Votive (34 page)

‘Who are you?’ he asked quietly as he saw the colour return to Katina’s cheeks and her breathing become less laboured. Dante found his head cleared and his heart returned to normal.

‘My name is Constantina. Constantina Maggiore.’

Dante looked from Katina to the old woman and back again, understanding registering on his face. ‘You’re the friend Elder Maggiore told Katina to meet. You’re the one who is going to help us.’

‘Sì,’ smiled the old woman. ‘When Katina didn’t arrive at the agreed meeting place, I was very worried. It was Elder Maggiore who told me to come here – to find you. I didn’t expect this.’ She turned to Katina. ‘She’s been attacked by Morte Whisperers?’

‘They tried to … enter her body. It was like they were devouring her.’ He quickly explained what had happened. ‘What have they done?’

‘They’ve tried to steal her life-force and, from the looks of her, they’ve almost succeeded.’

‘Why?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. But it’s clear they didn’t want her to survive.’

‘Can you help?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I can see you already have. But will she be all right?’

Constantina reached out and caressed Katina’s cheek. ‘She will be, once I return her to the Limen. I can only do so much here.’

‘Return her?’ he repeated. ‘You’re taking her
now
?’

Constantina nodded.

‘Oh, thank God. I didn’t know what to do, whether to stay or go back with her. I was –’ Relief made the words rush out of Dante’s mouth.

‘Hush,’ said Constantina soothingly. ‘It’s all right. I need you to help me dress her, get her out of here. There’s a back
way, sì?’ Dante nodded. ‘Bene. Can we send someone to bring her horse there?’

‘I will ask Signor Vestire myself.’ He didn’t wait, but dashed down the stairs, his thoughts scattered. Estrattore in the calles of Serenissima. That would be a sight to see. He hoped the Signori di Notte were not in the sestiere tonight.

When he returned, Constantina was already halfway through dressing Katina, who stirred briefly. She blinked once, twice, and then her eyes widened and a small sob escaped. Slowly she reached out and touched the Estrattore, gently at first, then with an urgency that was frightening to behold. She held Constantina’s face between her palms, locking eyes with her in a silent communication. Dante watched them, wondering what was being said. Katina’s eyes slid over towards Dante before returning to Constantina’s. She nodded once and then burst into tears, throwing herself in Constantina’s arms. It was this reaction more than anything that both filled Dante with alarm and reassured him.

When Katina tried to ask questions, Constantina put a finger to her lips. ‘There will be time for that later. Rest, cara mia.’ Katina fell silent and allowed Dante and the Estrattore to finish dressing her.

Before long, they hauled her to her feet and were ready to leave the room. Once again, she’d fallen asleep.

‘You wait here,’ said Dante to the little girl who had sat the entire time with a beatific smile on her face. ‘Is she all right?’ he asked Constantina.

Constantina gave a wise smile. ‘She’s fine. Just lost in happy memories. She won’t recall any of this.’

Dante expelled air. ‘Lucky girl.’

‘Indeed. Now, help me get Katina down the stairs.’ Dante picked her up. She was light for such a tall woman.

The noise from the bar muffled their descent. When
they reached the bottom of the stairs, they sneaked past the kitchen and through a small passageway and into a storeroom that had shelves for linen, bottles, leather flasks and fruit and vegetables. Haunches of meat hung from hooks in the ceiling. They ducked under these, Dante moving ahead. Constantina unlatched the back door.

Snow flew into Dante’s face as he stepped out into the night. The wind whipped it in eddies around his feet and blew through his cape, inflating it above his shoulders. Helpless to control it, he tried to shield Katina from the worst. Thankfully, the weather kept revellers inside. Scudding clouds mostly obscured the moon.

‘Where to?’ he asked, the wind catching his voice and throwing it into the campo.

‘Over there,’ shouted Constantina, indicating a small calle off the main square.

Dante pushed through the drifts. As they drew closer, he could see a horse, fully saddled, standing in the middle of the calle. Birrichino was also there, ready beside it. Signor Vestire himself held the reigns.

‘Grazie, amico mio,’ called Dante.

‘Do you need help?’ shouted the Signor, trying to be heard above the howling wind.

‘No, no. We’re all right.’ Dante swung round to check with Constantina, but she’d moved to her own horse and kept her head bowed.

Signor Vestire gripped Dante’s shoulder on his way past. ‘You know where I am if you change your mind,’ he said, casting a suspicious glance at Constantina. He took another quick look at Katina. Dante nodded and Signor Vestire ran back into the taverna.

Constantina mounted her horse. ‘Place her in front of me,’ she said. Dante lifted Katina into the saddle. Katina stirred and tried to help. Constantina grabbed a hold of her
waist and wrapped her arms and cloak around them both. ‘Grab Birrichino’s tether and tie him here,’ she ordered Dante, pointing to a metal ring on the saddle.

With frozen fingers, Dante did what he was told. As he worked, Constantina spoke.

‘You have a duty to carry out. A Bond to fulfil. You must now work towards this and nothing else, do you understand?’

Dante finished what he was doing and rested his hands on the horse’s neck. ‘I will. Katina and I, we’re mutually Bonded – we have an Obbligare Doppio.’ The horse pushed against him, trying to toss his hands aside. Birrichino whinnied as his mouth was pulled.

‘I know. Listen to your Bond, young Rider. Find Tallow. Watch and learn what you can about who is protecting her, for I have no doubt she is not alone – not after all this time. Someone is looking after her. We need to know what their intentions are, what they know of the prophecy. But do not approach her. Not until I tell you it is time or she is directly threatened. Do you understand?’

‘Sì,’ said Dante. ‘I know what to do.’ His tone was terse. He didn’t like being reminded by this Estrattore who had swooped in and taken control. Constantina raised an eyebrow. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be reminded, Bond Rider.’ Dante gaped at her in astonishment. Could Estrattore read minds as well? ‘Now, if you need me, go to the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore and touch it. I will know you’re there and I will come.’

The horse broke from his hold. Dante jumped out of the way.

‘What if I can’t find her?’ he cried. He reached up and grabbed the pommel, latching onto the horse, ignoring its jerking head.

Constantina shook her head. ‘Haven’t you worked that
out yet? Listen to your heart – do not be misled by your head. You
will
find her. You have no choice. Why do you think Katina Bonded you? It’s what you are pledged twice over to do.’

Constantina’s horse reared and, as it did, the whirling snow parted and three grey shapes appeared.

Hovering to the side and above the horses, tall vaporous creatures swayed. Their pointed teeth and hungry leers turned towards Constantina and Katina.

‘Morte Whisperers!’ cried Dante, reaching for the sword that was still in his room. He cursed. ‘Run, Constantina!’ He slapped the horse and leapt backwards out of the way, slipping in the snow, sprawling on his back. One of the creatures floated over him, curious at his helplessness, but it did not attack.

There was a swirl of movement and the Morte Whisperer disappeared and was replaced by another shape. Atop her horse, Constantina towered over him. The horse’s hooves were inches from his face. ‘I told you, foolish ragazzo, trust your heart, not your head. Not everything is as it seems.’

She wheeled her mount and broke into a trot, Birrichino following.

‘Wait!’ Dante cried, clambering to his feet.

‘Remember,’ called Constantina, kicking her heels. ‘If she is under threat, bring her to the pledge stone.’

One moment the horses were there; in the next they were gone, swallowed by the snow and the creatures that followed, their grey forms surging until they too became one with the air.

Dante stared at where they’d been, oblivious to the bitter cold and the snow that was fast turning into sleet. Needles of ice drove into his skin. He dashed the stinging wetness from his eyes. Constantina was working with the Morte Whisperers, the very creatures that had tried to kill Katina.
‘What have I done?’ he cried, but his words were snatched away. Sorrow and a terrible despondency rose within him. ‘Katina, Tallow? What have I done?’

He stood for what seemed like hours, his head heavy with confusion before he stumbled and fought his way back into the taverna, unaware that in the dark shadows under the eaves, another shape watched.

T
HE DAY AFTER MY OFFICIAL PUBLIC
appearance, my introduction to the Doge and the cream of Serenissian society, the casa was besieged with flowers, poems and, most importantly, the highly anticipated offers.

The first few had been very gratifying. Awoken by a timid knock on my bedroom door after only what seemed like minutes of sleep, I saw Hafeza enter, carrying the most enormous spray of flowers I had ever seen. Blue-white lilies stood erect beside blood-red roses while a profusion of star-shaped buds encircled them like gossamer. They were beautiful. I climbed out of bed as Hafeza placed them in a vase. I found a card tucked among them. I didn’t even recognise the name. Filled with superlatives and hyperbole, it made me laugh. But it also delighted me. When Hafeza left, I began to dance around the room, only to be brought to a standstill when she reappeared seconds later with yet another bunch.

‘More?’ I’d asked incredulously.

Hafeza nodded and left, returning again and again.

I gave up trying to sleep and, after a hasty wash, went to the portego for my morning cafe. Every few minutes, a strange gondola would arrive at the door over the water-stairs and Salzi would rush to open it and take receipt of whatever was being delivered. Even our land door was beseiged as couriers
and servants under instructions to deliver their masters’ gifts and pledges ran along the calles.

After a week, my room and the entire casa were brimming with sweet-scented bouquets and bottles of perfume and oils. My dresser was laden with poems, paste brooches, jewelled pins, silken shawls, wildly decorated masks, embroidered handkerchiefs and a host of other tributes – most of which were golden or made from the precious metal itself – along with outrageous declarations of love and devotion. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. I giggled, blushed, pretended indifference. But after I’d retire to my room each night, I would pace the floor and read the accompanying cards and savour the poems – some of which were original – all over again. The one thing they had in common was how they referred to me.

Signorina Dorata had captured not only hearts, but the public imagination as well.

Giaconda wasted no time in placing orders for more clothes with Signor Tedeschi. I am not sure how the small man accomplished it, but within days, additional dresses arrived – more than I would need in a lifetime, all cut from golden fabrics, all stitched with beads dipped in molten gold or painted to match. Masks, hats, gloves, even my zoccoli were now made from golden materials. I would pull out each new garment with the same excitement as if it were my first, clutching them to my body, twirling before the mirror, parading around.

It was only when my wardrobe was organised that Giaconda allowed me to reappear in public. From now on, I would dress only in gold. So it was, that a few days after the function, I rode in the gondola once more. The snow, which had fallen steadily since that night, abated, and a thin, sickly sunlight pierced the clouds. Dressed in all my golden finery, I sat in the prow, a new mask firmly in place,
my cape thrown back so the sheen of my dress could be seen. Giaconda sat in the doorway of the felze, content to let me be the focus.

As Salzi pushed us along the canal, the talk began. What started as whispers, with the occasional shout of recognition, soon became a roar. People crowded bridges, ran along the fondamenta, all to catch a look at me. It was such a far cry from the last time I was chased, and I found it hard to reconcile at first. But all too soon, as the days went by and I took to the waters every afternoon, I became used to the attention. I even relished it. We rowed the Circolo whenever the weather would allow, rousing excitement. I became part of the attractions of Carnivale.

When Giaconda and I promenaded through the piazza on Nobiles’ Rise over a week after the ball, Signor Maleovelli between us, our arms resting lightly upon his, our heavy heels cracking the snow that coated the flagstones, people paused in their step, parting to allow us to pass. Daring children ran up to me, running their fingers along my gown, my cape, keen to touch me. ‘Signorina Dorata,’ they whispered, awe in their little voices.

I longed to stroke their sweet faces, to thank them, but Giaconda said I must not. ‘They’re insignificant. Ignore them. You are above them. Be proud. Touch only where it will count. Where and when we tell you.’

How could I explain to her that these bambini were not insignificant to me? None of this was. For the first time in my life, I was being noticed. Not in a way that made me run in fear or shame, but one that made me blaze with happiness. I was bringing the people of Serenissima pleasure. Just seeing me made them smile, gave them cause to talk. And what I heard was generous and loving. Serenissians liked nothing better than what brought glory to their city. I was now among those honoured objects.
Signorina Dorata.

Like the golden halo that radiated from my elaborate costumes, I too lived in a haze of wonder.

It was only two weeks after my first introduction that I was brought back to reality. Having attended a few private dinner parties with Giaconda since the function, which only served to fire the ardour of some of my suitors, prompting them to more outrageous bids, all of which Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda took very seriously, bartering to raise the stakes, the time had finally come for me to accept my first client.

Giaconda came to my room early that day.

I was already awake and sipping cafe in my bed, reading both a pamphlet of poetry published by a courtesan I was yet to meet, Veronica Franco, and some more invitations I’d received. I closed the pamphlet when Giaconda entered and put it on my bedside table.

‘Where did you get that from?’ she asked, looking down her nose at it.

‘It was a gift.’ I reached over and opened the first page. ‘From Signor Castellini.’

Giaconda laughed. ‘Ah yes, he was quite taken with you the other night.’

‘I mentioned I liked poetry. He sent me this. It’s very good.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Giaconda, her tone suggesting the opposite. ‘And what are these? More declarations?’ She arched a brow at the scattering of cards across my coverlet. I nodded.

She pushed them away and sat on the end of my bed and stared at me. ‘Forget them. After much toing and froing, Papa has accepted an offer.’

I put down my cup. My hand began to shake, I swear my heart forgot to beat. ‘Who?’

Giaconda took a deep breath and, as she released it, so too she spoke his name. ‘Signor Giacomo Moronisini.’

‘Signor Moronisini? I know him.’ I’d spied on him the night Hafeza caught me. The night she betrayed me. I frowned and pushed thoughts of Hafeza aside. ‘He’s very handsome,’ I said, picking up my cup and burying my smile in the porcelain.

Giaconda nodded. ‘He is also very generous. He wants you – badly. Many do. But Papa has decided that his suit works best for us. We want to shore up our relations with his family. The news Jacopo sends us is very good indeed, Tarlo. The Contested Territories are ripe pickings. We’re going to do very well from this enterprise.’

‘Then it is good that we can share with the Moronisinis, sì?’

‘Share?’ Giaconda gave a short laugh. ‘Good? I am not sure that’s how Papa would view it. For now, it is … adequate. But once you wrap young Moronisini around your finger, then we can consider just how the spoils of this very successful trip should be divided. It seems to Papa that the original terms need to be changed to favour us.’ Giaconda regarded me. ‘What? Why that face? You don’t like this?’

I considered my words carefully. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair. You said yourself that the Moronisinis were very generous to let you enter a colleganza with them. It doesn’t seem right to alter the terms at this stage, does it?’

‘Ah, Tarlo!’ exclaimed Giaconda. ‘How little you understand. Nothing about what we’re doing is fair! Life is not fair. You of all people should know that.’ She shook her head at me. ‘The Moronisinis never
let
us enter a colleganza. They invited us, no, they
begged
us to join them. Admittedly, they were persuaded – and by your candles. But this doesn’t
change the facts, the reality. Don’t you think that if the tables were turned, the Moronisinis would do the same to us?’

I shrugged.

‘Of course they would. They are Serenissians! And don’t forget, it’s your – let’s call them powers of influence – that continue to alter longstanding arrangements.’ She referred to other candles that had been burned at special meetings and dinners, at strategic moments, the other colleganzas that the Maleovellis now held. ‘They are only the beginning. Once you enter these nobiles’ lives and their beds, things will change again. Then, they will be entering agreements on our terms. Terms that will see us restored to power.’

‘And the Estrattore brought back.’

Giaconda rose off the bed. ‘Sì, sì, of course,’ she said, smoothing the creases out of her dress.

‘Now, I want you to make a special candle that you will light tonight, cara. It is for you and Giacomo to enjoy alone. It’s to be infused with passion. I want Giacomo to be completely besotted with you. I want him to burn like a candle. I want his wick to remain steady and strong.’ She tilted her head. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Sì,’ I said, and blushed before laughing. I wanted to bury my face in my pillow.

‘After siesta, I want you to bathe. Hafeza will wash your hair. I have a special dress for you tonight and a lovely camicia and pair of stockings. You will not be wearing pantaloons.’

The colour on my cheeks deepened. This was really happening. My final step in becoming a fully fledged courtesan was about to be taken.

‘I will leave you now. I have more offers to sort through. You are going to be a very busy lady, Signorina Dorata.’

Giaconda left the room and I lay back on the bed, stretching my arms above my head. I stared at the ceiling. All our
plans had come to this. It felt as if little birds flapped in my stomach, and I put my hand there to still them. Behind their activity, I could sense something else. I searched inside. It was sorrow. I didn’t need to look at my harlequin to know where that came from.

Dante would understand, I knew. He would tell me to be resilient. To do whatever it takes to bring my people back – even bedding strangers. Even helping the Maleovellis.

Before I could change my mind, I leapt from the bed, scooped the harlequin off the dresser and buried it in a drawer. Now its rainbow interior and exultant pose could not torment me anymore.

I hurried to dress myself and leave the room before the nonsensical paths my mind was insisting on travelling depressed me further.

T
HE MOON WAS HIDDEN BEHIND
a thick bank of clouds and the snow was heavy and silent as Salzi escorted me to the Moronisinis’ casa. It was situated on the tip of Nobiles’ Rise, towards where the Circolo flowed into the Grande, and was a longer journey than I expected. Huddled within the felze and wrapped in fur-lined blankets, a gift from the foreign ambassador, I watched the city slide past. There was a magical quality about the evening, enhanced by the confidence I felt at my first solo trip, never mind my assignation.

We glided to the Moronisinis’ water-stairs, where Salzi handed me to a servant. From there, I was taken to a beautifully adorned room on the piano nobile. Already present were Giacomo and four other men – all sons or nephews of nobiles from the eight great casas. There was Venerio Nicolotti, Rizzo Manin, Bezio Castellini and Rambaldo Errizo.
I had been warned of their presence and knew that if I impressed them with my manners and looks, then they too might become clientele. It was also a chance for Moronisini to display his latest conquest to his closest friends and, I knew, rivals as well. As far as he and the nobiles of Serenissima were concerned, he’d won the lottery. I was under no illusions about that.

As I was announced, Giacomo stopped mid-conversation and turned, a glass held aloft. I stood in the doorway and counted to ten. The men froze. Eyes swept me, judged me. I smiled, my nerves hidden behind my fixed stare, grateful for my mask. ‘Signori,’ I said softly and sank into a deep curtsy.

Giacomo put down his glass and came forward, taking my hand, lifting me to my feet. He wrapped his long fingers around mine, turning them so my wrist was exposed. Pushing my glove back, he rested his lips against the tender white flesh there. They were firm, dry. I shivered. He raised his eyes, his mouth upturned in a smile. ‘If it is possible, Signorina Dorata, you are even more beautiful than I remember.’

After that, the evening progressed smoothly and much as Giaconda predicted. Many courses were served and vino flowed freely. I ate and drank sparingly, making sure to listen with rapt attention to Giacomo, to offer opinion only when asked and be prepared to recite poetry or sing if requested. Both were asked of me and I stood to do so. I who had once known no music in my life had a repertoire to draw from, thanks to Giaconda. After I finished, the men applauded enthusiastically. Hours passed, and an artiste from the Theatre Quartiere played the mandolin for us, singing a plaintive madrigal about love and loss. I sighed when it finished and had to work hard to shed myself of the melancholy his lyrics aroused. Nothing was to interfere with
my performance. I watched the candles on the sideboard burn to stumps, conscious of the one I had hidden in the folds of my dress.