Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against
States of Grace (11 page)
“What, other than pheasant, have you here?” Trevisan asked as di Santo-Germano set the tray down.
“Aside from the wedge of cheese on the plate and the new bread, here is a risotto with crab and butter,” he said as he lifted the first cover. “Pheasant”—the second cover was taken off—“and dried fruit in spirits of wine and honey. And preserved lemon rind.”
“Elegant, and a touch foreign,” Trevisan pronounced as he took his utensils from his wallet and began to eat.
Di Santo-Germano went to light the rest of the oil-lamps, using flint-and-steel to make a spark. While he made his way around the room, he remarked, “I have been told one of my ships was seized by the Turks—”
Trevisan washed down a large bite of cheese to say, “So that was what your man wanted.”
“Sadly, yes. It would mean that I should make provision for ransom to be paid, if a ransom is demanded.” This last was lower than the rest.
“By the Virgin’s Tits, yes,” said Trevisan. “With guarantees, so you will not pay and then lose both men and money.”
“It should be paid through the Sultan’s Court,” said di Santo-Germano. “Otherwise, who knows what might become of it.”
“So it must, so it must.” He hacked off one of the pheasant’s legs and bit into it. “Very tasty, and not as dry as pheasant is wont to be.” He had another bit of wine and went on thoughtfully, “You want to talk to Christofo Sen about this. He’ll know how it’s to be handled. And he will not permit the issue to be conveniently forgot by the clerks.”
“Christofo Sen?” di Santo-Germano repeated.
“You know him. Thin, rawboned, white hair, a wen on his cheek, but dresses as exquisitely as a man of his position can.” He stuck his fork into the ear-shaped pasta. “Very reliable; very discreet.”
“I know the man you mean.” Di Santo-Germano considered this. “I’ll ask to see him tomorrow.”
“Tell him I sent you, if he drags his feet.”
“You’re most gracious,” said di Santo-Germano. “I may avail myself of your offer.” He stopped at the small, open window. “This rain is astonishing.”
“Luckily most of the private gondole are drawn into boathouses, or they would be swamped,” said Trevisan around his mouthful of pasta. “You keep a gondola and a gondolier, as I recall.”
“Yes,” said di Santo-Germano.
“Something of an expense, what with the taxes,” Trevisan remarked as he poured himself more wine.
Di Santo-Germano lifted one shoulder slightly. “The taxes are worth the money. It is certainly convenient to have both the gondola and gondolier immediately at hand.” He made no mention of his native earth in the keel that allowed him to travel over water without much discomfort.
“And a man of your position cannot be always waiting for someone to serve you, nor can you properly row your own boat,” Trevisan sympathized with a wink.
“It would certainly be awkward,” said di Santo-Germano, and looked again at the rain. “I doubt this will let up soon.”
“Not until the Angels have wrung all the water from the clouds,” said Trevisan. “Too bad about your ship, with the Doge about to fete you.”
“It could be worse,” said di Santo-Germano.
“True: we could have the Sweating Sickness here, as they do in so much of the north. No man would offer entertainment of any kind at such a time.” Trevisan produced a grim little smile.
“I was not thinking of disease, but with politics, which can be much more dangerous,” said di Santo-Germano wryly.
“And it may yet be, if the Sultan will not conduct negotiations for your men’s release. Who knows what lengths you may have to go to.” He smacked his lips and had more pasta; his forehead was turning ruddy and a bit moist. “A pity you have to be gone at such a delicate time.”
“If it were not the Collegio and the ransom, it would be something else equally demanding,” said di Santo-Germano, “and the situation in the Lowlands is truly pressing.”
“You know your business best,” said Trevisan. “And I have my biases as a Venezian. Still, you will want to keep in regular correspondence while you are away, in case there should be some difficulty.”
“I intend to do so.” His voice was quiet yet purposeful.
“Have you made arrangements for such messages?”
“There are private couriers to be hired, if there is urgency. I will leave funds for my man of business to employ such a courier from here, so that he will not have to bear the expense. Two of my ships are on the Galley of Flanders and I can entrust messages to their Captains.”
“The overland courier is faster,” Trevisan remarked.
“Yes, and in more danger.” Di Santo-Germano strolled around the room. “With religious fighting breaking out all over, anyone crossing frontiers must be prepared to defend himself.”
“They are fallen into error,” said Trevisan firmly. “That monk, Luther, has much to answer for. And now the King of England is saying he will defy His Holiness and Mother Church.” His choler was rising as he spoke. “Protestants! An apt name! May God save us from such heretical excesses.”
Di Santo-Germano paused by a small, square table that held two branches of oil-lamps and a number of handsome objects; he picked up a carving of a jade lion with a clouded paw. “There are no wars so bitter as those fought for religion.”
“When the soul is at stake, men defend it,” Trevisan declared. “The Church must answer to God for every soul it forfeits to the Devil.”
“That is what the Protestants claim, as well,” di Santo-Germano pointed out. “And the Islamites.”
“The Devil is always busy,” said Trevisan, gnawing on the other leg-bone of the pheasant.
“So he might be,” said di Santo-Germano. He put the lion back on the table and went to close the last open shutter. “Your pardon, but the wind is changing quarter and I would rather not have my books soaked.”
“You could always move the books,” Trevisan suggested with a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Closing the shutter is easier,” said di Santo-Germano. “If you want to watch the storm, I can have your chair and table carried out into the loggia, where you may enjoy it safely.”
“No, this is preferable,” said Trevisan. “There is more space between the lightning and the thunder, which means the worst is over.” He drank the last of the wine in his glass and poured out half a glass more. “I don’t want a muzzy head in the morning.”
“Would you like a tankard of hot ale?” di Santo-Germano inquired.
“I would prefer lemon juice and honey in hot water,” said Trevisan. “I have a fondness for it.”
“Then you shall have it,” said di Santo-Germano, and rang a small brass bell to summon a page.
Rinaldo answered this call, and repeated the particulars of what di Santo-Germano wanted for his guest before he hurried off to the kitchen.
“You are truly a most accommodating host,” said Trevisan. “I wonder: would you give me the pleasure of one of your pages if I asked for it?”
“That would depend upon the page,” said di Santo-Germano, unflustered by this forthright question. “They are in my care, not my possessions. If it suited one to oblige you, that would be between the two of you.”
“You are most tolerant of your household, to allow a servant such a choice for himself,” said Trevisan, a bit dubiously. “To allow a servant to have charge over his preferences could soon lead to insolence.”
“I have learned over time that servants treated well mean a smooth-running household, and where there is resentment, there is also slovenliness and disloyalty,” Adroitly he shifted the subject. “Have you noticed how the Ottomites organize their households?”
“That I have,” said Trevisan. “I was once in Beirut and was asked to the home of a prosperous merchant there. He was a good man, genial and educated after the manner of his kind, a man of fortune and excellent connections; it pleased him to entertain Christians, to show them how Allah had enriched him far beyond anything God had done for us.” He drank the last of his wine. “His Allah, he says, will always favor his family.”
“Did you agree?” di Santo-Germano asked, drawing up a Fiorenzan chair and setting it at right angles to Trevisan’s.
For the rest of the long, wet afternoon, Trevisan offered garrulous accounts of his various adventures, and di Santo-Germano listened as if all he heard was new to him.
Text of a letter from Prescott Greystone, bookseller of London, to the Count of Saint-Germain at Eclipse Press in Venice, written in English, and delivered seven weeks after it was dispatched.
To the Most Excellent, the Count of Saint-Germain, resident in Venice on the Field of Saint Luke, and publisher of Eclipse Press,
Your Excellency:
I am in receipt of the twenty volumes I ordered from your Press in February, and I am pleased to tell you that all are in good order. I am enclosing a draught for ten guineas, nine pence, four farthings. It is a pity that the late King Henry VII seized all the funds in the London branch of the Medici Bank, for that would make my business with the Continent run much more smoothly.
Also, I have been in communication with the Antwerp and Bruges Presses you were kind enough to bring to my attention. If their quality is equal to what you produce in Venice, then I shall soon be placing an order with that Press as well. In any event, I am pleased to know of them.
Let me thank you for the promptness of your delivery of my order—less than four months after it was placed, I have the volumes in hand, a most commendable dispatch in your dealings, my Lord, and one that encourages me to continue this association. May this letter have as swift a journey to you as your books did to me, as a sign of our mutual benefits.
With every good wish for your continued prosperity, good health, and fine reputation,
I am, my Lord Count,
Most faithfully yours to command,
Prescott Greystone
No. 4, Cotter Lane, London, England, the 11
th
day of July, 1530
th
day of July, 1530
“Then you must sign this, and impress your seal on the wax,” said Gennaro Emerenzio, spreading the parchment open to its fullest extent and holding it firmly while di Santo-Germano signed his name and reached for the small dish of heated sealing wax. “Just fix it there.” He tapped the place provided for the seal with one finger, watching critically as the dollop of hot, dark-red wax settled on the page. A speck of wax stuck on the pleated lace at the cuff of his long, dark-plum pourpoint, and he hissed at his own clumsiness.
“This should satisfy everyone, even the Church,” said di Santo-Germano as he pressed his seal into the hot wax, leaving the impression of his device: a disk with raised, displayed wings. “This gives you access to my funds for eighteen months or until my return. You have my schedule of payments and my usual household expenses, and the authorization to meet them. All my servants are allowed three weeks each year to visit their families, and an allowance for their travels; it is stipulated in the material I have brought to you.” He laid his hand on the small, bound account book. “I also am leaving jewels with you to cover any unanticipated expenses. In this purse”—he held up a black-leather pouch—“are six rubies, nine sapphires, four diamonds, seven emeralds, twelve moonstones, ten opals, eight yellow topazes, and five blue ones. The largest jewel is the size of a hen’s egg—a ruby; the smallest—an opal—is about as large as a pea. Most are about the size of the end of my thumb.”
As he listened to this impressive list, Emerenzio’s eyes grew large. “That is … that is a sizeable fortune, Signor’ Conte.”
“They are provided to cover very high expenses, such as ransoms for my ships and crews, repairs on my house, and any untoward expenses that come about on the press. Giovanni Boromeo will inform you if the gold I have advanced him is insufficient.” He smoothed the front of his pleated black doublet, and twitched the French cuffruffles of his white-silk camisa.
“If your generosity to him is anything approaching what you are entrusting to me, he must consider himself the most fortunate printer in all Venezia.” This fulsome praise was sincere but overly flattering, so Emerenzio, who knew di Santo-Germano disliked excessive plaudits, did his best to modify them. “You are a very wealthy man, of course, and that enables you to be a truly generous master and patron; you set an example many Veneziani would be well-advised to follow.”
Di Santo-Germano held up his hand. “Do not continue this adulation, prego.”
“It is richly deserved,” said Emerenzio, unable to stop himself. “You are—”
“I am,” di Santo-Germano interrupted firmly, “an exile who knows how much his well-being depends upon the good-will of those around him.”
“So you say,” Emerenzio attempted a smile and managed only an obsequious grin. “If that is your understanding, I will say no more about it.”
“Thank all the forgotten gods for that,” di Santo-Germano remarked with another of his elusive smiles.
“Regarding your patronage, you are more generous with your musician than you need to be. No woman requires the kind of life you have given her. You provide too much temptation, and you know how women are: she will take advantage of it, I warn you.” He coughed. “I do not speak against her, but you know what women are when they are indulged.”
“But I do not consider Signorina Salier to be indulged; she has an ability, and in order to explore it to its fullest, she does not need to be burdened with the worries and demands of everyday life. I am in a position to make this possible for her.” His dark eyes held Emerenzio’s hazel ones. “It is the least I can do.”
“Of course, of course,” said Emerenzio hastily. “I only hope that you do not live to regret your kindness to her.”
“You need not fret,” said di Santo-Germano with a faint, enigmatic glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “I have lived long enough to regret many things, but I doubt it would be possible to regret easing Signorina Salier’s life.”
“But it is—You are unlike so many others.” He gathered his thoughts and rushed on, “I have dealt with many of the fine merchants in Venezia, and I know many of them to be pinch-purses, unwilling to part with a single ducat unless they can realize two from it.”
“How unfortunate that they are unwilling to enjoy their success,” said di Santo-Germano levelly.
“Gaining more gold is their enjoyment, spending it causes them distress,” said Emerenzio. He tested the sealing wax to be sure it was cool, then rolled up the parchment, circled it twice with a silk ribbon, reached for the dish of hot wax and dropped it on the ribbon and the parchment, then pressed his personal seal on it. “There. I will see it is recorded at the Collegio.”
“Thank you,” said di Santo-Germano. “I trust you will see to the administration of the various funds I have left for my absence?”
“As we have agreed. Living money and household expenses to Pier-Ariana Salier, publishing money to Giovanni Boromeo, household money to your palazzo in addition to the servants’ wages, anonymous household and living money to Claudio Cinquanni while he prepares his work on the movements of the stars, anonymous household and living money to Gianni Parenti to allow him to devote his time to the collection and study of herbs. You have a grant for Fra Zacco at San Pietro di Castello for his repair on the old organ there. Also you will continue to provide living expenses to any and all Captains of your merchant-ships while they remain here in Venezia, and equal shares of ten percent of the profits of the sale of cargo to the crews on all merchant-ships arriving during your absence, just as you have done since your arrival in this city.” His expression was increasingly exasperated. “Your magnanimity occasionally borders on absurdity.”
“Nonetheless, it is my wish and you will see the conditions fulfilled, I am confident,” di Santo-Germano said, and went to the window to look out on the busy morning as boats and barges bustled about with the first deliveries of the day. He felt the weight of the angled sunlight and was keenly aware that he would need to reline the soles of his shoes with his native earth very shortly, for the heat that bit into him was not from the August day alone, but from the sapping power of the sun itself. He recalled the time, ten centuries ago, when there had been a darkening of the sun, and he had found much less discomfort in direct exposure to its rays. He turned away from the window. “Do you require anything more of me today?”
“Only that you present your household inventories, so that I may tend to keeping you properly supplied.” He removed his soft velvet cap and rubbed at his thinning, russet-colored hair. “I must think of some place to secure this purse,” he said, as much to himself as to di Santo-Germano. “It isn’t safe to let it be exposed. Servants get into everything.”
Di Santo-Germano regarded Emerenzio steadily. “Do you have the brass tiger I gave you? the one with the emerald eyes?”
“I keep it in my strong-room, with all the official papers I handle. It is locked day and night, and I alone have the key.” He straightened up, not wanting to seem unmindful of the value of such a gift. “I could put the pouch in a strongbox and secure it with a heavy lock.”
“And announce to anyone who sees it that something of value is contained therein,” said di Santo-Germano. “I think not. Let the tiger guard the purse.” He saw the startled look Emerenzio was quick to conceal. “The figure is hollow, and there is a clever slide-door in its belly. I have the key to open it—it is very small, and you will have to find a place where it will not be lost.” He held up an elaborate brass key no longer than his little finger; it was beautifully ornamented, with patterns of leaves entwined from the tiny, circular bow-grip to the little spine of irregular cuts that ran most of its blade. “This was made in India, as was the tiger,” he explained. “You do not insert and turn it, you fit the shaft into the pattern on the belly that matches it, and then you press and slide, and the compartment will open.”
Emerenzio stared, fascinated. “What a clever invention,” he said as he reached for the key.
“This key, if lost, cannot be replaced.” Di Santo-Germano handed it to him. “Keep it on a cord around your neck during my absence,” he recommended. “That way you are unlikely to lose it.”
Emerenzio held the key carefully. “It’s exquisite,” he said. “I will do as you suggest. I can imagine that this key could easily be lost if it isn’t handled carefully.”
“Yes. There are only two keys. I have the other one, and it is always within my reach,” said di Santo-Germano.
“On a cord around your neck?” asked Emerenzio.
“No; in a place much safer than that,” said di Santo-Germano, and offered nothing more.
“Just so,” said Emerenzio after a short, awkward silence. “Is there anything else, Conte?”
“I will send my manservant with the inventories for you after the midday rest,” said di Santo-Germano, offering a single nod. “I will take my leave of you.”
A sudden burst of shouting rose from the meeting of the canals on the east, the yelling echoing off the tall, marble fronts of the buildings, and bringing angry cries for answers.
“I can think of nothing more at present, not with that din raging.” He reached up and closed the shutter, reducing the noise to a muffled drone. “If I remember something, you still have a month before you leave, and doubtless, we will meet again several times before your departure. Surely that will be enough time to complete anything left undone today.” Emerenzio inclined his head respectfully. “Thank you, Conte, for all you have done.”
Di Santo-Germano made his way toward the door; the shouting had died down to occasional outbursts and a few trenchant oaths. “It is I who should thank you for your diligence in attending to my business affairs.”
“That is most gracious of you, Conte,” Emerenzio said, keeping half a step behind him. He paused in the small, square loggia of his house and glanced toward the narrow Rivi San Pantalon which connected two slightly larger canals. “I see your gondolier is waiting for you, in spite of the ruction.”
“I should hope so,” said di Santo-Germano, the tap of his heels on the marble floor echoing in the loggia.
“I imagine you want the same for him as you do all your servants?” Emerenzio asked as he hastened after di Santo-Germano.
“He is in my employ,” said di Santo-Germano as if his expectation were obvious.
“Yes, yes; you are very even-handed with your servants,” said Emerenzio, nodding emphatically.
“Such methods avoid carping and jealousy among them,” said di Santo-Germano, almost as if he were offering an apology for his fairness.
“So you have said.” As Emerenzio reached the steps down to the water, he paused, holding out his arm, as courtesy demanded, to assist di Santo-Germano into the waiting gondola.
“Grazie,” said di Santo-Germano, accepting his help. “Have a care with that key.”
“I will,” he promised, and stepped back onto the next tread; he glanced toward the canal ahead and saw it was clear of traffic. “Good day to you, then; may God give you prosperity and good health.”
“And to you,” said di Santo-Germano, and signaled Milano to shove off from the steps. He felt the annealing presence of his native earth in the keel of the boat permeate him, restoring his energy and lightening his mood. “Any news, Milano?”
“Nothing to mention,” said Milano, working his long oar expertly.
“Ah. Then there is something.”
Milano was occupied with turning the gondola in the narrow confines of the intersection of the two canals, and so said nothing until they were gliding under the Frari-Santa Margherita Bridge. “Three nights ago, while I waited for you near Signorina Salier’s house, I happened to see that young man I have mentioned before: the one who was following you.”
“And you suspect he was following me again?”
“I think he may have been, yes,” said Milano, checking the speed of his gondola as they slid past a narrow barge piled high with apples and lemons; they approached the Gran’ Canale with no increase in celerity, for there was a great deal of traffic maneuvering along its broad, sinuous curve. “He is not easy to miss, skulking like a mummer!”
“Is this the only time you have seen the fellow?” di Santo-Germano asked as Milano found his place in the stream of water-craft.
“Since I first brought him to your attention? No. I have seen him once with the Papal courier, Padre Duradante, at the Casetta Belle Donne.” He waited for anything di Santo-Germano might say about his visiting such an establishment; when there was no response, he continued. “I believe the grand little puppy lost a considerable amount to Padre Duradante that evening.”
“Did you happen to find out his name?” Di Santo-Germano winced as the morning sun struck the side of his face as Milano prepared to turn once more.
“I understand he is related to one of the Savii’s secretaries, or so the porter boasted,” said Milano. “Signora Giuletta does not allow her wealthy patrons to mingle with humble workers—with the exception of her women, of course.”
“Of course,” said di Santo-Germano.
Milano leaned on his oar and the gondola turned toward the narrow canal that passed the side of Campo San Luca. “They are cleaning one of the canals near the Arsenal, and so there are many delays there.”
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