Votive (20 page)

‘They are if they’re not seen.’

‘What do you mean, Signor?’ It was the younger man. ‘How can traders not be seen? Does it not defeat the purpose of the enterprise to slink into a country and cower from meetings?’

Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair, raising his handkerchief to his face and wiping his nose. ‘Under ordinary circumstances where the area is known, it would. But you talk of sending a fleet? Am I right?’

Signor Moronisini nodded.

‘That requires a great deal of manpower and resources.’

‘How else do you guarantee safety or a return on investment?’

‘There’s another way.’ Signor Maleovelli reached for his pipe. Signor Moronisini turned to the young man and raised his eyebrows. I could see Signor Maleovelli had piqued their interest. It was written all over their faces.

‘Go on,’ said Signor Moronisini.

‘Before I do, who were you thinking of broaching this venture with?’

‘I was going to ask Castellani to join me. His ships have sailed to Phalagonia, his men know the waters.’

‘So you would be taking your entire fleet and that of the Castellani.’

‘Of course.’

‘What’s that? About sixty ships?’

‘Seventy-two,’ corrected Signor Moronisini.

‘Well,’ said Signor Maleovelli slowly, drawing on his pipe with such strength his cheeks collapsed, ‘that’s where I think you’re making a mistake.’

No-one spoke. The candles spluttered. In the far corner, a servant sneezed.

‘How?’

‘I think you should take two ships.’

Moronisini and the younger man burst into laughter.

‘Two!’ exclaimed Signor Moronisini. ‘What is the point of such an enterprise? How could anyone be taken seriously? No-one does that! It’s a waste of time.’ I could hear the doubt in his voice; his desire to believe Signor Maleovelli. I held my breath.

‘Maybe,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘But it’s
not
a waste of money. Senta. If you risk only one of your ships and one of your partner’s and treat this expedition as a trial run, as an opportunity to test the waters, so to speak, then not only do you lose very little should you fail, but you have laid the groundwork for a bigger expedition later.’

Jacopo continued. ‘You would not only travel faster, you would return knowing the people, the products, with agreements already in place. With exclusive rights already sealed. You could generate huge interest here in Serenissima and abroad – you could be the one who sets up treaties, negotiates port fees. You could call for investors.’ He spoke quickly.

‘My nephew is right,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘The Doge would welcome new trading partners, fresh prospects. Trade with Firenze has all but dried up now the Medici Duke has seized power. Roma is more concerned with our spiritual health and their own wealth than shoring up ours. Serenissima’s usual allies are either looking to contain skirmishes around their own borders or still scared they’ll catch the Morto and be contaminated if they trade with us. We
have
to look elsewhere. The people in those parts wouldn’t know about the Morto Assiderato or that we’ve endured quarantine. Not only could we bring their world to ours, but the rest of Vista Mare to them.’

Moronisini sat back in his chair and regarded Signor Maleovelli over his glass. ‘I admit, you surprise me, Maleovelli. There’s a great deal of sense in what you say.’

‘Ah, but I haven’t finished.’ Signor Maleovelli blew smoke into the room. It mingled with the scent of the candles in a pleasant way. ‘Not only do two ships present a much smaller target for pirates – why would they bother when there’s much bigger fish in the water? But two ships mean fewer men. Fewer men means they’re unlikely to pose a threat to the people of Judea. Imagine if you and Castellani weighed anchor at Jerusalem with your entire fleet? Picture what would happen when the men disembark? It wouldn’t matter that they weren’t armed; the authorities would think war had been declared all over again. No. Two ships, eighty men. A captain and a couple of merchants you can trust. An interpreter. That is all that’s needed.’

‘And produce.’

‘Naturalmente. If there should be losses, you can sustain those. Write them off. Any bigger and the entire enterprise is unaffordable from the outset.’

Signor Moronisini rubbed his chin. ‘I like what I’m hearing, Maleovelli. I like it very much.’ Moronisini looked
at the younger man, a quizzical expression on his face. The young man gave the faintest of nods.

‘You have a ship, I believe?’ said Signor Moronisini.

‘Sì. A ship that has not seen the oceans for a while but is sturdy and, with some repairs, would be able to make the voyage. More importantly, I have the perfect merchant to accompany you.’

‘Who might that be?’

‘Why, my nephew of course!’ Signor Maleovelli slapped Jacopo on the shoulder.

‘I would be honoured, Zio, Nobile Moronisini.’ Jacopo’s slug-like tongue wet his lips. I averted my eyes. ‘I can speak the language of Hellas and Phalagonian and I have a rudimentary knowledge of Judean.’

‘How is that?’

‘Ah, my nephew loves to bury his nose in books. His affliction, you know. What he lacks in physicality, he more than makes up for with his mind.’

The younger man leant over and whispered something in Signor Moronisini’s ear. The old man nodded thoughtfully.

‘Scusi, Signor Maleovelli, Signorina, Jacopo. My son was rude just now, but with good purpose. While I know this dinner was a chance to catch up on old times, reflect on what we once shared and what we may share again –’ Moronisini’s gaze lingered in Giaconda’s direction. I heard her fan snap open and knew that was the signal for being coy. ‘I’d not expected to dine so richly in other ways. I would like to talk to you further about your ideas. About your ship. About your nephew.’

‘Forgive me, Moronisini, if I appear dim.’ Signor Maleovelli leant over the table. ‘It must be the candles – their scent is exquisite, is it not?’ He waved towards the credenza.

My mouth dropped open. I could not believe his daring.

‘They are delightful,’ agreed Signor Moronisini, twisting his bulk in the seat to look behind him. ‘The sweetest fragrance I have smelled in a long, long time, apart from one.’ Giaconda’s fan fluttered again, accompanied by soft laughter. I wanted to laugh as well.

‘Are you suggesting that together we take the plunge, sail west and see what riches we find? Are you proposing a colleganza?’

‘Sì, sì,’ said Moronisini, unable to take his eyes from Giaconda. ‘Vero. I am.’

‘Wait. Moronisini, I am flattered that you would seek to enter into one with my family and more than anything it’s what I would desire for us. But I would insist that this colleganza include not just this trip, but future ones to the Contested Territories. After all, if we’re brave enough to strike out together once, we should do so again. Would that not make the perfect partnership?’

Moronisini leant back in his chair, his eyes half-closed. His son was the same. Their faces were flushed, their skin glowing.

‘Sì. The perfect partnership. Give me the paperwork. Let’s sign.’

‘Jacopo?’ Signor Maleovelli snapped his fingers. Shaking himself, Jacopo became very business-like. He pulled out his chair and, reaching into his jacket, pulled out a roll of papers and a quill. If the Moronisinis thought this peculiar, they did not say.

At that point, I withdrew. I’d seen enough.

I sat on the floor, my back against the dining room wall, listening to the laughter and the tone of the voices. I waited until they were toasting their new arrangement before rising to my feet and tiptoeing out of the salon.

I passed from light into darkness and had almost reached the other end of the room when a shadow pulled away from the wall and grabbed me. A hand clamped over my mouth.

I struggled as I was dragged out of the portego and into the corridor. Whoever it was, they were small but strong. Pushed into a chair under one of the sconces in the hallway, I looked at my assailant.

It was Hafeza.

Relief flooded me.

‘You scared me to bits!’ I hissed, placing my hand against my breast, trying to still the frantic beats that I felt sure could be heard. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

Hafeza frowned at me and waggled a finger in my face. She mimed going to fetch Giaconda while I waited. I caught her skirt as she turned.

‘Oh, please, Hafeza,’ I whispered. ‘Please, I beg of you! Don’t tell Giaconda! She will be so angry with me! I will get into so much trouble. Please! I wasn’t doing any harm, truly. I … I just wanted to see how Giaconda behaved. You know, if I’m to be a courtesan, I wanted to see how a real one acted around … men. That’s all. There was no harm done. Please, you have to believe me.’

The whine in my voice made it high. I clutched at Hafeza’s dress, gathering more of the fabric between my fingers, pulling her closer.

‘Please?’ I begged as she regarded me over her shoulder. ‘I promise, I will never do it again. Never. Just please don’t tell Giaconda. She’ll tell Signor Maleovelli and …’ I didn’t know what else to say. What would they do? What
could
they do? Throw me out on the fondamenta? Unlikely. It wasn’t the punishment I was afraid of – there wasn’t really anything they could do to me. I just didn’t want them to know what I’d done. They would restrict me even more than I already was.

I stared at Hafeza’s dark mien, at her conflicted expression, and was appalled at myself. I was manipulating Hafeza! I was as bad as the Maleovellis. She was a slave, bound to her mistress. It wasn’t right that I test her loyalty like that. Disgusted with myself, I released the material in my hands, feeling it slither out of my grasp and sat back on the chair, defeated.

‘It’s all right, Hafeza. Go. I’ll wait.’ I let out a long sigh. ‘Tell Giaconda.’

I’m not sure what changed Hafeza’s mind, but instead of heading towards the dining room, she took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. Then she led me back down the corridor and into my room. Speechless, I half-ran to keep up.

Pushing me gently inside my bedroom, she went to shut the door. It was then I noticed that the tray had been collected. That was how she knew. I stopped her. ‘Grazie, Hafeza. I am indebted to you. I promise I’ll never sneak out again. I’ll never listen in on conversations – well, not unless I’m invited. Grazie mille.’

It was hard to read Hafeza’s features in the glow of the fire. She showed her teeth in what I took to be a smile and did the most astonishing thing of all. She lifted her callused hand and stroked my face, cupping my cheek briefly. I resisted the urge to extract. My heart filled and I smiled, searching for words of gratitude, of friendship. But before they came, she slid out the door and closed it behind her.

As I trudged across the floor, I wondered at Hafeza’s actions. Baroque was wrong. I had found the friend I was looking for – someone I could trust. Hafeza risked a great deal in not telling Giaconda. I raised my hand to where hers had been only moments before. She’d touched me. Not because she was coerced or because it was part of my elaborate toilet, but in affection.

I climbed into bed and pressed the part of my face that she’d stroked into my pillow. For the first time since I’d been in the Maleovellis’ casa, I went to sleep with a smile on my face.

‘G
ET DRESSED
!’ G
IACONDA SWEPT INTO
T
ALLOW’S
bedroom, followed by Hafeza, who flung open the shutters.

Startled into wakefulness, Tallow sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes and trying to shake the pall of sleep away. ‘Scusi?’ For just a moment, her escapade last night came back. Her hands fell away and she became very hot. She glanced at Hafeza, who was busy pouring scents into her washing water. Had she told? Did Giaconda know? There was nothing in Giaconda’s manner to suggest anger, only repressed excitement. Tallow turned towards her cautiously.

‘We have a huge day planned for you, Tarlo! Come on, get out of bed. It’s not like you to be so slovenly.’ She turned to Hafeza, who was sorting through some dresses in a chest near the screen. ‘No, not that one, it’s too bright. The dark one with the silver lace on the sleeves. That will do nicely. Brush down my black cape. Tarlo can wear that as well. It’s cold outside.’

Tallow looked from Hafeza to Giaconda, trying to clear her head. Outside? Giaconda was already fully dressed in an elaborate gown of deep purple and grey with hints of blue cut into the sleeves. Garlands of pearls were sewn into the bodice and along the cuffs. On her head, she wore a matching cap with a shadowy veil thrown back over her hair. As she collapsed into a chair, Tallow caught a glimpse of
her zoccoli. They had the highest heels Tallow had seen yet. They were well over twelve inches. It was far too elaborate an ensemble for indoors. Tallow glanced at the window. It was raining heavily. Water thrummed against the windowpane. The day was dark and uninviting.

‘I don’t understand. Have I slept in? Why would I need a cape?’ Tallow climbed out of bed and picked up a cup of steaming cafe, grateful for its warmth as it slipped down her throat. Before she could have another sip, Hafeza snatched it out of her hand and whipped her nightgown over her head. Used to being naked, Tallow reached for the cup again, blowing across the surface before drinking. After a couple of swallows, her head began to clear.

‘You’re filling out nicely, Tarlo.’ Giaconda lazily studied her form, leaning back in the chair, appraising her in the same way Quinn would discuss the fishmonger’s fare before making a selection.

‘Your breasts have grown and your hips are also becoming beautifully rounded. It won’t be long before we’re able to seek offers for you – well, once we work out what to do with your eyes. You’ll fetch a wonderful price.’ Tallow gulped. They’d talked about this before. How once she was presented in public, they would both receive and invite offers from gentleman keen to bed her. Virgins fetched the most money. Giaconda herself had been a virgin many times over. It was to be their way of placing Tarlo in certain nobiles’ lives. After last night, Tallow had a better idea of what might be expected of her. It filled her with a mixture of dread and longing.

Hafeza lifted Tallow’s right arm in the air and rubbed the flesh vigorously with a cloth.

‘That’s cold,’ said Tallow, breaking out in goose bumps.

‘Sì. I told Hafeza not to bother heating the water. We don’t have time.’

‘Time? For what?’ asked Tallow, cringing as the cold washer was dashed over her breasts and between her legs. Hafeza indicated for her to sit, so she could wash her feet.

‘Today, my dear Tarlo, you leave the casa!’ Giaconda beamed.

Tallow’s jaw dropped. She didn’t even flinch as one after the other, her feet were plunged into a bowl and scrubbed. ‘Leave? But how? Why? My eyes …’

‘Ah, so many questions, Tarlo.’ Giaconda threw her hands up in the air. ‘All you need to know is that today I am your teacher and your lesson will take place outside. And for that to happen, you will wear a mask.’

‘But … I thought Carnivale was still weeks away?’ Hafeza began to dry her, running the towel up and down her body. Accustomed to the routine, Tallow held out one leg, then the other, talking around Hafeza’s bobbing head. She wanted to give the woman a sign of gratitude. Hafeza hadn’t exposed her.

‘Sì, it is. But it’s the nature of Carnivale that in the lead-up, we celebrate its approach with masks and it so happens that it’s perfectly appropriate for ladies to wear them this very day.’ Opening the purse tied to her wrist, Giaconda pulled a fabric mask out. She unfolded it and began to tug it into shape. Black with dark beads sewn around the eyes and along the nose, it was adorned with deep purple plumes. Giaconda stroked them back to life.

‘Why today?’

‘Something special is happening, Tarlo.’ She shook the mask in front of her. The black stones sparkled even in the dim light, but the feathers refused to cooperate, remaining flat. Giaconda frowned and kept fiddling with the strange cloth half-face. ‘This is a chance for you to learn a great deal. We aren’t going very far – just to the palazzo in Nobiles’ Rise. You, me and Papa. Jacopo will stay at home. The ride is
difficult for him. But I promise you, what you’ll learn today is more than I could teach you in a month. Now hurry!’

Tallow felt her heart swell. She was to escape these walls, even briefly – and with the Maleovellis by her side. Would the mask be enough to disguise her? What was it she was going to see?

Hafeza continued to dress her, lacing her corset, pulling woollen stockings over her legs, wrestling her into the dress and pushing zoccoli onto her feet before finally pinning the mask securely into her hair so that it hid the entire top half of her face. Tallow couldn’t stop plucking at her skirt, fiddling with her locks. Hafeza had to slap her hands away a few times and chide her with an angry finger.

When she was finally ready, Giaconda stood up and slowly circled her, like a gull before it dives. Tallow’s throat grew tight. From behind her mask, she followed Giaconda and, standing in front of the mirror, she also took stock of her appearance. The mask was wonderful; sitting away from her skin, it concealed her eyes. They were just like the glittering jewels that arced in place of her eyebrows – lustrous and dark.

‘I thought you might need a veil, but you don’t,’ said Giaconda finally. ‘Good, It’s important you’re able to see everything today.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Come, Papa awaits us.’

With a grateful and knowing smile for Hafeza, Tallow followed Giaconda from the room.

T
HE RAIN HAD CEASED AS
, along with Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli, I left the comfort of the gondola’s felze and stepped onto the fondamenta that led to the piazza outside the Doge’s palazzo.

Taking Salzi’s proffered arm, I followed the Maleovellis onto the cobbles, reorganising my long, black cape as Giaconda had shown me. Unable to see anything from the felze, as the Maleovellis had kept the window shut, I eagerly pulled the hood over my hair and drank in the sites.

It wasn’t what I expected.

It was not the buildings – they were as grand as I had hoped and my neck soon hurt from twisting to and fro. No, what astonished me most of all was the people.

As we mounted the stairs towards the Rise, there were hundreds and hundreds of figures all heading in the same direction, across the wide expanse of the main piazza and towards the Grande Canal. I had never seen so many people in my life. My eyes darted everywhere, drinking in the atmosphere, the sights. What was most astonishing was that they did not speak a word. A little voice of warning started to toll in my mind.

Sombre, the mass moved forward, the only sound the whisper of robes, the clack of heels, the splash of puddles as they all progressed towards a giant wooden platform erected at the lagoon end. From her great height, Giaconda was able to cut a swathe through the people and bring us very close to the stage. I felt a tingle along my spine. There was only one row between us and the platform.

I was relieved to see that many people were either masked or veiled. Giaconda was right; I would not attract even a second glance. As the jostling stopped and places were found, the mask also gave me a chance to study everyone, to absorb my surroundings.

To my right was the Doge’s palazzo. An enormous angular building, it still managed to appear light, rising from the fondamenta a blushing contradiction of delicateness and substance. An elegant balconette jutted out about
halfway along, overseeing the crowds beneath. Red and gold curtains framed it, fluttering in the wind.

The press of the bodies made me feel warm, but since there was a chill in the air, I didn’t mind so much. The smell, however, was not so pleasant. Being accustomed mainly to the aromas of the Maleovellis’ casa and Giaconda’s scent, I found the odour of so many unwashed bodies difficult to stomach. I wondered at how much I had changed in so short a time. Underneath it, I could smell the tang of the sea. I tried to see past the platform, beyond the lagoon and the masts that keened against the clouds. Out there was the Mariniquian Sea and all the places Baroque had told me about.

The bells in the campanile began to toll. Their long, sonorous notes rang out over the piazza, forcing the crowd to complete stillness. An insolent flock of pigeons swooped overhead, cooing and chirping, defying someone to break ranks and shoo them away. They alighted in the eaves of the palazzo, twisting their pretty heads to study the human assembly.

The last note of the bells lingered, taken over by the steady slap of water breaking against the fondamenta. A gust of wind almost blew my hood off; I caught it just in time. As I lowered my hand, the crowd stirred. Behind me, there was a flourish of trumpets. We raised our chins to watch the Doge appear on the balcony. Swathed in his gold robe and cone-shaped hat, the corno ducale, he looked more like a frail old nonno than he did a ruler. Beside him was a small elderly woman – the Dogeressa. Drowned by her dark cape and a sea of servants who quickly surrounded her, I caught only a glimpse. Dwarfing both the Doge and the Dogeressa was another man. Dressed in scarlet like a senator, but with a high cap bordered with gold, he had a pale, lean face. His eyes swept the crowd. A huge golden crucifix encrusted
with jewels hung around his neck. So, this was the Cardinale. The man who built a reputation on hunting Estrattore. I imagined his arm unfurling from within his wide sleeves to point me out among the thousands, demand my arrest.

Movement to my right drew everyone’s focus. Pushing their way through the crowd, which quickly opened a space to admit them, came over a dozen hooded men, climbing the rough-hewn stairs on either side of the podium. Their black togati swept their ankles, their hoods bobbed loosely about their heads, the slits for their eyes opening and closing with each step. I wondered if this was a new fashion, an extreme mask, until I saw what two of them carried.

One of the men had a huge, thick-bladed sword. He raised it when he reached the top of the dais. It gleamed in the grey light, its blade smooth and sharp. At the same time, another man dropped a large chunk of wood, slightly curved on top, in the centre of the platform. In front of that, he put down a crudely woven wicker basket.

The people before us moved back as the basket hit the stage. They didn’t stop, despite the murmurs of protest, until there was at least three feet between them and the platform. I almost tripped as I was forced to retreat. The man who had brought the wood laughed. It was a grim sound, muffled beneath the fabric of his hood. I noticed a small piece of embroidery on the shoulder of his togati – a rope twined around a crossed sword and axe.

In a flash, I knew who these men were: they were part of the Guild of Death – Scuola Morte. What was going on? I began to extract from the stones beneath my feet.

Excruciating pain, excitement tinged with bitterness, fear, terrible secrets, lust, unhinged thoughts and righteousness overwhelmed me as I naïvely absorbed the emotions of thousands of people, past and present. My knees began to buckle.

By God! My eyes flew to the platform. I knew what was happening. It had happened thousands of times over the centuries. The fondamenta harboured its memories – of that deadly contraption and many other stories. I had simply caught a glimpse and nearly lost myself.

‘Stop that immediately!’ hissed Giaconda, grabbing my arm and holding me upright. ‘That’s precisely what the Cardinale is looking for! You will give yourself away.’

I had been brought here not to be indulged, as I’d so stupidly thought, but to witness an execution. Why? I glanced at Giaconda and then Signor Maleovelli. But their faces revealed nothing as they stared ahead.

Giaconda let me go. ‘Control yourself.’

I did.

After what seemed like an age, there was a commotion under one of the arches in the Doge’s palazzo. Again the crowd roused, and people were pushed and stumbled into one another. A file of soldiers forced their way through, their spears glinting above people’s heads. In their midst was a prisoner.

The soldiers reached the platform and, using their weapons, prodded the criminal. A member of the Council of Ten followed.

The prisoner was brought to the edge of the rostrum and made to face the crowd. I could smell him from where I was. He was filthy. What had once been clothes were now rags, covered in blood and excrement. The wounds of his torture wept, turning his flesh into one giant canker. His hair was matted and glued with bodily fluids. He was tall and skeletally thin and he looked very old. I felt a wave of sympathy for this poor man and wondered what he’d done that his life should end in such a way. Where were his family? How did they feel?