The Alchemist's Pursuit (7 page)

“A contract between me and that harlot of yours. One hundred ducats nonrefundable for expenses . . .”

I grunted to show that he was going too fast. He almost never asks for money in advance, only on results. That way he cannot be charged with fraud.

“. . . the balance of 1,370 ducats payable upon the apprehension and conviction of a man responsible for the murder or attempted murder of at least one courtesan in Venice within one month before or after this day's date.”

I spattered blots all over the text and swore like a galley slave.
“You are contracting to catch a murderer who hasn't even killed his victim yet?”

Despite the pain in his hips, he had managed to lever himself around to smirk at me. “Why not? Clairvoyance works forward, doesn't it? All I have to do is foresee the next victim, and all you have to do is be standing behind the closet door.”

F
ifteen minutes later I was back in Number 96, finishing Violetta's breakfast while she scanned the contract. She wore another simple housemaid's dress, which I gathered Milana had sewn for her overnight. It was plain, but few senators' wives would boast of anything better made. I had come by the sea-level road because I was wearing my rapier; swords and acrobatics do not mix.

“Just what sort of expense is Nostradamus planning to spend my hundred ducats on?” my darling demanded.

“I have no idea,” I admitted. “But I expect he does.”

“I want him to catch the man who killed Lucia da Bergamo.”

“He can't. No witnesses, no evidence—the strangler's scot-free on that one. But obviously the same man killed all three victims. And obviously he may kill again.”

She nodded reluctantly, a tiny frown marring the perfection of her forehead. “You think I'm in danger?”

I brought out my tarot deck. “I can find out, if you wish.”

“Will it really tell?” Minerva's big, luminous gray eyes studied me. “You believe in the cards that much?”

I nodded. “Tarot has limitations, but even the Maestro admits I am good with it. But I'm not a fairground fortune-teller, love. I won't babble pap about being lucky in love or old friends re-entering your life. If the news is bad, I'll tell you. I might desensitize my deck if I misquoted it.”

“Let's do it, then.” At once she began clearing a space on the table, which is very small, an intimate place to be shared by two.

I shuffled the deck and gave it to her. “Hold it for a moment in both hands. Now cut it and deal off the new top card. This will represent you or the question you want answered.”

She turned over the queen of coins.

“Excellent!” I said. “The highest-paid courtesan in Venice, who else?”

She laughed. “How did you do that?”

“I didn't! I told you this is serious, not make-believe. This deck is almost two hundred years old. It's had many owners and enough time to absorb every dream and fear that mortals know.” I took it back and dealt four more cards, facedown, forming a cross around the first one. “Now the one closest to you is the problem. Turn it over—sideways.”

She did and then gave me a sharp look, for it was XIII of the major arcana—Death.

“But it's reversed!” I said quickly. “That's good! Lay it down that way.”

“What does Death reversed mean?”

“That the problem is to avoid Death, I think. Now turn this one, the helper or path.” This time she found trump X, which on my deck shows a lion. “This stands for Strength, although some decks call it Fortitude, and other artists may use other pictures.”

“Should I perhaps hire Bruno to protect me?” she inquired teasingly.

“I wish you wouldn't joke about this!”

“Sorry. Now what?” She was amused, not sorry. Although Violetta has great esteem for the Maestro's clairvoyant abilities, familiarity breeds disrespect and she is too aware of my faults and weaknesses to hold me in similar reverence.

“The opposite one, the snare to be avoided.”

She turned over II, the Popess, reversed, and looked inquiringly at me.

“That is the most cryptic card in the arcana,” I admitted. There never was a Pope Joan. In my deck she is shown on a throne, wearing robes and a papal miter, holding a book on her lap. “I need to think about it. Let's see the last one, the goal or solution.”

She turned the top card and it was the knight of cups reversed. Now I knew I must do some fast talking, because I could recall few layouts more perplexing. With three cards reversed and only two trumps, it was certain to be ambiguous. “The queen of coins means that it is your reading, and Death reversed means that the problem is to keep you alive. Strength or Fortitude may mean that you will have to be brave. The knight of cups baffles me, I admit. The jack of cups usually means me, the alchemist's apprentice, but I don't think I've ever appeared as a knight in any suit. Besides, I don't want to be reversed! And the Popess reversed has me totally befuddled.”

“And here I thought I was consulting an expert!”

“It's a very unusual spread. I'll consult Nostradamus. I suspect it refers to some people we haven't met yet.”

Violetta's eyes had darkened, but they were twinkling with amusement. “What use is a prediction that can't be understood until it has come to pass?”

“Ask Apollo. That was how he did it at Delphi. Trust me. All will be revealed in time.”

“As long as Death stays reversed,” she retorted.

“Let's get Giorgio to row us over to San Samuele so we can visit with my old hero, Matteo the Butcher.”

The rest of the world admires and envies Venice for many things: our wealth, our republican form of government, our skilled and luscious courtesans, our glittering state processions, the beauty of our jeweled city on its hundred islands, smug and safe and well fed in its fish-rich lagoon. Another of our unique features that is almost as famous and perhaps not as envied—although travelers come from far and wide to view it—is the War of Fists.

Its needs are simple. We have more than four hundred stone bridges ready to hand in Venice, almost all of them narrow, humpbacked, and lacking parapets or railings of any kind. Moreover, they almost always mark the boundary between two parishes. Line up a few hundred enraged, combative young men on either side and you can resume the War of Fists. It happens spontaneously quite often in the fall, between summer and the start of Carnival, and the Council of Ten thunders against it. The greatest battles, though, are planned weeks in advance, enlisting the best fighters from all over the city, and there is not a great deal that the Ten can do to prevent those encounters. Indeed, the government has been known to organize them to entertain important visitors, such as one I remember about ten years ago for delegates from some place called Japan, which is said to be near Cathay, at the other end of the world, but I doubt that the visitors had come all that distance just to watch armies of carpenters and fishermen trying to pound their opponents into submission or submersion.

The contesting teams are always the Nicolotti and the Castellani. Whatever began the age-old dispute between the two factions is now lost in mists of myth, but the hatred between them is virulent, leading sometimes to outright murder. The dividing line between the factions winds across the city roughly southwest to northeast, and it makes a particularly large curve around my birth parish of San Barnaba, which lies on the eastern, Castellani, side of it. Being of patrician birth, I cannot participate in such plebeian pastimes except as a supporter, although I did once manage to steal a very minor role in one great battle, as I shall explain.

Now San Barnaba is fairly central in the city, flanking the outside of the more southerly of the two great bends of the Grand Canal. It is also frontier territory, abutting Nicolotti parishes on two sides, and it boasts a very visible and accessible bridge, so favored for battles that it is known as the Ponte dei Pugni, the Bridge of Fists. When a battle is scheduled, the inhabitants throw up rickety bleachers to rent to spectators, and those lucky enough to have windows or roofs overlooking the scene can charge enormous fees to the rich and great. You can understand, then, that I was always a staunch Castellani supporter because it would have been more than my juvenile life was worth to utter one good word about the despicable Nicolotti scum. San Remo parish fervently supports those glorious Nicolotti heroes, so I shall never be completely trusted there and must guard my tongue when anything concerning the War of Fists creeps into conversations.

The opposing forces are not mere rabble. Many parishes or other groups in the city pride themselves on sending semi-military companies of fifty or more young men, marching in step, wearing the same uniform. Both sides have their various leaders, known as
padrini
, who provide some sort of order and plan strategy, and of course every one of these is a great fighter who has earned respect and reputation in a hundred previous clashes. By the time the battle is due to begin, thousands of pugnacious young men have worked themselves up into fighting fury, every vantage point in sight is packed with spectators, and the canal is paved solid with boats. Abuse is hurled, blood froths, and skilled
padrini
have concealed reserve forces in nearby warehouses, so they can throw in fresh troops at a critical moment.

The main part of the engagement is the general assault on the bridge, with the objective of taking it and driving one's opponents back down the far side or off into the water. It is a rough sport, with injuries and sometimes even deaths, and the fortunes of battle may swing back and forth many times during an afternoon. Prior to the assault, though, the finest fighters like to show off their prowess in one-on-one matches, either challenging particular opponents or taking on all comers. The
padrini
organize these and umpire them. Very often a
padrino
himself will fight a bout, to show he has not lost his skills, and great is the excitement as the champions come forth on the crest of the bridge to bellow their challenges. The boxing is not especially brutal, for the match ends as soon as one man draws blood or sends his opponent to the canal below.

In my youth, one of the Castellani's great fighters and
padrini
was Matteo Surian of San Samuele, who was a butcher by trade and therefore chose the Butcher as his nom de guerre. I was present on the day he fought his last fight, when he went up against the despicable, garbage-eating, dog-spawned “Mankiller.” Mankiller had killed a man in a bout once and had never been forgiven for it, although the death had been a drowning and undoubtedly an accident. That wonderful battle ended when Matteo punched Mankiller clean into the canal. Matteo gave up fighting after that, the day of his greatest triumph. But that most glorious, golden day, he let Alfeo Zeno hold his shirt while he was out there fighting.

I decided then that I would have an account of that honor engraved on my tombstone.

S
an Samuele, the parish where Caterina Lotto had died, lies directly across the Grand Canal from San Barnaba, but I know it well because there is a
traghetto
crossing there, and when traffic is light the boatmen will sometimes let penniless boys ride for free. Giorgio rowed us there and promised to return at noon. It is far from being the best area in the city, and Caterina must have gone down in the world, but that is normal in her profession.

Finding the great Matteo Surian, Matteo the Butcher, proved more difficult than I expected. True, he had retired from the War of Fists years ago and if he was a courtesan's doorman he might have retired from his official trade also, but he was still a legend. He had just been arrested and released for a murder that must be the talk of the parish. Despite all that, the first three pairs of ears I asked had never heard of him. The last pair belonged to a burly youth dressed as a porter and Violetta intervened.

“Oh, please help us. I would be so-o-o grateful!” She accompanied the words with a smile that suggested she wanted to rip all his clothes off and her own as well and rape him, right there in the
campo
.

He turned brick red and said, “Try the
magazzen
, madonna.”

Every parish has a
magazzen
, where cheap wine is available around the clock, and San Samuele's is larger than most, perhaps because so many of the cheaper prostitutes live in that area and bring in trade. It was not a place I would willingly take a beautiful girl, but I dared not suggest that my companion wait outside.

Even on that workday morning a surprising number of customers were sitting around in the dim, rank-smelling place, all of them male. Right away I spotted the man we wanted, slumped at a tiny table in the farthest corner with his back to us, a huge hunched shape, paradigm of abject drunken misery. No one else could be that big or that unhappy.

“There he is,” I said and took two steps.

My way was blocked by a competent-looking young bravo with one hand resting on his sword hilt. “Sit there,” he said, nodding to a table well away from Matteo.

Keeping my hands in full view, I said, “Hello, Ugo. Been a long time—Alfeo Zeno.”

Ugo lowered his guard half a hairsbreadth. “You're on the wrong side of the canal.”

“Viva Castellani! But you remember that I was a friend of Matteo's? I held his shirt back in '82, remember? I'm here to help him.”

“Come back in a month. He can't be helped right now.”

I was afraid of that. Matteo had been a proud fighter all his life, a man other men either feared or greatly respected. Multitudes had cheered him. To have his woman murdered and then be accused of killing her must have been a thunderous shock to his self-esteem, even if his relationship with Caterina had been purely business, which was highly improbable.