Votive (14 page)

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.

M
Y SECOND DAY AT THE
M
ALEOVELLIS’
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.

B
AROQUE 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.