Sword of Shame (14 page)

‘A properly elected doge is for life, or until he decides to step down himself. How can anyone suggest he should be forced out?' He poured another potful of good Gascon red down his throat, and clutched my shoulder. ‘What do you think, Nicolo, old chap? You're an honest fellow. What do you think we should do?'

Sweating a little at the thought he might run through
my slender supply of wine before I had parted him from his money, I stared sombrely into his bleary eyes. I found myself using his own drawly accent back at him.

‘It's an outrage, Pasquale, old chum. That's what it is. It makes a fellow want to make his money and run before the whole fabric of society falls apart.'

He nodded eagerly, then a puzzled look slowly crept over his blotchy face.

‘Make his money…and run?'

I could see on his drink-sodden face the sly look of one who had been hooked. I fed him the line before reeling him in.

‘It so happens I have a proposition to put to you. It can't fail…'

 

Later that night, a strange thing happened. I had just got rid of Pasquale Valier by the street door, when I heard a furtive tapping from the other side of the house. It took a moment for me to realize there was someone at the water door. I too had imbibed a fair amount of the good Gascon, though surreptitiously I had cut it with cheap Rhenish to make it go further. Even so, I was a little unsteady on my feet, and nearly fell in the muddy canal when I opened the door a splinter to see who was calling so late at night. I had half a thought it was sweet Cat come to romp the night away. My heart yearned for that, but my thick head and tired mind almost prayed it was not.

As I reeled on the step down into the turbid waters at my door, a firm, but slender hand took my arm. Whoever it was steadied me, almost at the expense of his own stability, as he was standing in a small boat that rocked under him. But he righted himself and me, and gave a low bow. It was difficult to see his face, as he was muffled in a hooded cloak, that was draped across most of his features. All I saw was a pair of brown eyes
staring at me with creases at their corners that betokened a smile beneath the folds of the drapery.

‘What do you want, good sir?'

I spoke a little merrily, my tone of voice still in Valier mode, plummy and drawled.

The man refrained from speaking, but his eyes sparkled even more. He drew a long bundle from under the cloak, and with difficulty, as though it was too weighty for him, held it out to me in both hands. Noticing in passing that the hands were gloved, I took the burden from him. In truth, the parcel was heavy, but not so heavy that a fully-grown man could not have handled it. I assumed the deliverer of my gift was perhaps elderly or ill as to find it so difficult to lift. I thanked him for his services, but still got no reply. He simply nodded his head, and turned away, lifting his punt pole into place. I watched for a while until the mysterious figure disappeared into the mists, then hefted his gift in my hand. It had a weightiness to it that promised value, and I eagerly unwrapped the cloth that bound it up.

What was first revealed at one end was a thick, plain disc of steel, and below it a lime wood handle wrapped about with wire. It was a sword, and an old one at that. The cross had been fashioned to look like dogs' heads, but the blade itself was encased in a plain wooden sheath. From its length, I guessed the blade to be around thirty inches long. I pulled the blade a little way out the sheath to reveal a small shield stamped on the lower end. It bore the name ‘de la Pomeroy' etched in silver, but it meant nothing to me. As the last of the binding slid off, a piece of parchment fell to the floor. I stooped to pick it up. The writing was in a neat hand.

The message was finished off with no signature, but a strange scrawl that I could not at first decipher. Then I turned the parchment sideways, and the scrawl resolved itself into a neat little feline shape with a curly tail. It had to be a message from my own Cat–Caterina Dolfin–I was convinced of it. So much so, that I even fancied I heard her laughter carrying over the waters of the canal outside my door. I slid the blade from its sheath, and looked on the inscription for the first time. All talk of honour and soul did not concern me, however. What I was convinced of, was that I would not sell this sword for anything. Especially as I had already got the funds I needed for my
colleganza
from Pasquale Valier.

 

One month later, I was standing on the quayside of the Giudecca Canal with the sword at my waist, money in my purse, and a bushy, red beard on my chin. It had grown while I was roughing it on the journey to and from Syria, and now I fancied it added to my appeal with the women. With my fine head of red hair, tanned features and green eyes, I knew I couldn't fail. The
Provvidenza
lay proudly at its moorings before me, a little more battered, its mainsail somewhat more ragged. But nothing that some money and the tough, thick pitch of the ship-builders in the Arsenal complex couldn't cure. I had already sold the cotton on to a fair-haired German trader called Bradason, and all I needed to do was pay my investors their margin. Which
would leave a tidy sum for me. I was longing to see Cat, but decided I should replace my stained and tattered clothes first. Like
Provvidenza
, I needed a good overhaul, and it would do no harm to take my costs out of the
colleganza
's profits. They were big enough to absorb it.

I found a good tailor in the Merceria, and bought an undertunic of red, and a sclavine of blue. Finally I belted the sword round my waist. Caterina Dolfin would not be able to resist me, and I swaggered off along the Spaderia–suitably enough the street of sword-makers–then made for the Rialto crossing. Passing the Rio dei Bareteri, I noticed a workshop with headgear displayed, and was taken by a sugar-loaf cap in green that I reckoned would sit well on my flowing red locks. I bought it, and turning the brim up, I set it at a jaunty angle on my head. Palazzo Dolfin was on the other side of the Grand Canal, and I made for the bridge of boats called the Quartarolo that spanned it at the Rialto. Before I could reach it and pay the toll, however, I was stopped by a braying cry.

‘Zuliani! Is that you? I was told you were back.'

I groaned. It was Pasquale Valier, and he would be wanting the return on his investment. I had hoped it would hang at my waist just a little longer, before I had to disburse it. It felt good to have a heavy purse, even if most of the money belonged to others. I need not have worried, though. Valier seemed more concerned about having a good time than getting his dues.

‘I was on my way to meet Jacopo and a few others to celebrate my good fortune. What a stroke of luck to bump into you, Zuliani. You must join us.'

He had to be talking about Jacopo Selvo, who though a scion of one of the old families, was an entertaining drinking companion. I had caroused away many a night in his company. I reckoned my ardour for Caterina
could be postponed a little while. Especially if it gave me the opportunity to boast about my exploits over a drink or two to a few young aristos with more money than sense. We started out at some low dive on the northern quay close to the Arsenal, meeting up with two other friends of Valier, Vitale Orseolo, and Marino Michiel. The tavern was more often frequented by tarry ship-builders, than members of the
case vecchie
. But Valier reckoned they would break open the best Apulian wine, if they saw the weight of my purse. He was right–the wine tasted good, and it flowed freely at the sight of my money. We ended up carousing the night away, defying the curfew bell, and lightening my purse more than somewhat.

From there I think we went straight to the Ca' d'Orseolo, though my brain was too befuddled to be sure, where young Vitale Orseolo cracked a cask of Malvasia. I hadn't forgotten sweet Caterina, I promise you. But Pasquale and Jacopo kept leading me astray with more wine. With dawn approaching, and a tankard of sweet Malvasia in my unsteady hand, I tried to break up the party.

‘I must go to Palazzo Dolfin now. I promised Caterina I would shower her with riches on my return.'

Jacopo Selvo giggled, and hung his arm over my shoulder. He slopped red wine over my new mantle, staining it, but it didn't seem to matter. Then he snorted the odour of ripe Apulian into my face.

‘Later, Zuliani, later. You know, a woman gets riper the longer you keep her hanging on. Leave her till later. In fact, you would do well to leave her hanging like a ripe pheasant for a few days. Then she will really be ready to…you know…to…'

He made a fist over his groin, jerking it up and down, and guffawed in my face. I should have stuck my fist in his florid chops for being so coarse about Cat, but
for some reason what he said amused me. I giggled, and grabbed the wine bottle, pouring it straight down my throat.

‘Have a care, Jacopo Selvo. You speak of the woman I love.'

I hauled the shiny sword from the sheath at my waist, waving it in the air in mock combat. I nearly sliced Orseolo's head off by accident, and he dropped to the ground in a dead faint. The others crowded around, admiring the blade as it sparkled in the candlelight. Valier was the most impressed, his eyes feasting on the perfection.

‘That is a mighty blade, Zuliani. And an old one. It must have been drowned in blood in its time. How did you come by it?'

I feigned indifference to its quality.

‘This old thing. I had it from…an admirer.'

I leaned on the sword like some old Crusader, but spoiled the effect by falling over in a heap. The blade nicked my arm, and added another stain to my new clothes. It was not long after that the three others fell into a drunken stupor, leaving only Valier and myself to finish the Malvasia. We slumped side by side on Orseolo's couch, and I reluctantly began to count out Valier's share of my loot. His eyes glittered, while at the same time he bemoaned the hard times that made it so difficult to make money.

‘And since you left on your trip, Zuliani, Domenico Lazzari has returned redoubling his complaints about Doge Zeno. He has moaned so much that the doge has been persuaded to stand down. They say that Girolamo Fanesi has thrown his hat into the ring, and expects to win. I mean to say, really! He's not even a proper Venetian. And all because of this Byzantine fiasco.'

I was a little slow on the uptake.

‘What Byzantine…? Oh, the loss of Constantinople, and the title of Lord of Half-a-quart and a Quart-and-a-half of Roman wine…'

Pasquale sniggered at the old joke, and bashed my arm with his puny fist.

‘Be serious for a moment, Nicolo. You know, I was thinking that if you could sort of influence who was in the Group of Forty-One, you could virtually guarantee who the next doge was. And prevent Fanesi winning.'

Now, you should know that the method of electing a new doge is involved in the extreme. By a series of lots, the
Maggior Consiglio
–the Great Council–vote for four of their number. This four from the great and good then nominate forty-one of the council members, each of whom requires at least three nominations, and not more than one from each family. Oh, and don't forget that to get on the Great Council itself in the first place, you have to be nominated by two representatives from each of the six
sestieri
, or districts, that make up Venice. So, to get to vote a doge into office, you have to…well, I don't want to bore you. Let's just say it's complicated. Just take it from me that the system goes on and on. For several rounds. Until forty-one names are thus randomly selected. And it is they who elect the doge. So I don't know why I agreed with Valier.

‘I suppose so. Yes and, if you could influence the vote so that a particular name came up, you could make an awful lot of money into the bargain.'

This was my contribution to the drunken exchange. I cared not, and still don't, which member of the Venetian
case vecchie
–the old aristocracy–was elected doge. My family has been around for as long as any of them. It has even been said that one of our ancestors helped drive the
pali
–the wooden piles–into the sandbanks on top of which the city was built three
hundred and fifty years ago. But the Zulianis always made their money by dint of their own labour, and that was enough to keep us out of the inner circle. No, I didn't care if a Tiepolo, a Morosini, or a Zeno won the election. I just liked the idea of making a killing on the result for one Zuliani. Me.

‘But there is no way of influencing such a complex system,' moaned Valier. ‘And I now have a purse bursting with coins to wager.'

Valier was old aristocracy himself, which is why, along with his
colleganza
profits, he had so much money to waste. And why he hadn't the brains to see an opportunity when it leaped at him. The aristocracy are all inbred, after all.

I grinned. ‘There is a way, I am sure of it. Even if it comes with a little bribery.'

Valier's little, pointy rat-face looked blank at first–but then it always did. Finally, his features squashed up in what I think was supposed to resemble shock.

‘It won't work! You wouldn't dare!'

I spat in my fist, and held out a steady hand for him to clasp, and seal the wager. See, I wasn't half as drunk as poor Pasquale Valier was. In fact, I had seen the opportunity to get all that
colleganza
profit back from him as soon as he had started talking. Besides, I liked a challenge, and the drink had made me reckless.

‘Give me that pile of coins that's burning a hole in your purse, and I'll show you what's possible.'