin, they’re your brother’s daughters.”
“They’re my brother’s bastards.”
“He would have married me if—”
“
If
he had come back from fighting the Turks. Or so you believe. I’m not convinced that he would have married you, had he lived. But we’ll never know, will we? In any event, you are left with two daughters without patrimony. If you hold out hope for their future, you will do as I ask.”
The senator wasn’t going to give an inch. What made him such a hard-nosed bargainer? “Spy on Bedmar?” she ventured.
“The ambassador has something I need. This young courtesan, she stays overnight at the Spanish embassy sometimes, yes?”
“I believe so.”
“I will tell you what it is, and where it is, and you will instruct the girl to get it for me.”
“You want her to steal something? You’ve chosen poorly. Alessandra’s no thief. I’m sure you’ve already placed spies in the embassy. Why not use one of them?”
“The ambassador’s rooms are locked when he is away and no one is allowed in. She’s the only one with access.”
“Except that he’ll be there as well.”
“And peacefully asleep, I should imagine.”
“How am I to convince her to do something so foolhardy?”
“The Spanish ambassador plots an attack on Venice. It is not so far-fetched to believe that anyone so intimate with him would be an accomplice to his intrigue. I can easily imagine her hanging alongside her lover.”
“So I’m to coerce her with threats?”
“It isn’t a threat. If she does not cooperate, it is a promise.”
“You might have appealed to her patriotism instead. I’m sure she would not like to see Venice sacked by Spanish forces.”
“You may try that, if you think that will be more effective.”
“You are a cynic.”
“I’m practical. And I’m in a hurry.”
“The marquis is a clever man. And dangerous. I’m not convinced this is a wise course. If he discovers the girl in the act, there’s no telling what he would do. I’ve made a substantial investment in her and I would be very unhappy to lose such an excellent source of income. What’s more, he’ll know that she would not attempt something like this on her own, and he’ll suspect me. No, I won’t do it.”
“I think you will. The ambassador may be dangerous—but you forget, I am equally so. Perhaps more dangerous, to you.”
“Will you promise to help my daughters?”
“I won’t promise anything, but you will do it nonetheless. If you do not, I will make it known that the men who play cards in your house are being systematically cheated.”
La Celestia turned pale. “You cannot prove it.”
“I can. It would ruin you, La Celestia. It appears your greed has overcome your common sense.”
La Celestia held the senator’s gaze for a long moment. If he were bluffing, then he was highly skilled at it; she did not want to challenge the certainty she saw in his eyes. She wondered which of her servants he had corrupted; only one, she hoped. As soon as Silvia left, she’d begin making inquiries of her most trusted staff, and with any luck she’d root out and dismiss the spy before the day was over. No doubt he or she would go back to Silvia for a rich reward, and placement in another courtesan’s household. And so it went.
“What must I do?” she asked.
28 February 1618
“It’s a morocco-bound book, with no title,” La Celestia said. “I am told that Bedmar keeps it in a small
damaschina
chest in his study. The key to the chest is somewhere in his desk.”
Alessandra met with the courtesan in La Celestia’s sumptuous gondola, moored near the Broad Alley of the Proverbs on the Rio di San Martino. Inside the
felze,
only one small lantern was lit, barely chasing away the shadows. Outside, La Celestia’s blackamoor gondolier, Moukib, sat at his post on the stern, keeping a careful watch.
“And who told you this?” Alessandra asked.
“Do not concern yourself, it’s better that you don’t know. Once you have the book, you must leave the embassy at once. Go to the Lista di Spagna, then to Ponte degli Scalzi. Moukib will be waiting under the bridge, and will bring you to me. I’ll return the book to you a day later. You must replace it in the chest just as you found it.”
“Replace it? That may prove even more difficult than taking it. I usually see the marquis only once or twice a week. Am I to invite myself to the embassy? I have never done so before. It will raise his suspicion.”
“I don’t know how you will do it, but it must be done. And carefully. Bedmar must never know that the book was missing.”
“What is this all for? I deserve to know that, at least.”
“The ambassador plots against Venice. He assembles an army of mercenaries with which he hopes to take the city, and colludes with the duke of Ossuna—”
“The duke of Ossuna?”
La Celestia looked at her sharply and Alessandra instantly regretted her outburst. “Do you know of the ambassador’s dealings with the duke?”
“No.” Alessandra tried to keep her expression composed as her mind reeled. Was the viscount involved in this plot? “Why is this book so important?” she asked.
“It’s the key to the code he uses to write to the Spanish king. With a copy of this key, all his thoughts, all his movements will be exposed. But it will be successful only if the book is taken and replaced without his knowledge.”
The marquis would surely show no leniency if he discovered her treachery. “What do you imagine he will do if he catches me?”
“Make no mistake. He will kill you.”
“And you expect me to undertake this fool’s errand?”
“You have no choice. If you do not do it, you could be implicated along with the ambassador and any others who conspire with him. You could hang.”
She had chosen the courtesan’s life for the freedom it offered; now, Alessandra realized, she couldn’t be less free. “You introduced me to the ambassador just for this purpose, didn’t you? From the very first day, when you came to my house, you knew it would lead to something like this.”
“I did what I had to do. And now so must you or you will hang along with the Spanish.”
“But I know nothing of any plot.”
“You do know something, however—something you’re not telling me.”
“I know nothing.”
“I think you lie. I hope you have a good reason for doing so. Do you protect the marquis? Can it be that you’re in love with him?”
“No, of course not. Are you certain that he conspires against Venice?”
“It seems so, yes.”
“How do you expect me to dissemble so completely?”
“I know that you are not suited to this, but you must find a way. I speak as someone who cares about you—”
Alessandra laughed bitterly. “Cares about me? When did you ever care about anyone but yourself? Tell me, La Celestia, what’s in this for you? More money? Are you not rich enough yet?”
“I am not so coldhearted as you imagine. I do care about you, and I should not like to see you hurt. And think of this: the ambassador contrives a treacherous plot that places every Venetian in danger. You can help stop it. Is that not worthy?”
“Of course it is, but—”
“I know it’s dangerous. I won’t lie to you about that. You must believe I am sorry for this—but in this instance, neither of us has a choice.”
“Someone is forcing your hand, too?”
“Yes.”
“If I take the book and replace it without the marquis knowing, will we be safe?”
“Yes.”
Alessandra was silent for a moment. “All right, then.”
“You understand exactly what you must do?”
“Yes.”
“Please, make sure he is quite soundly asleep first.”
“He does not tire easily, and he is always on his guard. He will wake as soon as I rise from the bed.”
“I feared as much. That’s why I brought you this.” La Celestia held out a small glass flask filled with an amber-colored liquid.
Alessandra did not reach for it. “Is it poison?”
“No, just a sleeping draft. A few drops in his wine should do the trick. But no more or you’ll make him ill, and you don’t want him to suspect anything untoward.”
Alessandra took the flask, turned it in her hands. “Have you any other advice for me, La Celestia?”
The courtesan leaned back against the cushions, her mouth pursed in a concerned moue. “Don’t get caught.”
2 March 1618
She’d done as La Celestia instructed, but with unfortunate results. Alessandra looked with dismay at the ambassador. The sleeping draft had taken hold much faster than she had expected; she’d had no time to lure him into bed. They had taken supper in his private rooms at the embassy; even before he’d finished his beefsteak, he’d passed out in a wing chair next to the dining table, in full sight of his desk and the
damaschina
chest where the code book was kept. She was seated opposite and had been watching his steady breathing for some time now, but fear kept her rooted to the chair. What if he woke up? She shivered, thinking what the marquis might do if he discovered her rifling his desk. Then she recalled La Celestia’s warning: If you don’t steal the book, you’ll hang along with the Spanish. She imagined the rough sisal noose scratching at her throat, so tight it burned, the terrible choking feeling. She’d heard that it was considered a mercy when a man’s neck was broken instantly by the rope; worse was the slow suffocation that some endured. A sobering vision of herself so gruesomely dispatched—purple faced, tongue lolling, legs thrashing in vain—brought her back to the task at hand. The sleeping draft wouldn’t work forever. She must hurry.