The Venetian (15 page)

“Such is Italy,” mused Bercu, “to invite foreign powers into the country to settle a domestic dispute.”

Venice had become too powerful. It was an empire unto itself. If she would not be content to exist as a mere city, then she would not exist at all. The Pope excommunicated the Republic, encouraging
any other state or person to attack or despoil her or any of her subjects, to obstruct her traffic on land or sea, and to do her all possible harm and hurt.
Paolo knew the words by heart, as did most Venetians. Such venom in those words, it was still difficult to believe.

“And even more Italian still,” continued Bercu, “was for the Pope to then refuse everything he had promised his new allies once the Republic capitulated.” Bercu chuckled. “And then justifying the action by proclaiming his wish to repel foreign invaders from Italy. The very invaders he himself brought in. The sheer audacity of it all.” The moneylender shook his head and Paolo wondered whether the action was one of shock or admiration.

“The reason for the history lesson my friend is this: the Republic desperately needs every advantage she still maintains. While we have yet to know the full ramifications of da Gama’s voyage or when Julius will once again turn his ire on us, what we do know is that the Republic is floundering, and desperate men will do desperate things in times of great need.”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying,” he responded with care, “that the Republic’s virtual monopoly on glassmaking is no mere trifle. There are men who would stop at nothing to protect it. We are balanced at the edge of a precipice my friend. The spice trade is mired in uncertainty, could collapse altogether, and Julius—should his vengeful inclinations be roused once more—will have no need of foreign allies to destroy us.”

***

“AH, THERE YOU
are Canever.” The wine merchant looked up as Paolo entered the room, placing his large hands on the desk. Various ledgers stood open, carpeting the smooth surface with a mosaic of crisp lines and twisted scribbles. Although it was midday, he was not eating. In fact, Paolo had never actually seen the man consume anything and found himself wondering how the merchant had gotten so large.

Francesco waved a hand at the ledgers. “You should be glad Canever that I did not hire you to look after these infernal things. Fra Pacioli is no friend of mine I assure you.” He smiled. “I see you do not recognize the name. Just as well for you. The double-entry accounting system is what he calls it. Debits and credits. I have a copy of the great work, the
Summa de Arithmetica, Geometria, Proportioni et Proportionalità
, printed right here in our fair city. If ever you find yourself in desperate need of sleep.”

Paolo winced at the scattered ledgers.

“Yes! My sentiments exactly Canever.” Francesco tapped his temple. “It is all up here. What do I need of ledgers and journals?” He sighed. “But Francesco is not as young as he once was, so…” The big man sighed. “He at least had the decency to write the book in the local tongue rather than Latin. Do you know of that Tuscan fellow da Vinci?”

Paolo did. “Most definitely. He is very well regarded at the Arsenale.”

“Ah yes, I imagine he is. A kindred spirit to those wizards at the great shipyard. But what of this flying machine he imagines, the aerial screw?” Francesco smiled. “Would that not pose a threat to the ship builders?” He waved away the question. “Anyhow, this Franciscan friar Pacioli taught da Vinci his mathematics. If he is half as adept at mathematics as he seems to be at bookkeeping, perhaps we will all soon be floating about above the earth, conducting our business like angels.”

Francesco let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! Venetian angels. If ever two things did not go together. Now that is something I would like to see.” Paolo smiled dutifully. “Interesting that he should be a friar, no? God and money, the twin evils of the Republic some would say.” The merchant cocked his head toward Paolo. “Do you know that he warns that a person should not go to sleep at night until the debits equal the credits? If only that were all I had to contend with during those dark hours Canever. Then I should be a very content man. But let us no longer speak of the good friar.” Francesco pushed the ledgers away. He folded his hands and looked up at Paolo, who was still standing.

“Canever, why are you still standing? Sit.” He motioned Paolo to a chair in front of the desk. “So.”

Paolo looked expectantly at Francesco, prompting him when it became apparent he was not going to speak. “You wanted to discuss the new supplier.”

Francesco seemed puzzled, waved it away with the now familiar gesture. “Yes, yes. But no, that can wait. Another of the flock that will require your expert tending to be sure, but we can speak of it later. There is something else I would discuss with you.” The merchant became uncharacteristically serious. Paolo hadn’t realized Francesco were capable of such a thing. The atmosphere in the office became heavy and close, an odd sensation to feel so confined in such an expansive space.

“This business of your brother’s death,” Francesco began, clearly uncomfortable, looking past Paolo.

“My brother’s
murder
you mean,” Paolo interjected, emphasizing the word.

“Yes, forgive me. Your brother’s murder. A tragedy. But what is to be gained by your…involvement?” Francesco was choosing his words carefully, but Paolo knew what the merchant was going to say before he had reconsidered—interference.
He is fortunate to have changed his mind
. He felt the anger growing, the color rising in his face.

“Be careful Francesco. I appreciate what you have done by offering me employment during this very dark time, but do not overstep.” Paolo was angry, but another thought troubled him more—
how does he know what I have been doing?

Francesco’s eyes widened, surprised by the quiet menace in Paolo’s voice. Emotion was the enemy of business however and the merchant, accomplished in the art of commerce, quickly regained his composure. “Again I must apologize. I assure you I say this only out of friendship and respect.” He paused, waiting in vain for Paolo to soften. Francesco, agitated now, could not understand Paolo’s stubbornness. “Do you wish the Council of Ten to turn their eyes upon you and your father?” he asked with exasperation.

“I appreciate your concern. But tell me Francesco, how is it that you know so much about the investigation into my brother’s murder?”

Francesco seemed surprised by the question. “Surely you have heard the rumors yourself. Whether they are true or false, the State is involved, and thus so must be The Ten. And with The Ten, so I have heard, no stone remains unturned. It may only be the size of a pebble, incapable of hiding anything save a flea, but they will examine and inspect it, probe it until there is nothing left to know. And when they are done, sometimes even a stone is no longer a stone.”

It was true. He had let his suspicions cloud his judgment. This business had left him unsure of everything and everyone. He had convinced himself that every dark corner held a villain. He prayed it wasn’t true, that he had only frightened himself, because the dark corners of Venice could not be counted.

But yes, the rumors were everywhere. Venice was a town of gossip and blather, so much so that it was admissible in court, residents feeding on it, the more depraved the news, the more nourishing it seemed to be. Francesco was far more cunning than he let on. If he were somehow involved—and again Paolo hoped it was only his imagination—it would require no small amount of delicacy to uncover it.

“I have nothing to hide.”

“Perhaps not my friend, but we all have something to lose.”

Why is he so interested?
“The Ten are involved because they believe this is a matter of state security. So be it. I do not believe it, but I think it a good thing nonetheless. As you said yourself, they will leave no stone unturned. All the better. Had this investigation been entrusted to the local authorities, I would likely die of old age before knowing who murdered my brother.”

Francesco shook his head, clearly dismayed. “Canever, forgive me, but you do not know of what you speak. It is best that you stay out of their way.”

“It is too late for that Francesco. They have already come to see me.”

“Yes, so you have told me. And perhaps they are satisfied with what you told them. Sometimes it is better to be seen and dismissed by The Ten than to endlessly worry over when they will discover you. And yet you continue to tempt fate. Mark my words Canever. You will place your head in the mouth of the lion one time too many.”

This has gone on long enough
. “Thank you for your concern Francesco.”

Francesco knew he had failed to convince him. He looked at Paolo with heavy eyes. He had come to like the young man, and knew it was unwise to form any sort of attachment. It is difficult enough to worry about oneself in a world such as this. He sighed. “You are welcome Canever. I know he was your brother, your blood. And no man has the right to question another in matters of blood. But I would urge you to remember that there are still two members of your family that live and breathe. There is nothing you can do now to save a brother who is gone, but there is much you can do to save yourself and your father.”

“My brother’s fate was unspeakable, and I cannot undo that. But I will not allow his memory to be defiled. I appreciate your concern Francesco, I do. But I ask you now, please do not speak of this to me again unless it is to help.” Paolo left, not waiting for a response.

Francesco slumped back into his chair, drained by the effort of the futile exchange. He looked at his hands. They were trembling, whether from the conversation he just had or the one which was to come he did not know. Did it matter? His eyes fell on the desk, the ledger entries blurring into meaningless scratches.
Is this what it is all for?
He spoke softly, no one there, still afraid someone would hear. “And so it will begin.”

Eighteen

F
rancesco wished he had had some wine before coming. He was feeling the familiar chill that accompanied any contact with the vile man he was forced to work with. Gabriele he called himself. The circumstances of life created odd pairings. It was unfortunate that the accomplishment of important goals too often required alliances that were…distasteful.
I am nothing like him
, Francesco thought. But was it true? If Francesco were honest with himself, something he normally tried to avoid, would he not realize that perhaps they were more alike than he cared to admit? The man went about his business with a ruthlessness that Francesco found chilling. The merchant eased his conscience by telling himself that he could never behave in such a manner—depraved. And yet the conclusion of their business would carry with it the same result for both men, their goals achieved. The fact that Francesco would arrive there with jovial bluster made him no less guilty of treachery. Was it not true then that Gabriele was the more noble in a way? At least he made no show of being anything other than what he was.

The big man sighed. This was no time for contemplating one’s morality. He had to steel himself for the encounter to come. Francesco had failed in his attempt to dissuade Paolo and knew Gabriele would not be pleased. In truth, what he feared more was that Gabriele would not be unhappy, that he would instead relish the task now required.

Francesco crossed over the Rio delle Due, slipping down a dark alley behind the Teatro Vecchio. He found the unmarked door, hidden in the shadows, exactly where Gabriele said it would be. All of their previous meetings had been at night, but now it was midmorning. Francesco felt conspicuous. The door was unlocked, opening onto a narrow set of stairs. Although it was dark, Francesco could see that the walls were scarred like a battle-hardened face.
Was there no structure in Venice that wasn’t?
The staircase groaned, the sound loud in his ears. He was sweating now, felt himself on the verge of losing control. A wild fear suddenly took hold, a feeling that he was walking to his death. He stopped halfway up, placed a slick palm on the wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes, felt dizzy, and opened them again, afraid he would fall. He gulped air as quietly as he could, putting both hands on his temples, and felt the blood pounding in his head.

“Francesco. I trust you have arrived.” He stopped, stood motionless on the stairs, holding his breath. He could hear the sneer in the voice, imagined the yellow smile. “Please, do join us.”

Us?
Absolute secrecy was critical to the success of their venture. How dare he reveal the nature of their association? This…
creature
would bring them to ruin. Francesco climbed the remainder of the stairs, fear supplanted by anger, irritation fueling him. He topped the staircase with a loud crunch, the wood beneath splintering.

“Careful please Francesco. This structure has stood for hundreds of years. I do not wish to see it crumble due to your overzealous appetite.” Francesco reddened, heard a small snicker.
Us.

The staircase gave off onto a large, high-ceilinged room. On the far side, three tall windows were covered by dark cloth, holding the sunlight at bay. A small divan and two chairs had been placed in the center of the room, a low table between them. The two men, covered in shadow (always in shadow!), sat patiently in the chairs, the divan waiting for Francesco. He wondered if this was by design, to force him into an inferior station. Francesco’s weight did not easily permit positions of relaxation.

“Francesco, please, join us.” Gabriele held out a hand, indicating the divan.

Francesco remained standing, looking between the two men. He didn’t recognize their new associate. “Please Francesco,” Gabriele said with impatience, “I do not wish to strain my neck looking up at your bulk. Sit.”

No snicker from their guest this time. While Gabriele had been harsh with Francesco before, he had never been insulting. This must be some show for the other man, to establish his position of power in this unholy trinity. So be it. Francesco sat, his curiosity getting the better of his anger.