Sword of Shame (15 page)

‘OK. But it's my money against that beautiful sword.'

I almost didn't do the deal when he said that. The sword was from Cat, after all. But being a Zuliani, I only hesitated for a second. We shook on it.

 

I woke to the booming of the Marangona bell in the Campanile. It calls the tradesmen to work, and tolls the curfew in the evening. Just now, it resonated round
my tender skull, which throbbed at every clang. I squeezed open my eyes on a scene of devastation. A pile of empty vessels gave witness to the scale of the binge that Valier and I had indulged in, along with Selvo, Michiel and Orseolo. Those last three were still lying in a tangled heap at one end of the long tapestried room on the upper floor of the Ca' d'Orseolo. They were dead to the world. I got up and staggered round the room. I noticed one particularly fine drape had a long cut right through Salome bearing the head of John the Baptist on a tray. I thought now at least honours were even, and the maid had had her head separated from her body too, if only in a woven image. I fingered the extensive slash, and remembered something about waving my fine sword above my head, and threatening the life of anyone who stood between me and Caterina Dolfin. Quite obviously, Salome had done so. I nervously twitched the tapestry together, but it was no use. When I let go, the damaged portion gaped open once again.

Still somewhat disorientated, I went about looking for Pasquale Valier. Had I not made some wager with him in the early hours? My befuddled brain pondered the problem as I brushed down my clothes. My tunic was creased, and smelled of stale sweat. And my mantle had a muddy boot mark on it to add to the wine and blood stains. I searched for my new sugar-loaf cap, and found it gripped in Jacopo Selvo's hand. He had obviously been using it to wipe the stains off the floor where he had vomited. I sniffed it, then crammed it on my head anyway, flipping up the brim. It didn't seem quite as jaunty as it had yesterday.

Valier was nowhere to be seen, and neither was my sword, I realized. I panicked. How could I meet Caterina without her gift at my waist? I scrabbled under the long dining table, searching for it, and then under
the couch where Valier and I had made our pact. And then I remembered our wager. I was to rig the doge's election so that Fanesi failed, and one particular name would come up. Any name, so long as we could bet on it. At the time, I had been so confident I could do it. Now, in the cold light of day, I hadn't the faintest idea how I would arrange such a thing. And I still couldn't find my sword.

 

Palazzo Dolfin was one of the newer buildings along the Grand Canal. It's grand arcade was of red
altinelle
bricks edged in hard white Istrian stone. The same white stone had been used for the flight of steps down to the water. The whole affair was reflected gloriously in the canal as I approached, until the image broke up with the chop of my ferry boat's prow. I pulled nervously at my wine-stained clothes, and tried to set the cap squarely on my head to give the impression of a prosperous and serious suitor. My money purse still hung at my waist, though it had been seriously depleted since yesterday. The ferryman bumped his boat against the lower steps, and I passed him a small coin as I stepped on to their pristine whiteness. As he poled away, I noticed for the first time that the palace's doors were closed. Frowning, I hammered on the forbidding surface to be met only with silence. This was not how my suit for Caterina's hand was intended to be. I knocked again, noting how the sound echoed hollowly behind the door.

Then suddenly a shutter screeched open above my head somewhere, and a coarse, female voice called out in a low Venetian dialect.

‘Watcha want?'

I walked back down the sparkling white steps, and craned my neck upwards. From one of the upper levels of the palace, a fat, red face poked out. The woman
repeated her abrupt demand, and I was hard put to contain my temper.

‘I want to speak to the master of the house, woman. Now come down and let me in.'

I was sounding more like Pasquale Valier every day. The servant woman, for her part, mocked my snooty tones.

‘Ooh, yer do, do yer. Well yer can't. They've all gorn to Padua on account of the fever.'

The fever? Was Caterina ill, then?

‘What I mean is, to avoid the fever. Don't know when they'll be back.'

With that, she withdrew her head, and abruptly slammed the shutter. I had not heard of a fever being rampant, but then many scares ran through the city. We Venetians did live on swampy mud-flats, after all. With Caterina away for an unspecified time, I would have to be patient in my suit. In fact, I felt some relief at not having to face Cat's father straight away. Maybe marriage was not in my destiny. Besides, her absence would certainly give me some time to work out this voting scam. I didn't have much time, as the election was only a few weeks away. I waved for a passing ferry boat to stop, and immediately began thinking about how to ensure one particular name was selected.

 

In the end it proved stupefyingly simple. I don't know why I didn't see it straight away, but I didn't. I must have been moon-struck for love of Cat. So I wasted days locked away in my musty, dark quarters. I huddled in one corner, seated at a scarred table with parchment and quill. The waters of the lagoon rose–as they do from time to time–and seeped across my floor. I watched the lapping approach of the fetid waters, noting only that this time they did not quite engulf the tidal mark left by the previous
aqua alta
. I only left my
room once to distribute the profits on my
colleganza
to all the investors. Some of them were not best pleased with the thin margin I gave them. But then I had had to pay off my own debts first, and I also seemed to have lost a considerable amount during that first day of carousing. The silversmith Sebenico was particularly tart, screwing his sharp nose up at the meagre coins I gave him.

‘What do you call this, Zuliani? I could have made more out of my investment if I had loaned it through the Jews on Spinalunga.'

I mumbled something about unforeseen overheads, and pirates off the Dalmatian coast, and hurried away. Thank goodness the Widow Vercelli, and Old Man di Betti were only too glad to see any sort of return on their money, and too dim to realize they could have had more. Back in my dank cell, I wrapped all my clothes around me, and pondered the little matter of the election fraud.

Getting on for a hundred years ago, the system had been changed from one where the Great Council nominated eleven electors, to a more foolproof method. It was decided to select four of the great and good, who would themselves choose forty names. I began to toy with the idea of bribing the four original nominees. That would be a damn sight cheaper than bribing forty. Oh, except it was now forty-one. Some genius had overlooked the fact that an even number of electors could bring about a tie. Which had happened about forty years ago, forcing the addition of one more elector. The forty-one commissioners operated in a sort of secret conclave, like cardinals electing a pope. Each would come up with a name on a slip of paper. Duplicate names were discarded, until a single slip for each nominee was created. These slips were placed in a vessel, and one name drawn out. A vote
was then taken on that name, and if it got twenty-five votes, then that man was the next doge.

So my first idea was to suborn the four, who could then nominate forty-one people inclined to come up with the right name. But, thinking about it, I knew that wouldn't work, and I certainly wouldn't have bet my shirt on them coming up with the right name. No, there was too much chance of a slip-up. Similarly, bribing the forty-one would prove an impossible task. Even if I could get to them when they were locked away, some of those old families are incorruptible, believe it or not. No, I finally came to the conclusion that the trick had to be turned with the mechanics of the voting system. If I could ensure one particular slip of paper came out the voting urn, then I was nearly home and dry. Though this was a contradiction in terms in relation to my own domestic arrangements. The water of the lagoon had nearly reached my toes under the table. I lifted up my chilly feet, and plonked them on the bench opposite where I sat.

But then, to ensure one slip in particular came out, I had to ensure it went in to begin with. And I was back again to bribery. I felt I was in a maze that kept taking me back to the centre instead of out to the rim and freedom. With my brains nearly boiling, and my feet near freezing, I gave up. I needed to talk to someone, and longed for it to be Cat. But in lieu of my beautiful girl, I would have to make do with my old drinking companions. Grabbing my sugar-loaf hat, and cramming it on my head, I decided to make for the anonymous tavern close to the Arsenal, where the drinking session that had landed me with this problem had begun. I squelched through the damp streets as the rain began to fall, taking care not to fall into a canal. The high tides sometimes made it difficult to tell the difference between a watery
rio
, and a paved
calle
. And it was not rare for an unwary Venetian to blithely step into a canal thinking the water was merely a damp sheen on a paved surface. In the nameless tavern, I found only Marino Michiel, his pasty, round face made paler by the weather. I sat down beside him, and ordered the Apulian wine that we had been drinking the last time. When it came, even that seemed to have succumbed to the
aqua alta
. It had clearly been watered.

‘Where are the others?' I enquired of the sullen Michiel. He waved his gloved hand in a vague gesture of uncertainty.

‘Don't know for sure. All I do know is that Valier has gone to Padua.'

My ears pricked up at the mention of the place where my Cat languished.

‘Oh, is he fleeing the fever too?'

Michiel looked puzzled. ‘Fever? Is there talk of a fever? I have heard nothing.'

Alarm bells should have rung at that point, but I was too engrossed in my problem with slips of paper to take in what Michiel was saying. Instead I spoke of the up-coming election.

‘And its all done in secret with a few big names, as if we, the people, don't have a say. Time was when an
arengo
was called–a meeting of all the people. Now it's just a formality.'

I was forgetting Marino Michiel was old aristocracy, and to him the idea of consulting the people was tantamount to permitting mob rule. He protested that the system was fair.

‘But it's all well controlled, so that one man can't push a name through against the will of the others,' he whined. ‘They are even trying a new system this time to ensure there's no hanky-panky.'

My heart lurched, and nearly fought its way out of
my throat. Did Michiel know what I was up to? I hoped Valier hadn't let anything slip to his pals.

‘What's that?' I croaked.

‘Oh, when they have got the final set of slips in the voting urn, they are not going to have one of their own draw one out. Just in case they cheat. It seems they are going to pick a child at random from the street, and he–the
ballotino
–will draw the name.'

Perfect.

 

Two days later, I still couldn't stop grinning from ear to ear. At the time, I had even bought the bewildered Michiel a drink. He was quite unaware that he had given me the best news I could have expected. Only if I had been told of Caterina Dolfin's immediate return to Venice would I have been more cheerful. Unfortunately, there was no news on that front. In fact, my tentative enquiries revealed nothing–the doings of the Dolfin clan had been shrouded in mystery. Some people repeated the servant's story of them fleeing rumours of a plague, and yet others spoke of the death of a wealthy uncle in Verona. A few hinted darkly at a family shame that had caused the Dolfins' retreat from Venice. I believed none of it, only worrying that perhaps Caterina was being kept from me. Or worse, that she herself had chosen to avoid me.

But all that was of passing concern. I had been buoyed up by the new twist to the selection process for the doge. It had played directly into my hands. Now my task involved nothing more complex than training some urchin–preferably one who was already adept at the art of picking purses–in a little sleight-of-hand. And I knew just who could put me on to such a delinquent.

I put the word about, but had to wait until night for my search to bear fruit. Master thieves did not like the
full glare of daylight, and Alimpato was a master among masters. It was he who had taught me much of my card-sharping techniques. A skill that had stood me in good stead when I had been short of cash in my early youth. Young noblemen seemed eager to pour coins into my purse for the sake of a game of cards or dice. Of course, even those dimwits realized after a while that my luck held a little too long to be true, and finally I had temporarily retreated, resorting to a tour of the mainland for a while. There were dupes aplenty in Fusina, Dolo, and Stra. But I yearned for Venice, and when I reckoned my reputation was forgotten, I returned. To a life of honest trading–if that's not a contradiction in terms. However, I still practised with my hands every day, and my manual dexterity was as good as it ever was. You never know when you might need to help Lady Luck along a little. Like now. I was proposing to pass on some of my skills to a young cut-purse, but needed a likely candidate.

Sitting in my damp room as darkness fell, I was impatient for Alimpato to put in an appearance. Time was running out for me. Then I heard a scratching at the door, and leapt towards it, flinging it open. At first, I thought there was no one there–that I had merely heard the sound of a rat gnawing at the rotting timbers. But then I realized there was a darker shadow inside the shadow of the archway opposite. I smiled, and stepped back into my room, leaving the outer door ajar. A few moments later, the shadow entered my dingy room, and sat across from me at my table.

‘Alimpato, you old devil!'