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 (35 page)
Di Santo-Germano saw Christofo Sen’s eyelids flicker, and he wondered why the secretary was dissembling.
“And have you received such a demand?” Ziane inquired. “If you have, I have heard nothing of it.”
“No,” said Sen. “We have heard nothing.”
“Don’t you find that odd?” Ziane asked as he waved Christofo Sen away from the Witnesses’ Chair.
Christofo Sen faltered. “I hadn’t considered it,” he said stiffly. “At first we all thought that Leoncio had decided to leave the city for reasons of his own. But when he didn’t return, we made inquiries. We are still making inquiries, but have discovered nothing.”
“You must be fearing the worst,” said Ziane.
“I am not fearing anything,” said Sen, and seeing the shocked expression on Ziane’s face, he added, “I am certain my nephew must be found, sooner rather than later, and when he is, he will tell us what happened to him, and we will take the proper measures to deal with those who wronged him.”
With a sardonic slant to his brow, Ziane said, “I am sure all of us share your hope.” He pointed to Valentin. “Who next?”
“Padre Egidio Duradante,” said Valentin promptly, and motioned for the priest to come forward and take his oath.
“This all seems fairly redundant. I am a priest and enjoined to speak truthfully at all times,” Padre Duradante said as he sat down, smoothing his silk-faille lucchetto with fussy little strokes of his well-groomed hands. “But for the sake of formality, I will oblige the Consiglier.”
“You know Gennaro Emerenzio, do you not?” Valentin began.
“As a gamester, yes. Beyond that, no.” The priest was being wary, and weighing his answers to volunteer as little as possible.
“You also know Leoncio Sen,” Valentin said.
“Better than I know Gennaro Emerenzio,” Padre Duradante replied, settling more comfortably into the Witnesses’ Chair.
Moliner studied Padre Duradante for a full minute, then asked, “How well do you know di Santo-Germano?”
“I know who he is, and I know he has a house on Campo San Luca. I have not been there, but Padre Bonnome has informed me about the household, including his long history of generosity to San Luca.”
“Do you know anything about Gennaro Emerenzio’s dealings with di Santo-Germano?” Moliner held up his hand so that Padre Duradante would not answer yet. “I don’t ask you to reveal anything you have been told in confidence, yet I ask you to consider private discoveries as well as public ones.”
“I would not compromise a confidence,” said Padre Duradante disdainfully, fixing Moliner with a hard look. “But in this case, there is little to tell: Emerenzio remarked to me, when di Santo-Germano left to go to the Lowlands?—he mentioned that di Santo-Germano had provided lavishly for all his Venezian ventures and dependents; he said all merchants should be so providential. Sometime later, Emerenzo said that the Lisbon earthquake had dealt di Santo-Germano a fearsome blow, and that it could be years before he recouped his losses.”
“Would you suppose, from what you know for yourself, or have been told by reliable men, that Gennaro Emerenzio might stand to gain from his position as business-factor for di Santo-Germano?” Valentin asked.
“I might surmise it,” said Padre Duradante.
Why, di Santo-Germano wondered, was Padre Duradante willing to offer so much information on Emerenzio’s behalf, and so little to his benefit?
“At any point in your gambling with Emerenzio did you wonder about his money, and his losses?”
“I don’t usually think about the affairs of those with whom I gamble,” said Padre Duradante, retreating into hauteur.
“But you have wondered if di Santo-Germano was in any way connected to Leoncio Sen’s disappearance, have you not?” Moliner took up his questioning again, this time with alacrity.
“That I have,” said Padre Duradante. “When I heard the fellow was missing, I wondered if it had anything to do with Pier-Ariana Salier, who had been in di Santo-Germano’s protection until his fortune was lost; Leoncio desired her for himself, and sought to win her before she left this city to take up residence with a cousin. Leoncio vowed to find her and continue his solicitation of her favors, but that opportunity eluded him. Upon his return to Venezia, di Santo-Germano must have heard of Leoncio’s suit, and when young Sen disappeared, I could not help but wonder what di Santo-Germano had to do with it, for Pier-Ariana returned to Venezia not long after Leoncio vanished, once again in di Santo-Germano’s protection.”
“Is there anyone who could corroborate your observations?” Moliner asked, making no effort to hide his satisfaction at Padre Duradante’s answer.
“There is one I am aware of—a rogue of a fellow—a spy called Basilio Cuor.” He pursed his lips in a show of distaste. “I gather the man has been following di Santo-Germano for some time: Leoncio told me Cuor had been ordered to follow di Santo-Germano to the Lowlands, and that he did so, providing his uncle”—he nodded toward Christofo Sen—“with reports of di Santo-Germano’s activities there, including his assistance to Protestants, and rebellious women, against the order of the Spanish Crown.”
Valentin needed a little time to evaluate the implications of these remarks; he asked, “This Basilio Cuor—do you trust him?”
Padre Duradante uttered a harsh laugh. “Does anyone trust a spy?”
Valentin nodded. “True enough—and yet you trust him enough to offer this hearing that man’s mission to support your contention: why is that?”
Taken aback by this unexpected inquiry, Padre Duradante stammered, “He … he has been in the employ of the Consiglio, and they have been guided by his revelations.”
Moliner was ready with his next question, but was stopped when Consiglier Ziane intervened. “A second-hand report on such important issues is not acceptable, even for such a hearing as this one. It appears that we must have testimony from this spy before I can reach any conclusion in regard to the case. Since he is not in attendance here, he must be found and summoned. Therefore we will stop now for prandium and I will send the footmen of the Minor Consiglio out to apprehend this Basilio Cuor, so he may appear before me and explain all he knows. I will have word sent to you as to when this hearing will resume. Be ready for this afternoon, but understand that it may take a day or two to find the man.”
Valentin and Moliner exchanged quick looks of alarm as they bowed to Consiglier Ziane, and when the Consiglier had left the chamber, Moliner said, “I thought the matter was finished. Now this.”
“The matter isn’t finished,” Valentin said, and motioned to di Santo-Germano, indicating they should meet in the corridor.
While the witnesses filed out of the hearing room in unaccustomed silence, di Santo-Germano saw Christofo Sen let himself out of the side-door; this perplexed him, for he was not convinced that Sen was answering the summons of any of the Savii. Pondering what else Sen’s behavior might imply, di Santo-Germano went into the corridor and waited beneath the tall window that poured light into the corridor.
Valentin came up to him almost ten minutes later. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Conte; I was hoping to learn something useful about this Basilio Cuor. I am ignorant of the man and his dealings with Sen, and that troubles me.”
“And what did you discover?” di Santo-Germano inquired politely.
“Nothing of significance.” Valentin paused briefly. “Moliner tells me that he, too, was unaware of the man until now.”
“Do you believe him?”
Taking the time to frame his answer, Valentin said, “I believe Moliner did not know how much of a role this Cuor might play in the case, but I also believe he had heard the name before, and had been told a little about him.”
“And what—if anything—does any of this have to do with Gennaro Emerenzio?” di Santo-Germano asked.
Valentin put his hands together. “That is what we must determine,” he said with an emotion made up of hope, uncertainty, and impatience, “and we must do it before this hearing resumes.”
Text of a letter from Gennaro Emerenzio to Christofo Sen, carried personally by Benedetto Maggier of Le Rose.
To Christofo Sen, senior secretary to the Savii da Mar, on this, the 2
nd
day of November, 1531.
nd
day of November, 1531.
I have done your bidding a month since, forcing Leoncio to follow me until I was able to take him prisoner. Your nephew has doubtless reached the slave-markets of the Ottomites, and will not be returned to you, no matter what pleas he makes, for, as you instructed, I branded his forehead with the mark of a perjurer before delivering him into the hands of the Turks. No matter what he says, or what promises of ransom he vows will be paid for him, no one will believe him.
You promised me when I undertook to work for you that all my debts would be paid or canceled if I shared my gleanings of di Santo-Germano’s accounts and rid you of Leoncio; I have completed my part of the bargain, and yet you have not completed yours. I must have your pardon shortly, or I will be wholly without funds. If you think Benedetto Maggier will allow me to remain here clandestinely without the required payment for his silence and his attic, you misunderstand the man. If I cannot pay his fee, he will expose me to the officers of the court, and collect the reward that is presently offered for my seizure by the court.
Do not suppose that if I am captured that I will keep your secret for you—I would use everything I know of your pilferage and your nephew’s extortion attempts to ensure that my sentence is kept low, and I would rejoice in knowing that you would be incarcerated with me for hiring me to dispose of your nephew, as well as your accepting stolen money from me. You and I have done damnable things, and for the sake of my soul, I will confess every aspect of my part, as well as the role you played in my raking of trust accounts, as well as the profit you made from my actions. The court will have sufficient reason to charge you with several crimes, as I will testify.
I will wait until midday tomorrow for your response; if I hear nothing after that time, I will go to di Santo-Germano, and ask him to accompany me—I will then present myself to Consiglier Ziane and beg for his mercy. Give this your close consideration, and then send me word of your decision.
In the high regard you deserve,
Gennaro Emerenzio
Milano leaned on his oar and sent his gondola gliding out of the Rivi San Luca into the confusion of the Gran’ Canale; the day was foggy and dank, with almost no wind to stir the air. All Venezia seemed muffled by the mists, so that shouts were muted, and buildings along the serpentine canal were shrouded and indistinct. A funeral barge, all black and purple, loomed out of the murk, only to vanish into it, silent as a ghost.
“You say Emerenzio hanged himself?” di Santo-Germano asked Milano, drawing his dark-gray cloak around him, for the clammy chill called for such garments as much as pouring rain did. Because the meeting for which he was bound was being held in a church, he had armed himself only with two small daggers tucked into his sleeves, all but invisible.
“That is what the landlord of Le Rose said, and what everyone is saying now,” Milano answered. “The word is that the chambermaid found him this morning; he had been hanging there most of the night.”
Di Santo-Germano considered this. “Do you believe the story?”
“That Emerenzio is dead? yes—that he hanged himself? that is another matter; convenient deaths always are grounds for speculation,” said Milano, finding his way to the far side of the Gran’ Canale and sliding into the rivi that led past Campo San Polo to San Giacomo dell’ Orio.
“That they are,” said di Santo-Germano, holding the side of the gondola as the boat rocked suddenly as the wake of a faster-moving craft struck it.
Milano held the gondola steady, pushing the oar to turn into the wake. “Why did Consiglier Trevisan send for you? Do you think it has something to do with Emerenzio’s death?”
“He did not say. He asked that I meet him at San Giacomo dell’ Orio by ten-of-the-clock.” Now that the wake was behind them di Santo-Germano appeared at ease in spite of the pall of the weather and the distress about Emerenzio.
Milano coughed. “Is that why Ruggier was sent off to Mestre an hour ago?”
“Not specifically, no,” said di Santo-Germano; he had wanted Ruggier to make sure they could leave Venezia swiftly and without attracting notice, if flight should become necessary, but he kept this to himself. “There is a horse-breeder I wish to meet with; Ruggier is arranging that meeting.”
Milano laughed. “Do you expect him to return this evening?”
“I do,” said di Santo-Germano, beginning to wonder why Milano asked.
For a short while Milano was busy finding his way along the narrow waterway to the lozenge-shaped Campo San Giacomo; in the thickening fog it was increasingly difficult to make out approaching craft and to avoid the dangers at crossings. Finally Milano swung the gondola to the west; the boat snuggled up to the steps leading up to Campo San Giacomo dell’ Orio. “When shall I return?”
“In two hours, I should think; that should give us sufficient time to attend to our business, and to permit me to find out who is watching me now,” said di Santo-Germano, stepping out of the gondola and onto the short flight of marble stairs.
“I’ll carry a lanthorn, one with two eyes, so that you will be able to find me,” he said. “I may pull into one of the boat-alcoves, so as not to be struck by other craft in the fog.”
“Excellent notions,” said di Santo-Germano, and continued up the remaining two steps to the Campo. San Giacomo was only a dozen paces away, and di Santo-Germano covered the distance swiftly, entering the church after briefly and futilely attempting to see what might be waiting in its shadow. He saw very little through the haze, but he took comfort in the knowledge that no one could see him, either.
The interior of the church was quite dark, smelling of incense, sap, and candle-wax; a solitary monk was placing pine-boughs over the sanctuary, using cords to secure the new-cut branches in their places. He paused in his labor and said, “The Virgin’s Chapel. On the east side of the altar.”
“Thank you,” said di Santo-Germano, and went off to the right, along the gallery behind the altar, to a small chapel with ornate oriole windows, just now showing the milky swirl of fog. Di Santo-Germano crossed himself as a precaution, and was rewarded almost at once by an approving chuckle.
“I have sometimes wondered if you are Catholic or not,” said Merveiglio Trevisan as he came out from behind the statue of the Virgin kneeling to Gabriel.
“I trust you are satisfied,” said di Santo-Germano, looking directly at the Consiglier.
Trevisan laughed again, his amusement more cynical than mirthful. “I am a trifle surprised, you being foreign and from the east. I had assumed you were of the Orthodox Church, not the Roman one.”
“When one is an exile, such distinctions are less stringent than they are for men living on their native earth,” said di Santo-Germano.
“Or on our native forest,” said Trevisan, and shifted the subject without warning. “I understand you meet regularly with Orso Fosian, and that he has supported your claims from the first.”
“Yes; he has been a good friend to me,” said di Santo-Germano.
Trevisan gestured his approval, then asked, “Has he told you what the Minor Consiglio has decided in regard to Emerenzio, now he’s dead?”
“I have not seen Consiglier Fosian since evening before last,” said di Santo-Germano. “At the time we spoke, I gather Emerenzio was still alive.”
“Possibly he was,” said Trevisan. “I haven’t been told the whole of the findings of the court’s familiars.” He glanced over his shoulder as he heard the monk move his ladder. “We probably won’t be disturbed for another half-hour. After that, we must not expect privacy.”
“And we may be overheard even now,” said di Santo-Germano.
“So we may,” said Trevisan. “But I will depend on Fra Rufio to guard us while he attends to his duties.” He prowled around the chapel like a caged lion, his head thrust slightly forward, his irregular gait making his movements ominous. “Your advocate, Thaddeo Valentin, was most eloquent this morning when he spoke on your behalf. Consiglier Fosian also provided a statement regarding your probity in dealings with others as well as the quality of your character. A pity you were not permitted to attend, but there! We must now be willing to accept the decisions of Consiglier Ziane. You have much to be grateful for, and most of those things are to Valentin’s credit. Between him, Consiglier Fosian’s statement, and your manservant’s testimony, much of the damage done to your reputation has been diminished. Without Ruggier’s eloquence, you might still be under suspicion, but since he spoke so persuasively, and Valentin will be able to produce the spy Cuor, his examination of your man made it clear that you could not have participated in any of the misfortunes that redounded to all those associated with Gennaro Emerenzio. I will assume that Cuor’s testimony will corroborate all that your man has said.”
“Let us trust he will,” said di Santo-Germano. “If this Cuor has been spying on me, I would like to know why, and for whom.”
“Do you think it is one man?” Trevisan asked. “With all that has transpired, I would guess it to be the work of more than one man.”
“Oh, yes,” said di Santo-Germano. “Because with more than one man ordering the spy about, he would have been exposed before now. These things have a way of insinuating themselves into the public mind when there are conspirators rather than a single reprobate, unless the leader of the conspirators is utterly zealous or utterly ruthless.” There had been many times in the past when di Santo-Germano had seen secrets unravel because they were shared by too many, and lost their secrecy: from his father’s fortress-castle to the Temple of Imhotep, from the court of the Emir’s son to Leosan fortress, from the builders in Fiorenza to the docks on Corfu, secrets had been maintained only by the elimination of those who knew them.
“It may be so,” Trevisan said slowly, and he studied di Santo-Germano’s face for a long moment.
“And if it is, you will want to secure this Cuor as quickly as possible, for I think the man’s master must be eliminating any who share his secret in order to escape the consequences of his act.” This was the most perturbing aspect of the present situation—that those who had the means to reveal whose secret all this was might soon be removed, and the culprit go undiscovered, leaving official suspicion to remain focused on di Santo-Germano and his associates. He regarded Trevisan steadily, an unfathomable light in his dark eyes. “If the master in this is one of yours, what will become of him?”
“Do you mean if he is a Venezian, or one of the Consiglieri?” Trevisan imbued his question with a quality of incredulity, as if daring the foreigner to answer.
“I mean if he is connected to the government of La Serenissima Repubblica,” said di Santo-Germano. “Will the Consiglii support my claim over that of one of your own?”
“We here in Venezia observe the law,” declared Trevisan. “Whether it is to our advantage to do so or not.”
Di Santo-Germano nodded decisively once. “So did the Romans of old, and strove to uphold the principles they espoused; but often it turned out that those with ties to the Senate suffered less for their criminality than those who lacked powerful friends.” He had a short, powerful recollection of Cornelius Justus Sillius, Olivia’s brutal husband, who had been condemned only after his ambitions brought him too near the Emperor.
Trevisan gave a short, hard sigh. “Yes. There are abuses everywhere, which is all the more reason for us to extirpate malfeasance wherever it is found.”
“Then you will act if you have proof of the culprit,” said di Santo-Germano.
“I would hope so,” said Trevisan, then lowered his voice. “I would, if I were you, arrange protection for your presses and your … other interests until this matter is concluded.”
“A wise precaution,” said di Santo-Germano. “I will take it to heart.”
“But have a care: you would not want to alert your foes by precipitate action.” Trevisan folded his arms.
“No, I would not.” He waited for Trevisan to speak, and when the Doge’s friend remained silent, di Santo-Germano continued. “From which I infer that I am still being watched.”
“I would suppose that is a safe assumption,” said Trevisan. “Certainly it is better to take precautions than to proceed heedlessly.”
“I will keep your admonition in mind,” said di Santo-Germano. “I gather from this that you have a certain culprit in mind?”
Trevisan weighed his answer. “Let us say that those under scrutiny may reveal much to us if they are not alerted to our efforts.”
“So you would prefer I maintain my usual habits while you continue your investigation. You want my cooperation.” He looked directly at Trevisan.
“Yes, Conte, we do.” It was as blunt a statement as Trevisan would make, and both men realized it.
“Then, for the sake of my reputation and the protection of my friends, I will do as you ask, at least for the next several days.”
“If we require longer, we will inform you,” said Trevisan, his manner shifting from formidable to affable in an instant.
Di Santo-Germano knew better than to ask the Doge’s friend Trevisan whom he meant by we, saying only, “As I will send you word if I become aware of growing peril to my household or associates.”
Trevisan smiled. “I am obliged to you, Conte. I trust Consiglier Ziane will settle your case to your satisfaction when your hearing resumes and this Cuor can be examined by the advocates.”
“I share your hope,” said di Santo-Germano, aware that they had struck a bargain between them.
“Then,” said Trevisan, “unless you have any other issues to raise, I presume our business is done?”
“I believe so,” said di Santo-Germano, offering a slight bow to the Consiglier.
“I will leave first, with Fra Rufio to escort me to my cousin’s house on Campo San Polo. I would recommend that you wait a quarter of an hour before departing. You will find very comfortable benches at the end of the narthex where you will not be disturbed.” With those instructions delivered, Merveiglio Trevisan left the chapel.
Di Santo-Germano remained where he was, staying away from the door into the chapel, waiting for the chime on the half-hour. He occupied himself trying to decide what he might do to make sure Pier-Ariana was beyond harm until she came to his life. Little as he wanted to be deprived of her company, her music, and her blood, he knew she would have to leave Venezia for a year or two; if she remained, she would be vulnerable to all manner of attacks. He was pondering if Giovanni Boromeo might require a second location—one away from the city—when his cogitation was interrupted by the sharp, metallic voice of the bell, accompanied by a ragged chorus from the other bells of Venezia, chiming the half-hour.
Fra Rufio had finished hanging the pine-boughs and the sanctuary was framed in branches. Di Santo-Germano half knelt and crossed himself, making sure anyone watching him had the chance to observe this pious act, then he went out of the church, his footstep as quiet as an owl’s wing, using the side-door in order to avoid the narthex and anyone that might be waiting for him. As if to aid him in his clandestine departure, the fog enveloped him as he closed the door behind him, leaving him in a narrow passage that led through to the rivi behind the church or back to the Campo San Giacomo dell’ Orio at the front of the church. Di Santo-Germano hesitated, considering his choices, and it was then that he heard a stealthy footfall from the campo-end of the passage.
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