The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (3 page)

Hours later, I rose to the peal of bells in the distance and to the distinct taste of blood in my mouth.  The youths had decamped.

I staggered out of the
sottoportico
, reeking of urine. The youths had played a vile trick upon me but I had not been robbed. They had only sought to frighten me. Fumbling in the near darkness, I somehow found my way back to the courtyard where I had witnessed the merchant gathering.  It lay deserted. Even the princely gondolas had disappeared. The only sign that these men had at all been here, was a faint trace of gold paint where the artisan had once knelt.

I slept badly that night.  I stirred, awakened at intervals by the sounds beneath my lodgment in S. Maria Mater Domini’s
campo
. Voices and whispers carried from the old church.  I had been warned of these and of the nearby
meretrice
district of San Cassiano but my agitation well into the night arose from a different source.  I contemplated that the following days would see the first nights of Carnivale before it officially opened after Natale. I told myself that I ought to find a different apartment, perhaps one in the Cannaregio nation, near the foundries, where it was much quieter.  It would mean longer gondola rides to San Marco but at least I would be away from the tumult of Rialto market and from the tyranny of the upcoming nights.

I drifted into a sleep that came at last, after I had sighed one more time at the memory of Francesco’s saddened, haggard eyes.

Later, when I found my dreams anew, when I had deserted my sleeping body and flown over to San Polo, I found myself alone in the Campo di Rialto, listening for her, waiting for her.

I gazed past the silent shops lining the bridge, hoping to see her face. I wandered off the Ponte, my solitary footfalls on the pavement where echoes of the moon glistened against stone. The market place lay deserted, bereft of day life. It seemed to await the first calls of morning trade, draping me in its forbidding muteness. 

Venezia lay in the dark, lit only by moonlight and the flickering flambeaux of the taverns and whorehouses of Calle Rampani.

Until the silence was broken.

Murmurs breathed through the cold air. I crossed into Campo San Cassiano, enlivened by jasmine scents and intimate voices. There, a masked patrician stepping off a secret gondola, here, a man and a woman coupling in the church’s recess, their roving hands groping with hunger.  Here, a gleam of an exposed breast, impudent and ripe.

Leaving the torch lights of Campo San Cassiano, I made toward Santa Croce until it grew darker.  In my dream, I traveled fast, traversing the
calli
and their twisting alleys, never once touching the ground. I flew, even. I flew over the canal, leaping over bridges, surmounting campaniles and church domes. I had soon found myself back at my lodgments, a tiny room atop an old atelier, where my form lay still, clutching my journal in deep sleep.

My flight drew to its end. I cast my eyes to the Virgin on the doorway of S. Maria Mater Domini and stepped back into the
campo.
  I had no sooner touched the ground when a sound tore through the night. It was her! Her sobs, they called for me. They drew me near.

Enraptured by her cries, I ran. In my frantic quest to near her, I lost myself in the sepia glow of Santa Croce and soon, its narrow streets were tossed into a deafening blackness. An icy gust singed at my face as fear enveloped me, and yet I ran.

Where was she?

The peals of nearby church bells joined in unison but the streets remained empty, steeped in the resolute night.  I entered a courtyard and there, I came to a halt.  Near the well, the heart-wrenching sobs rose in pitch.

I saw the lady once more.  The lady of the bridge.

She was huddled at my feet, resplendent in a purple velvet gown, mystical behind the lace that veiled her downcast eyes. Emotion knotted my throat. In a vision that took my breath away, she leapt, unfurling with a frightening violence.  I clenched my heart, startled by her rising form. Her dress no longer touched the ground. It clapped against the draft, like the wings of a giant raven, casting its shadow over me.

Hideous.

Where was the beauty I had glimpsed over the bridge? Where was the enchantress who had courted me in my sleep? Now her traits had deformed into something demonic and vile. Her lament had veered to rage. The soft black strands I had longed to touch in that first vision, had lifted about her face. Like menacing tentacles, they whipped the air, until she resembled a medusa in flight.

A horror seized me. I stepped back and gave out a cry. The giant form rose above me. She seemed tormented. Her body writhed in mid-air as though claws gripped at her, tore through her, inflicting such pain that I saw the veins on her temples bulge as though they would burst. Angry red blood seeped from underneath her mask, streaking her cheeks to crimson.  Her face began to shrivel to cinders as though devoured by flames. She gave out a harrowing, inhuman moan that chilled my bones. And as I looked to her neck where dark blood glistened, I saw the thickening mass encrusting her rue pendant.

I could bear no more.  I waved my hands at her, wishing her away, gasping, gritting my teeth, soaking my bed.

Such was my night. The night before the masquerade began.

Journal of Antonio da Parma

21 December 1422

I fumble to write this entry.  As I recall I was not appointed to Venezia to engage in a murder inquest, or even less to dabble with the Consiglio’s net of spies.  But on this day of the Winter Solstice, only two days following my arrival in Venezia, the ugly task has befallen me and there is no turning back.

Early that morning, it is odd that even as I crossed the Piazzetta and reached the palace
molo
, the Marangona’s chime clouded my thoughts. I recall turning, raising my face to the Campanile, my line of sight crossing the two granite towers, and I remember thinking that all I knew of Venezia may be a lie.

I breathed in that curious moment; a moment suspended in time, time marked by the morning bell, time spent in haste by the money changers at the base of the bell tower, time halting for a political whisper between the masked men of the Piazzetta. And no sooner had the Marangona ceased to ring, than I had a wakening sense of the doom that would soon overshadow the city.

I decided to think no more of it.  I told myself that if I pleased Almoro Donato, I may eventually seek a post as
avogadore
to the Consiglio dei Dieci. I traversed the
molo
, making my way past the many taverns and I entered the Palazzo Ducale. 

Almoro Donato had no sooner received me in the entrance hall, than he began to insist I assume the inquisitor role he had long praised me for.  His gaze was uncertain and his felt footsteps seemed more hurried than when he had first greeted me.

Was I imagining it, or was Almoro Donato shaking with fear?    

“Yes, yes, I understand that investigative work is not what you had envisaged, Antonio, but a serious occurrence has come to pass.  It is a crime of such sinister nature. Please sit,” he said and gestured to a high back studded chair. I reached for the seat, my mood as dark as the black of my tabard. Almoro seemed agitated as he rifled in his drawer.

“The Consiglio is taking this very seriously in light of Carnivale,” he began. “Morality, you understand? Morality must be upheld for the peace and continuing order of La Serenissima.  There is one problem.  We’ve already much on our hands with the upcoming election and now with the rebuilding of the Ziani Palace.  Admiral Pietro Loredano is keeping us on our toes.  He is far too popular.  Senator Malipiero is being his bitter self at every Pregadi session.  It never ends. Francesco Foscari may well win the next Doge election and we must, you understand, we must be prepared for any changes to the Consiglio... Antonio, are you listening?  I need you to take on this case. We have a good moment before the Collegio holds its next session. The Doge is still to arrive, if he has awoken at all.  Please do sit.”

I sat still, unconvinced. I had slept badly again, haunted by the wailing woman, and the sudden turn of events disoriented me.

“The Ziani Palace?” I asked, confused.

“Mocenigo has asked that it be rebuilt. I, for one could not agree more to the Doge’s motion. The place is in shambles since the fire a few years ago. It has been decided that the Western wing will be expanded toward the Basilica. There is this, and there is the refurbishing that you no doubt noticed in the Southern wing when you gazed upon Guariento di Arpo’s fresco on your first visit. The inauguration of the new Sala di Maggior Consiglio draws near.  There is much on our hands. And now we have…” His voice fell back.

I was ill-prepared for Almoro’s next words. He leaned across and looked into my eyes, before continuing in a hushed voice.

“A Venetian merchant of the name Giacomo Contarini has been murdered overnight in San Marco.”

I started.

“Giacomo Contarini! Murdered?”

Almoro’s eyebrows met with force.

“At the unfortunate period preceding Carnivale, yes. The circumstances of his murder are of such a nature that I was convinced you would be the most suitable person to hold an inquest.  Your contribution to the arrest of the harelip murderer, several years ago, did not go unnoticed.”

“But Almoro, I’ve not held the role of inquisitor for some time now since my marriage.”

He waved a hand in my face and resumed.

“It was a difficult case and you persisted. I have spoken highly of your merits. You will report to me at all times. The Consiglio must be given the opportunity to interfere at any time depending on your findings. Antonio, are you willing to take the case of Giacomo Contarini’s murder?”

“You said Giacomo Contarini?” The patrician’s cruel eyes flashed in my memory.

“A merchant from the Santa Maria Formosa Parish. What is it? You know him?”

“I...well... Murdered, you say? Signor Donato, that is remarkable. Only two days ago I met this man in Santa Croce. Saw him as I see you, strong as a boar and…”

He stared back at me for a long moment with slight irritation.

“Coincidences, Antonio, and nothing more.”

He presented me with a leather case filled with loose sheets of Fabriano paper.

“Here are his books and accounts, if they at all help with the case.”

“Yes, but what I meant to say, Almoro, is that…I saw him and his trade partners...”

“Men of repute and highly respected in all Venezia. The matter is obscure, Antonio. Three of Giacomo’s partners also met their deaths last night. Listen to me carefully. The
signori di notte
have found five cadavers in one night.  Five. It seems four men and a young woman attended an evening banquet and none of them returned home.”

“How is this possible?”

“Most unusual, wouldn’t you say? I suspect you like these coincidences.  But this is not a game of chance. La Serenissima is at stake.”

He sighed before lowering his voice.  I felt his tight grip on my arm as he reached across.

“Antonio, honor me with this one favor, I beg of you. I know that inquisitor work is your strength even if you’ve long tired of it.  I can count upon your attention to detail and your remarkable intuition to advance this case considerably. What am I saying? Just…do be careful of those voices in your head. That is all I ask.”

“You say the matter is obscure, what do you mean?”

Almoro seemed pained.  I knew that there was much more.

“Early this morning, the
signori di notte
presented their report. They have made three depositions.”

Almoro stood.

“The first such deposition is that a certain, Rolandino Vitturi, Giacomo’s primary trade partner, has been arrested for the murder of Giacomo Contarini.”

“Rolandino?”  The dark man’s aghast voice echoed in my mind.

“The second–please do not interrupt, Antonio–is that Giacomo’s young daughter was also found dead beside her father’s cadaver. We posit strangulation, but the Contarini family has refused that her body be defiled to test for organ poisoning.  No matter what the physicians discover, Rolandino is being accused of both murders. As for the other three deaths...”

He interrupted himself before turning to me again, his gaze more stern than before.

“There is a certain madness in this case, Antonio. Something is not right and the Consiglio will stop at nothing to reach the heart of it. With your help, I hope.”

I reflected.

“What is the third deposition?”

“They have found the other three bodies– two brokers, brothers I am told, and a young negotiator with a promising career. I can make no sense of these findings. Evidence thus far leads us to suspect both Giacomo and Rolandino.  The disorderly circumstances of these murders, the locations where the bodies were found and the state of the cadavers–all of it is here, in the files.”

There was a fleeting annoyance in his voice. I suspected that Almoro knew something of the case that unsettled him, something he refused to share.

I took to my inquisitor role without a moment’s reflection. Now that I recall, it was something Almoro had always suspected I would do.

“What are your intuitions, Signore?” I asked Almoro.

“If it was just for the murder of Giacomo and his daughter I could give you my impression.”

“Please.”

“As his primary investor and partner, Rolandino stands to inherit Giacomo’s trade. Giacomo’s wife has her own dowry, an astounding sum of four thousand ducats, which Giacomo’s estates will repay, as per the terms of their marriage contract. Their son inherits the rest. Those are the terms, look into the accounts. Evolving from this and upon first observing the case, I say Rolandino is guilty. He murders the father and is found out by the daughter whom he murders in turn, to conceal his crime.”

“Simple explanation.”

“It is too simple. I told you, if it were just Giacomo and his daughter, Rolandino would be my first suspicion, yes. But the problem, Antonio, is that there are too many dead bodies and nothing to account for their deaths. That is your task, now,
avogadore
. Remember, keep me informed of all your discoveries.”

And at this, he lapsed into silence and looked upon his desk, bracing himself against saying more. I took this as a cue and departed, promising to inspect the files as soon as time permitted.

Stepping out of the Palazzo Ducale, still immersed in thought, I found myself standing in the middle of the Piazza, amid raucous laughter and discordant lute tunes. All round, the childish rituals of Carnivale were set in motion.

My non-festive expression was soon remarked, spurring the less inhibited to games of provocation. Two men in giant gold turbans and monstrous feathered garments laughed into my face, showering me with a spray of red and purple confetti. Ignoring them, I meandered through the crowd and hastened toward Canal Grande.

A hot burst of air made me wince. An obnoxious fire blower standing upon stilts had stooped to my level as he blew flames into my face.  Startled, I stumbled against two teens– two red-heads behind silver masks their manner as stiff as dolls. The girls peered into my eyes, their heads tilting, questioning my intrusion. Now they spun about, barring my way with their hands clasped such that everywhere I turned, I could not escape. Such was I, locked within Venezia’s embrace at the most unfortunate time of the year.

It did not press upon my mind, not yet anyway, that my irritation had stemmed from Almoro’s cloying insistence and the oppressive feeling of finding myself at the whims of the Consiglio dei Dieci. I had no choice.

To hell with the gondolas, I thought. I hailed one of the few horse carriages.

“To the Rialto markets. Trample on the crowd if you must.”

The coachman tilted his head with a grin.

“
Si, Signore
.”

And I plunged into the files on my lap.

***

I had acquired the dubious reputation of inquisitor almost three years ago. I had just turned thirty-eight and graduated from Padua University with high honors.  I came to Venezia as a highly recommended intern and found myself at the service of the Consiglio dei Dieci. At this time, a wave of macabre murders had seized the Republic. The
signori di notte
found women as young as fifteen, lying dead, their bellies cut open and their insides spilled in a pool of blood. It was evident that the
peste
was not at cause. By what Almoro had described as my remarkable intuition, I examined the women and determined that their murderer had use of his left hand. He was a
sinestra
. A wounded witness had later reported his attempts to duel with the masked man, one with a confounding talent in swordsmanship. Tearing off his attacker’s mask, he had noted a harelip upon his face.  The unmasked had fled the scene.

The murderer’s peculiar traits left him with nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. It was my inquisition which had soon delivered him into the hands of the
sbirri
. The mysterious man had been hurriedly hung for his vile crimes. He was not given a trial. And yet the case had haunted me. Even after questioning him for days, I had learned little of the Albanian. I had watched him at length and saw only a madman.

Aside from vendettas and crimes for profit, Venezia suffered few murders, if at all. La Serenissima's numerous guilds and parishes were bastions of morality, while the overseeing Consiglio dei Dieci guided the Republic’s moral principles with a firm hand. What had driven this man to madness?

To abandon oneself to such brutality, he would have had to exist in the shadows; a silent outcast, without family, without a parish, unguided by guilds and well outside the social order of La Serenissima. At last, I had come to reason–to have wielded the sword with such skill, he must have been, in all likelihood, a foreign mercenary. But when I pursued this idea and enquired into his background, I could discover no file with his name upon it. Not even the
signori di notte
came forth with further information. From whence had he come?

I had confabulated on this for months but Almoro had pressed me to desist. This was the moment when he had first shook his head and asked me if I were not driven to obsession by my delusions.