The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (33 page)

Journal of Antonio da Parma

6 January 1422, Feast Day of La Befana

The Doge was right. No one suspected that I would be hidden beneath the straw.  And before long, I had dived into the icy lagoon and swum across as far from the palace as I could. 

The moon shone her rays to guide me.  I felt no cold in her arms, only a deep need to be delivered to the world the way Venus, herself, emerged from the waters.

And so it was, that as suddenly as I found myself in the dreaded damp Wells of Venezia, I came to be out of them–reborn, invigorated and welcomed by the dark of the moon.  I had a thought, perhaps a memory but also a presentiment, that Diana is at her most vengeful during the first and third quarters of the moon. I watched the crescent, wondering what the day would bring.

When I was as far as possible from Rio Canonica, I handed a coin to a sleepy gondolier. He pocketed it before grumbling a few words and resigning himself to oar in the direction of the sleepy Arsenale quarters. There, I hoped to send letters and return to the silversmith to recover my hidden journal.

I had only a few hours before the rays of dawn when I hoped to rejoin Esteban at the Donna Laura.

My adventure out of the Wells had left me both speechless and determined.  I had searched deep into the wells of my own heart and discovered a love I never knew existed. A love that had haunted me for years.

It was still early in the morning as my footfalls echoed in the near empty streets of the Arsenale. Fumbling from
calle
to
calle
, I found the
sottoportico
where lived the charm maker.  I had resolved to force myself into her home and retrieve my belongings from their secret hiding. I only hoped they were still present and had not been discovered.

As for the old silversmith, I ignored what punishment to inflict upon her, but I imagined that the mere sight of my person, so late at night, would be sufficient to instil in her a fright she would not forget.  Even if she were to report me, I would be long gone once Esteban and I had taken off with the brig.

I ventured inside the
sottoportico
, weary of any
sbirri
and fearful that the Consiglio dei Dieci’s spies lurked at her door, but the flooded passage lay deserted. To my dismay, the silversmith’s home was not even locked shut. I pushed on the small door.  The sodden wood gave way, coming to rest halfway through its hinge.

Immediately, a wretched odor harangued my senses. I pressed the edge of my mantle to my nose and sloshed forth. I found an oil candle by the door and lit it.

The woman’s home had been ransacked. The
acqua alta
had seeped in and her belongings were strewn recklessly, matting the wet floor. Silver jewelry had been recklessly poured out of their coffers.  Now they shone in the dirty water among inverted pots and canisters.

With a pounding heart, I stumbled to the soaked divan. My hand reached underneath, groping frantically for the bound journal first and then for the pendant, beneath the rug. But I saw nothing of my diary nor the pendant.  As much as I searched, pushing the spoiled divan aside to glare at the empty spot beneath it, I could not find what I sought.

Wherever it was, the ink would have long run, I thought.

By now, the stench had risen to nauseating levels.  I looked to the woman’s bed.  On the floor, beneath a mound of tattered rags, I saw the outline of a swollen foot.  As I neared the linen pile to see what it covered, the origin of that horrible odor was at last laid bare.

Was this the work of the
sbirri
? No.  It could not be the
sbirri
. It looked as though she had been tortured to extract what little she knew. The cold of winter had stiffened her and she lay frozen, in the very state whence she had died, the blue terror on her face, still vivid. I raised my torch. The blood had crusted around the dozen stab wounds covering her limbs and wart-ridden face. Marring her neck were numerous bruises. Strangulation?

I was certain that this was Malek’s work. I realized that if she had been murdered, it was because the Consiglio dei Dieci’s spy had succeeded in retrieving my journal.

I reached forth to touch her clammy skin. She had been dead for at least two days. Yet last night, when Almoro had spoken to me, he had clearly no knowledge of the whereabouts of my diary.  How could this be? Was my journal still in Malek’s possession?

I was perplexed.

The campanile bell sounded in the distance. The blue light of dawn filtered through a crack in the roof. It was time.

I raised myself to my feet. The proofs I had worked to collect, the notes I had meticulously penned, the letters I kept–all was lost. I felt mortified. I knew I could scribe it all again from memory, and so it was the feeling of loss for Magdalena’s pendant which was strongest. I felt vulnerable…and afraid.

Outside, the bells had quietened. I resented their abrupt ending, almost as though their silence had sealed me to a dismal fate.  The pendant was lost.

At last, I resigned myself. I had tarried long enough. I had to meet Esteban and carry out my plan.

Before deserting the silversmith’s home, a flash of silver caught my eye. I cast a glance at the old hag and to my surprise, I discerned the gleam of a crescent moon peering from the recesses of her clothing.

I ran to her and leaned by her side, reaching for the shiny metal that sprung from one of the pockets. It seemed she had redeemed herself for selling me to the
sbirri
. The brave woman had hidden it and Malek had not known of its existence. Trembling with relief, I slid the pendant out and ran out of the
sottoportico
. A triumphant smile curled my lips as I raised the
cimaruta
to the waning moon.

***

For what seemed hours, I remained, a darkly cloaked masked figure, sitting by the port like a mendicant, waiting for Esteban. I had put away all thoughts of my lost diary and a new anxiety had seized me.

Esteban was horribly late. I began to feel dread—without him, I may never find a safe passage to Constanziaca. Already, the hardy Arsenalotti set off for their day’s work, pouring in large bands into the port and still, there was no sign of Esteban.

A sharp pang tugged at my chest. After all, our bargain was complete. Why should he come to my aid again? Perhaps he had only befriended me to meet the requests of his client, Doge Mocenigo.  Would he have even saved my life if it had not been for this pendant and the Doge’s demands?

I thought of Blanca’s horrible execution. Could I blame any man for shunning company after losing the woman he loved? The notion that Esteban might no longer wish an encounter with me became real. Perhaps he had already sailed for Aragon, if only to escape the evil of Venezia.

Without Esteban, I would never find Elena.

When I had sunk further into despair, then paced back and forth along the quay, my spirit assailed by morbid thoughts with every moment of passing time, I discerned, almost as though in a dream, perched high on the upper deck of the approaching Donna Laura, the unmistakable silhouette of my Catalan
bravo
.

A sigh of relief heaved my chest.

Later, as I oared to the Donna Laura in a fisherman’s boat, all I saw was the dashing Esteban. All I felt, was gratitude and the tightness in my throat.

He was armed, regally cloaked in a wine mantle of rich velvet. He stood, ever tall, his grief concealed, the edge of his crimson turban fluttering in the morning breeze. The only dash of white, was the pristine collar of his silken shirt beneath a gilded doublet. His mask was made entirely of gold. It seemed engraved and ended above his lips. It barely hid the warm gaze he cast at me as I ranged my boat alongside the brig.

I must have seemed haggard after my recent stay in the prisons. The distress of the last hours spent alone, in hiding, showed upon my face. Yet Esteban regarded me proudly.  He seemed quietly glad of our meeting again.

He held my hand for an extended moment, longer than was necessary to haul me aboard. As though he were reprimanding me for having doubted.

The morning of La Befana glowed like a thousand sunsets, splitting orange and yellow hues in the clear sky. Like the soot covered witch rowers who would soon set out from San Toma, we were embarking upon a race, a race that would mark six years since Elena had first disappeared.

“This is my plan, Esteban. It is sunrise. We still have hours ahead of the Consiglio, but we need to move fast. You will have your crew paint the hull of the Donna Laura in black and lay out the carved initials, C.X., upon the prow. It must be done swiftly.”

He regarded me with saddened eyes, still grieving from the loss of Blanca.

“Your will, Antonio.”

“You will fly the Lion of San Marco on the main mast. At a distance, the men on the island will not see the difference. The Consiglio’s men shall believe that we answer to the same master.”

“It will be done.”

“There is one more thing… Would you still have one of Gaspar’s red naval costumes?”

“Several.”

“Excellent. We shall have two crew members fully decked in what you can find in the
condottiere
’s chests. The Consiglio dei Dieci sail with their own guards. This will not look out of sorts. When we advance toward Constanziaca, no one will question or stop us.”

“And what if they do? What if Almoro is among them?”

“Do not fear, Esteban. Almoro is confined to the palace for the entire month of January. He now depends entirely on his spies and mercenaries.”

“What if the naval officers apprehend us? What then?”

“Then I have another plan,” I said. “Leave it to me.”

Esteban looked at me as though he were seeing the
avogadore
for the very first time.

“And after that? Once you reach the island, what then, Antonio?”

I was astounded by my next words. But I spoke them with such certainty that even Esteban was surprised. “La Torre.  She is in the tower. We will find her.”

I knew not how long I had before Elena’s murderer set out after her. But my plan was to arrive in Constanziaca by the early afternoon. From then, I knew not what we would face.

We set out before midday, the Lion of St Marco whipping the cold air. Esteban looked nervous, more anxious than I’d ever seen him. I had resolved not to question him but he was the first to speak.

“It may well be, Antonio,” he said, “that the scarmitor who ambushed you in the Giudecca gardens will soon meet us again.”

“How do you know?”

“A sentiment I have had that he is the Consiglio’s favored weapon for such tasks; one they can dispatch in times of dire need. This is one such dire moment. They are looking for you. They have fear of you, now, and what you know. And from what we both read about Elena, they will only send the best after her.”

I nodded, the glint fierce in my eyes.

“
The affairs of the Consiglio dei Dieci grow more obscure every day
,” I said, paraphrasing Mocenigo’s words. “Malek. If it is him, can you fight him?”

“I shall try, Antonio.” His voice was bitter. “But I have thought back to what we saw in the gardens. And the more I have thought of it, the more I understand why I was struck, then, by his manner of fencing.”

I knew instantly what he was about to tell me.

“The man is a
sinestra
,” I said. Like his twin brother, I thought.

“Aye, the man’s leading hand is his left. He is faster. But that is not all. He uses both hands. It is unclear which arm will lead at any moment. He takes one by surprise. There lies his secret feint. There is that and there is his knowledge of
Fior di Battaglia
.  He has been taught by one of the greatest. I am no match for this man.”

“Esteban—”

“It does not matter. I am prepared to fight him, Antonio. I shall fight him. But if my sword fails, I will ask you…”

“I know. Laura will be buried in Aragon. I promise you. But Esteban…”

He shot me an inquisitive glance. I met his eyes, unflinching. I wanted to tell him of all I had learned about him while in the palace. But there was little time.

“Doge Mocenigo does not choose the wrong man,” I said finally.

That was all I needed to say. I detected an unmistakable curl at the corner of his lips.

“Indeed, he does not,” he answered.  Then he withdrew to speak with his men.

I watched him stride away. I was moved by his silent grief and the quiet understanding between us. I hoped that his sword would save us. I needed Esteban to overcome.

In truth, I had grown attached to him.

There was something in the quality of the day, like the eerie passing of the Three Fates over the Donna Laura. A faint glow enveloped the jade-green lagoon, as the Arsenal’s bank loomed to our left.

We had no sooner neared the crest of Lido Island, when a military galley apprehended us from afar. It ranged itself in our path, the Lion of San Marco mirroring our own. A canon shot was fired.  I gritted my teeth and observed the naval officers ahead. Soon, and much to my alarm, the galley was abreast our own ship.

“That officer does not appear to recognize the C.X. initials, Esteban,” I called out. But the brig’s fate was in my hands. I had to think fast. Esteban had already run back to my side.

“It is a patrolling ship. What shall we do? Think of something, Antonio. If they recognize you, they will arrest us all.”

I motioned him to the cabin where I began to remove my clothing in haste.  “Esteban, I shall need that priest frock you mentioned a while ago. I have an idea.”

“Your will.”

I had no sooner worn the priest habit and a white haired wig than a naval officer threw a plank over our brig and began to scale up with a dozen armed men.

Undeterred, I stood before the edge of the plank.

“I would not step any further brigadier,” came my bellowing voice. “This ship is infested with the
peste
!”

A look of horror passed over the men’s faces. They stumbled back. The brigadier straightened up and held up his sword for good measure.

“Your documents and your motivation for crossing this far into the lagoon has not been ascertained. I will be forced to refuse you passage.”

“My motivation!” I thundered. “Brigadier, shame upon you! The devil’s craft is upon this ship. Do not, I warn, step forth any further, or you shall be struck by the
peste
and can bid farewell to your families.”

The guards gasped at my words.

The first officer raised his hand to hush them.

“What nonsense is this? Present your passengers!”

“I could not. Only the will of God is keeping me alive. But the illness has already spread on this vessel. The miasma onboard is such that even my escorts are doomed to die when we reach the island.”

“What island?”

“What island indeed! Do you not recognize the emblem of the Consiglio dei Dieci? This is a secret dispatch which demands your silence. The Consiglio dei Dieci has entrusted me with escorting the Florentine ambassadors to the
lazaretto
.”

A frightened look passed over the brigadier’s face.

“What do you know of the
lazaretto
? What do you know of Santa Maria di Nazareth?”

“Only that we must hasten and deliver these cursed ambassadors to the
lazaretto
without delay. There, we shall await for forty days and hope to God that the work of the devil has spared our bodies. I will ask you, now, to return to your ship and let us pass. If you fail to do so, the mark of the devil may soon descend upon you.”

The officer swallowed nervously. I had expected him to note the curious make of our ship with his discerning eyes, but he seemed blinded by my unexplained knowledge of the
lazaretto
.  That seemed enough to convince him that only the Consiglio could have sent us. At last, he motioned to his guards. I watched nervously as the naval detachment retreated, faster than it had approached and as the other ship moved out toward the Arsenal.

“Full speed now, Esteban,” I whispered. “Santa Maria di Nazareth lies across the Lido. We must contour it fast. Sail out further and beyond the lagoon. Do it fast before they even take note of our lie! We need to be well ahead of them.”

“It is done.”

Then he turned to me, and his voice was a blend of curiosity and surprise.

“You play the part of the priest convincingly, Antonio. It was your best performance yet.”

I did not reply.

We sailed swiftly, maneuvering as fast as the wind permitted. We were now miles away from the patrolling ship and sailed out into the lagoon, further to the East. When we passed other armed ships, the letters C.X. had their magical effect and we were not disturbed. Instead, we watched as naval men gaped at our brig and whispered amongst themselves.

In the next hours, our dark vessel glided over the glistening lagoon, like an avenging phantom. I followed the Doge’s instructions, until I discerned a patch of low lying land surrounded by swamp waters. 

I felt the thumping beats of my heart. The misty vision grew sharper. At first, all I saw was the outline of a white monastery towering above little white houses and then as we drew closer, a distinct silhouette of ochre bricks arose from the mist.  The tower of Constanziaca!

“Can we reach it faster, Esteban?”

“The wind seems to have turned, Antonio. It is not to our advantage. But I will see what can be done.”

While Esteban spoke to his men, I looked to the approaching green swamp ahead. It was a fragile landscape of wild trees, dotted with little white houses surrounded by marshlands. I had understood from the Doge that Constanziaca was now a low lying island. It would have flooded over the autumn and the ground appeared muddy.

Where the lagoon waters had receded to dangerous levels, we anchored the brig and took a barge out, wading the rest of the way through the shore, knee deep in mud.

Much to our surprise, there were only four men, not even soldiers, guarding the island’s shore. They were gathered around cinders, the remains of a large fire. They were agitated by our presence. They looked askance at each other and muttered words of confusion in a dialect I did not understand. I saw that one of them was a Dalmatian.

Esteban swept his cape over his shoulder.

“We have come to see the girl,” he intoned in a deep voice as though presaging doom.

One of the men squinted ahead and perceived the C.X. on the prow of our anchored brig. He stepped forth.

“Signore, there is nothing more to see here. We have burned all the masks,” he said. “The girl will soon be dead.”

I started.

“What do you mean?”

“
He
is already here.”

I glanced at Esteban, barely containing my horror.

“Has he come alone? The assassin, is he alone?” I asked.

“They are six men with him. They must have reached the tower by now. That, or
his work is finished
. The devil take her! We are leaving.”

The manner in which I glared at him, I might have outdone a
jetatture.