Sword of Shame (16 page)

The man pulled the hood of his voluminous cloak back, revealing a cadaverous face beneath a tangled skein of thin, greying hair. Alimpato smiled, revealing a set of blackened, rotten teeth. He more resembled a crippled beggar than what he really was–a prince
among thieves. I pushed a flagon of Rhenish across to him, and a cheap pewter goblet. No use putting temptation in his way. Despite our friendship, he would have buried a more valuable vessel inside his roomy cloak.

‘Nicolo Zuliani, as I live and breathe. Still earning your bread honestly?'

I never heard a man put so much invective into the word ‘honest' as Alimpato. When he uttered it, the word was redolent of shame, stupidity, and absurdity. I laughed and shrugged my shoulders.

‘In so far as anyone can.'

‘Then why did you put out the word you wanted to see me?'

He filled his goblet, and swigged deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I noticed the fingers were just as supple and slender as they had been when last he had shown me how to switch a set of dice.

‘It is in the way of a little matter that I need to…influence, shall I say. I have a wager on it.'

He nodded, knowing that I would not tell him the details. And that I knew he would not even dream of asking. The less you knew in his world, the easier it was to avoid being implicated, if questioned. I prayed fervently that I would not be discovered, as I could then expect a short stay in the ducal prison, followed by a long death.

‘I need a good cut-purse, who can learn quickly how to palm and substitute…a small item.'

He nodded, and rose from the table, turning the goblet in his hand speculatively. He sighed, and put it down, then made for the door.

‘Wait!' I called out after him. ‘Aren't you going to help me?'

He turned in the open doorway, and stared at me.

‘Of course. Walk across the Piazza tomorrow
morning on the first stroke of the Marangona bell. Have a heavy purse on your belt.'

He pulled the hood over his face, returning his features to the darkness, and disappeared into the night.

 

The following morning, still not sure what to expect, I stood in front of the Basilica of St Mark. I waited for the ninth hour, when the great Marangona bell in the Campanile tolled, and started to walk across the old pavement of herring-bone brick laid by Doge Sebastiano Ziani a hundred years ago. I promenaded along, alert for any action, walking towards the quay, where stood the two antique columns brought back from the East by an ancestor of Michiel's. When I reached the columns, nothing had happened, and I felt very disappointed. Alimpato had let me down. Then an urchin appeared from round one of the pillars, a huge grin splitting his grubby face.

‘Missing something, mister?'

My hand instinctively dropped to my waist, as I realized the weight of my purse was no longer there. Instead there were just a couple of sliced-through cords. The urchin brought his right hand from behind his back, and waved my purse in the air. I didn't move to retrieve it however, merely clapping my hands in appreciation of his feat. The lad, who looked no more than eight years old, bowed low, then hesitated.

‘Don't you want it back, mister? Master Alimpato said you would.'

‘Keep it,' I said generously. The purse strings were cut anyway. I would let the boy find out that the weightiness of the purse was due to several large nail heads at his own convenience. ‘But you can come with me.'

He looked rather unsure at first, not certain what my motives were. So I softened my tones, and suggested
we go and find something to eat. By the look of the puny chest that showed through his tattered clothes, I could guess he was half starved. He joined me at my side, and we walked back across the square, like two gentlemen promenading.

‘My name's…'

I stopped him with a finger to my lips.

‘No names. Just tell me where you come from.'

‘Malamocca.'

It was a small settlement on the finger of land that protected the lagoon from the Adriatic.

‘Then that shall be your name. Come, Malamocco, let's fill our bellies.'

‘But what do I call you?'

I thought for a moment.

‘Barratieri will do.'

‘“Card-sharp”?'

I nodded.

 

It took an amazing amount of food to fill Malamocco's scrawny belly. That first day I ended up paying for a feast which started with vegetables, then moved on to a lightly cooked dish of flounders, then a stew of wild boar, and to round it off some fresh fruit brought in from the mainland. And if I had not protested that my purse was empty, he would have begun again. His torpid nature after all that ensured we did not begin work till the following day. But then I found him an excellent study. Within hours, he was switching cards with a dexterity almost as good as mine. After three days of relentless effort, I could have put him out on the street, and guaranteed he would win every card or dice game he took part in. That part of the scam was ready. I only debated with myself if I needed to bribe the person in the group of forty-one charged with selecting the
ballotino
. The problem was I had no way of knowing in
advance who that would be. I would have to find a foolproof way of ensuring Malamocco was the only possible choice when it came down to the moment. In the meantime, I was paying good money to keep my little sly-fingered investment fed and out of trouble.

The day before the voting process would begin, I was walking across the Piazza in front of the Basilica, when a familiar, braying voice called out my name. I stopped in my tracks, and turned to confront Pasquale Valier, newly returned, apparently, from Padua.

‘Valier. Where have you been? And where is my sword?'

‘Your sword? Oh, don't worry, it's safe enough. I have left it in your quarters.' He grinned inanely. ‘I told you the night I left for Padua, why I borrowed it. Don't you recall? I said I would improve it's appearance for when I won it off you. But that is unimportant just now. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine.'

It was only then that I realized Valier was accompanied by a small, but wiry fellow some years older than both of us. Despite his small frame, and close-cropped hair, I would have said from the lines on his face that he was over forty. And, from the sour and down-turned shape of his mouth, had experienced disappointment in his life. His sclavine had an ornate, almost Eastern-style edging to it, though it now looked shabby, and ill-kept. I was intrigued, and took his proferred hand.

Valier was certainly awed by his presence, for he spoke in respectful tones. ‘This is Domenico Lazzari.'

I almost yelped in horror at the revelation, and dropped his hand like it was a hot
altinelle
brick. Don't get me wrong. I did not disapprove of Lazzari, or what he had done. After all, he was one of the newly rich, just as I aspired to be. He had dragged himself up the ladder, and irritated the old aristocracy in the process. I admired that. But when he lost his coveted post of
podesta
–governor–of Constantinople, to be reduced to a mere
bailo
, he had suffered from a severe case of sour grapes. To so criticize the doge, as he did, took either guts or blind stupidity. And for me to be seen in his company the day before I rigged the election of the new doge was not good news.

Valier should have realized that. Here we all were, standing in the middle of the most public square in Venice, shaking hands and to all intents and purposes agreeing on the overthrow of Renier Zeno. I could be in deep trouble–as deep as that which Lazzari already floundered in. And Valier would not be excluded, as he had wagered on Zeno losing the election this time. What was he thinking of?

I pulled him roughly to one side, and whispered hoarsely. ‘What the hell do you think you're doing? This man is poison at the moment. And besides, I thought you disapproved of him forcing the doge into an election.'

Valier pulled away irritably from my grip, while the object of my concern looked on in amusement. He waved away my reference to his former attitude to Lazzari. Clearly the man was now in Valier's favour.

‘It's OK. I've told him nothing about your…er…scheme. But he does know about our betting on a particular name coming out of the hat. He has money he wants to wager. On Fanesi winning. We can't lose. Your reputation is on a high now–make use of it.'

He pushed me towards Lazzari, and like a fool, I could not resist the lure of money. So it was that I allowed myself to be seen accepting a very large and weighty purse from Domenico Lazzari. Then he and Valier went their separate ways, and I rushed home to see what Pasquale had done to my sword. It was only when he was gone that I remembered he had come back from Padua. He might have had some news
of Caterina, and I might have been able to learn if I was still in favour or out. I would have to ask him when next we met. After I had won my bet.

The blade lay sheathed, and looking pretty much as when last I had seen it. Only this time it was lying on my scratched and humble table, not Orseolo's ornately carved couch where Valier and I had made our wager. On the surface, there appeared to be no changes to it. The cross of the hilt was still shaped in the form of two dogs' heads, mouths agape. The hilt itself still bore its leather casing, wrapped around with wire–all worn but none the worse for that. It felt comforting to grip the hilt knowing that many an experienced hand had sweated on it and shaped its lumps and bumps. Even the disc of the pommel was untrammelled. I would have killed Valier, if he had ruined its simple honesty. I closed my palm over the hilt. The sword almost felt as if it jumped into my hand, it was so easy to hold. I slid the blade out of its sheath, and at last saw Valier's embellishment along the length of the polished blade. The inscription was in Latin, and in imitation of the original text inscribed on the other side.

qui est hilaris dator, hunc amat salvator. omnis avarus, nulli est carus.

‘Hmm. “The Saviour loves a cheerful giver; a miser's dear to no one.” Very apt, Pasquale.'

I don't know if he intended it as a joke on my way with money or not. But seeing as I was going to keep the sword after I won our wager, the joke was on him, and the quotation would serve as an ironic motto for me. Tomorrow was the day the vote would be taken, and I hurried off to make a deal with a certain stallholder I had seen close to the main square.

 

The next morning, in the church of San Gregorio, I found myself praying fervently for the success of the
scheme. Or rather praying that it would not fail hopelessly. All my money, and that bagful of Valier's, was riding on the election of a certain Pietro Orseolo. But already I felt something indefinable had gone wrong, and matters hung on a knife-edge. Valier had handed over his money at the end of our drinking session. But, a week on, I had discovered that he had hedged his bets by wagering even more on Zeno retaining his position. And Valier didn't often pass up a sure thing.

It had gone well to start with. I had loitered round the main doors of St Marks where the representative of the Forty-One had gone to pray. Malamocco, suitably garbed in decent clothes–at my expense–hovered nearby, ostensibly playing some innocent game with sticks. The Piazza was unusually void of other children, chiefly because I had bribed a stallholder who vended sweetmeats made of honey, dates, raisins and liquorice to cry that he was giving away samples to whoever passed his stall. Once Malamocco had passed the word among his young contemporaries, the Piazza had emptied of any competitors for the attentions of the man who would soon emerge from the Basilica. His instructions were to stop the first boy he met, and take him to the Doge's Palace.

When the man, whom I recognized as Vitale Michiel, father to Marino, came out into the sunlight, he squinted in the bright rays, and cast his eyes around. He might have been a little puzzled at the apparent absence of children. But no matter, Malamocco, right on cue, wandered artlessly past him. Fulfilling his instructions to the letter, Michiel hailed the child, and taking him by the shoulder, guided him in a fatherly manner towards the Palace. I breathed a sigh of relief–the first hurdle had been successfully crossed. Now it was all down to Malamocco's dexterity, and my training.

I followed the pair at a distance, and watched them disappear into the fortress-like structure of the Doge's Palace. Then I waited. And waited. When the Marangona struck twelve bells at noon, I began to sweat, fearing that something had gone wrong. After another hour had passed without a result, I was sure the scam had failed. For another hour I wandered Venice, until I found myself again at the church of San Gregorio. There, I sat in the cool interior praying. Under my breath, I cursed my ill luck, and the day I had talked myself into this conspiracy. I had a thousand questions. Why had Pasquale Valier passed up on the opportunity of a lifetime? Had he just hedged his bets, or was there a deeper side to his change of mind? I realized this latest act of mine was proving to be not that of a chancy rogue, but of a gullible simpleton. It had been plain boastfulness to even talk of rigging the future election for Venice's doge. Why hadn't I stuck to good, honest, sharp business deals. Look at me now–I was even resorting to prayer.

‘Lord, help me now. Only You know that I am doing it for the best of intentions. The
case vecchie
will never allow new blood into the ruling parties. And only You know how much Venice needs it. But if I am discovered, they will never forgive me for what I have done.'

Even as I spoke, I knew that God was unlikely to respond to the pleasing lies with which I usually beguiled my investors. So, when the response to my prayer came, it came not from God, but from a shadowy figure who had slipped into the ornate wooden pew behind me. From the odour of his bad breath, I knew it was the thief Alimpato. I half turned, but his hoarse voice stopped me.

‘No, don't turn round. I don't want to draw attention to us. Just tell me what you needed the boy for.'