The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (35 page)

né lanza né azza né daga contra mi vale

Chi contra me farà ben lo farò languire

-Fiore dei Liberi

This giant man with the head of a goat, he lay upon his back by the entrance to Elena’s chamber. He was barely breathing.

At my side, Esteban had slipped a dagger from his boot. He placed himself in guard, preparing to counter Malek with both sword and dagger.

“Take her and leave,” he ordered, in a voice that I barely recognized.  And before I could respond, he and Malek were thrust into a merciless combat.  Counters of blade, violent locks and deathly grips ensued, as the two masked men fought.

I bolted toward the chamber. But my attempts to near Elena were thwarted. Sensing my advance, and having already felled Esteban, Malek now stood in my path.  As I drew out my rondel, I saw that Elena stood safely in retreat. In this vast chamber, filled with artisan implements and masks, and which resembled an atelier rather than a prison, she seemed occupied with a curious object, around which she motioned three times as though summoning something.

I had no time to watch her. Malek came at me. From the corner of my eye, I sensed the waning sunlight and I saw that Elena waited. She waited for something. 

Malek gripped my wrist, causing my rondel to slip from my hand.  Malek’s leg came beneath my knee, sending me to the ground.  Malek’s fingers clung at my face.  He would have gouged out my eyes, if Esteban had not countered for me. I rose, only to find that the two swordsmen were now engaged too close to the chamber door and that I could not enter. 

The Catalan fought valiantly, countering every lock and bind with a martial prowess I knew not that he possessed.  The Dei Liberi scarmitor was an ever silent opponent. Artful and cunning, master of deceit, he seemed to sense each and every one of Esteban’s plays. He fought just as Esteban had foretold; for every counter, he had an answer and often, Esteban knew not the hand that would deceive him, from behind, from the side and from below.

Esteban was toppled to the ground countless times but nothing could keep him from rising anew.  Yet I saw the look in his eyes when he was struck underhand and his opponent gripped to his neck. At that moment, I would have run to Elena’s side were it not for my fear that Esteban would soon lose his life.

There was in the Dei Liberi arts, a deathly nature and one that had soon disarmed Esteban.

And then two things flashed before my eyes at a moment where I understood Esteban had lost.

The first was her face. Her face, which I remember now, was beyond her years. She held in her hand, a large bull’s mask that had been fashioned with black leather and inlaid with gold. It was the face of the Minotaur.

She had dropped to her knees before the dying giant and removed his goat’s head. The man’s true face was scarred beyond belief but Elena did not flinch. Years of captivity had hardened her.

Before I could comprehend her designs, there was a fleeting movement by the window, and I noticed the second thing.  It was the setting of the winter sun, heralding the time of the moon.

In the corridor, Esteban lay flat upon his face, his right arm in a twist behind his shoulder, disempowered by Malek’s powerful grip. A moment of rage took over me. I seized upon the discarded goat’s head. I surged forth, ramming the wooden horns into Malek. But I was too slow for this skilled scarmitor. He met my pathetic attempts with a masterful block and before I realized it, I was savagely propelled against the stone wall.  The goat’s head fell to the ground.

Esteban had since scrambled to his feet while I lay upon the floor.

“Esteban!” I threw out my rondel. Esteban’s hand closed tight upon it. In this short lapse of time, his eyes crossed with mine. I saw a glimmer of gratitude and then a dark light passed in his pupils.  Any doubt, any residue of fear that I had ever sensed in him, had now vanished. With his free hand, he clutched disparagingly at his
bauta
, peeling it off in distaste.

At once, I saw what in all his life, Gaspar Miguel Rivera had hoped to see. Esteban’s resplendent face was stripped bare for all to see. The ebony of his skin glistened.  In the whites of his eyes shone a knowing light that I knew had equally empowered his spirit. Nothing would stop him. It was as though in that last moment, he had made a decision that he would fight to the death.

Elena had secured the leather mask on her guardian’s face.  It vaguely occurred to me, that after all this time, the giant still breathed in shallow spurts.

But I took no notice of it.

My lips trembled as I watched Malek and Esteban wrestle to the ground. I closed my eyes and felt the pendant in my hand.

I knew no nobler moment than when Esteban died.

If I am writing this, it is because I was fortunate enough to escape from a sure death. Not from any admirable physical feat on my part–that would be impossible.

In truth, I was no match for this beast. This monster of a man who had murdered not only my friend but my hopes.

Yet, strange as it was, as I shut my eyes and sensed the cold silver of the
cimaruta
beneath my fingers, I felt perfectly safe. A blanketing warmth descended over me.  And even if my intrepid Esteban was no longer at my side and the most dangerous mercenary that had ever lived now stood menacingly between me and Elena, I experienced a comfort that eludes all reason.

But first, I must speak of the moment that followed, when I re-opened my eyes.

It often seems as though I have always lived at the crossroads, wandering between doors.  Once again, I was thrust into this familiar nether world and the secret visions which had guided my senses since my arrival in Venice, arose anew.  For in the instant when the light in Esteban’s eyes glazed over and when Malek’s cruel blade had drained all life from the handsome
bravo
, I was standing by the chamber door. And at once, by my side, I felt my Catalan friend’s hand upon my shoulder. He gave me one of his dashing smiles before walking off into the corridor, the red of his mantle fading into the gateway of spirits.

There was grief, yes, but it passed, glorified by the beauty of his courage and his loyalty. I would not easily forget.

The moments after that, however, are difficult to remember. My memory remains clouded, as though I had fallen asleep. Or perhaps I clutched to denial upon witnessing the confirmation of all that I had ever believed.

I knew I was in grave danger without Esteban to guard me. I knew nothing of martial arts and all I could claim to protect the young woman who had haunted my dreams and, I confess, brought me here, all I had was an undying devotion. It was not enough. And Malek now eyed me menacingly.

What ensued took my breath away, such that, even today, I find it difficult to recollect in great detail.

Elena stood at the doorway of her chamber and from it, there glowed a light. This golden light, not only did it blind, but it also seemed to give off a scent, like misty fumes rising from another world. There it was–the light which poor Angelo had seen rising around the
mascheraro
’s atelier soon after Francesco’s murder.  It was the power of the Moon. The power of Diana.

Before me, the bloodied mass of Elena’s guardian seemed to stiffen. Behind his new mask, the beast’s eyelids flicked open. The lights of his eyes turned to gold behind the leather slits. Even the long straps which bound the mask to his face, seemed to take life, curling off the ground.

Surrounded by a gilded haze, Elena’s dark silhouette had not budged. She was looking at him with a beckoning smile. I sensed a shiver run down my spine. I knew now, all there was to know about Magdalena’s daughter and the hairs on my head were raised from the sight of it.

For the man with the leather mask became suddenly possessed by something that was born of her. Elena’s vengeful will seemed to inhabit this giant who rose from the ground.  Her hold on him was the enchanted mask he wore. I now understood what had brought Giacomo, Guido, Ubertino and Balsamo to their deaths.  Elena’s black spell had stirred the dark force in each of these men, turning it against them. Their moral afflictions had been violently surfaced to the merchants’ detriment; Ubertino’s gluttony, Guido’s boorish love of drink, Rolandino’s seething resentments toward his trade partner, Giacomo’s mercenary drive to safeguard family honor, and Balsamo’s lecherousness and vanity.

Just as Elena had suspected, the tormented slave who loved her and had sought to protect her, turned violently to the source of her torment and I sensed that even Malek took fright.

The mercenary’s gloved fingers tightened upon the hilt of his sword. His footing became anxious as he eyed the beast before him. The Minotaur advanced.

Malek struck. He struck, at first with disbelief and again with despair. The Minotaur’s limbs seemed stiffened by a force that knew no bound. He suffered every blow, endured every cut, without a start.  Malek sought to block him, but the Minotaur did not bend, did not budge. He neared upon his adversary, stiff as granite. He clamped the assassin’s face to the wall with his enormous palm.

One blow from the Minotaur and Malek’s sword fell to the ground. The Dalmatian now fought hand and teeth for his life but to no avail. The blocks and grips he had up to then, so masterfully employed were ineffective against the giant’s might. For the first time, I watched Malek’s crushed temple pearl with sweat.

Then I saw him stoop and pull out a rondel from his boot.  He stabbed repeatedly at the beast’s exposed flesh. Elena’s guardian seemed immortal. No degree of slashing and cutting, no loss of blood seemed to perturb him. It was as though her will had eclipsed any pain, until… I felt a knot in my throat. Malek had driven the length of his dagger into the Minotaur’s belly.

A cold fear ran over me. The rondel became lodged so deeply, that even Malek wrestled to retrieve it. The Minotaur’s bellows echoed throughout the tower. He collapsed to the ground with a resonant thud. I lunged toward Elena, seizing her hand and preparing our flight.

Malek had found his sword while I seized Esteban’s. Malek advanced.

I raised the Aragonese blade, ready to parry. The engraved silver hilt glowed like gold, responding to the lunar forces around us. Malek struck. The impact saw me stumble back but I held on.

“Run Elena! Flee now!” But she would not budge and her gaze fixed the Minotaur. There was in her expression, an implacable grip that urged him on.  Gold rays illuminated her face and in that moment, I could not say whether she was Magdalena’s daughter, Magdalena, or both.

Malek came at me, his blade vengeful and merciless. I was felled in one strike. As I hit the ground, I remember staring at the blood gushing from a deep wound in the Minotaur’s chest and my surprise at Elena’s glowing eyes.

Just as he had taken Esteban’s life, the fiercest mercenary ever dispatched by the Consiglio dei Dieci, would take mine.

Yet from behind the ever advancing Malek, when I believed all hope was lost, I saw the Minotaur stir. I saw him heed to the call of the Moon. Lunar forces inhabited him anew, raising him to his feet. I saw the towering shadow behind Malek. The Minotaur’s powerful arms were upon him, lifting him off the ground.

He still held him high as he advanced toward the lancet by the stairs. Malek’s limbs flailed savagely above the Minotaur’s head, but the Minotaur held on. The gold light shone bright behind his leather mask.

Elena raised her hand toward him, ordering him with a flick of her wrist.  I watched, breathless, as the Minotaur hurled forth with a thunderous roar.

Gold lightning seem to strike the tower, as Malek was thrust through the lancet and catapulted out.

Elena closed her eyes.  As eerily as it had come, the gold light thinned out, until it was at first, an orange mist and then no more. The Minotaur came crashing down, his body lifeless and limp at her feet.

“His, is a double nature.”

When men of history look to the past, they will discover, among the great leaders of Venezia, an old Admiral who presaged many things and performed life deeds that marked him as a man of wisdom, generosity and peace. A man whose reign as Doge was denoted for its wealth and fortune.

It will appear that Tommaso Mocenigo was a man with an apparent gift for divination.

It has already been two years since the beautiful gold ring I saw on Mocenigo’s finger was taken by the Consiglio dei Dieci who broke it to pieces as per tradition. Two years, since the Mocenigo seal was destroyed.  Two years, since the then procurator of San Marco, Francesco Foscari, defeated Senator Pietro Loredan to become the new Doge of Venezia. Two years, since he forged an alliance with Florence and led Venice into a war against the Duke of Milan.

As I reflect upon Doge Mocenigo’s words on Foscari, I witness Foscari’s self-aggrandizement traits and his authoritarian disposition.  War rages on. If Milan falls, will Foscari cease his conquest of the north, or will he pursue further? Only time will tell if Mocenigo’s prophecy for the fate of Venezia will come true. But one thing is certain, the lagoon city has tipped into the edge of chaos. It is at the brink of change, and if the wise Mocenigo was right, it is a change that will see the Republic topple down from the wealth and power it has known.  Already this war has come at great cost.

Shortly upon Mocenigo’s death, the
peste
resurged in Venezia. The
lazaretto
of Santa Maria di Nazareth is now well established. It has begun holding the ills and those who are suspected to be afflicted; an island with its dark secrets, perhaps one among many.

In Florence and parts of my native Tuscany, the spreading
peste
has spurred religious sermons against those deemed responsible. As I write, Bernardino di Siena continues to stir the crowds, preaching at length against sodomy, casting blame on all sodomites for the horrors of the
peste
.  The cities of Venezia and Florence have redoubled their efforts to bring suspected men to justice and everywhere, most notably in Florence, this has led to persecutions. 

I reflect often on my self-exile from Venezia. I know I could never return. Even Esteban’s cunning disguises would not serve me.

I am not only the man who seized documents from the Consiglio dei Dieci. I also took away their greatest secret.

Summoning the Dark of the Moon, Elena sent tongues of fire to topple her own prison.  I remember that as we emerged from the maze, I looked back and saw that even the forces of nature had responded to her call.  Before I could understand it, a burgeoning mass swelled into the sky and lightning struck the tower.  When the thunder resounded, the flames had already risen high into the darkening skies. 

The image of this burning tower remains imprinted in my mind–surging tongues of gold, like the gilded
tarocchi
card that Zara pressed upon my hand and which I still keep to this day. I have since learned of its meaning.

We fled. We took to the Donna Laura and deserted Constanziaca.  I held Elena close, inhaling a scent I had known in dreams and could scarcely believe was now within my reach. We watched the flames rise up, until the tower was nothing more than a charred silhouette. When at last, raindrops descended upon us, the fire had long swept through the island’s poisonous maze.

In a whisper, I bid my last farewell to a friend–a guide of pilgrims, travelers and Doges alike.  I never knew whether he had wished to aid a friend, or if grief and the loss of Blanca had urged him to give away his life. 

I will never know.

Somehow, Elena and I found a passage to Sicily and on to Tunis, before reaching the Catalan coast. The crew knew enough to find the old Anselm Turmeda and to seek his help. 

Upon our arrival in Aragon, I took it upon myself to carry out Esteban’s wishes and honor the man who had raised and given him a new life. Donna Laura Rivera was buried in her homeland, in the princely hills of Aragon, at the foot of a castle, in a cemetery whose name I no longer recall. She will never know the indecent fate of thousands who lay in piles, at the mercy of the lagoon waters, beneath Venezia’s churches and paving stones. I know that Gaspar Miguel Rivera smiles upon me.

We did not return to Tuscany.  We ventured further South where our names would not be known. I sought to purge my memory of all the dire moments I had lived in Venezia before Francesco Foscari’s election as Doge. But it has been difficult.

I watch myself often as I cross the streets. Here, in Benevento, where the
janaras
are still strong but unseen. What have I to fear, you ask? Have not my visions left me, now? Have I not found myself? Now, that Magdalena is at peace. Now, that my dreams have met with reality and now that she is near me
. Elena,
stavo sognando di voi.

La Torre. I found my fortune in the Tower’s meaning. Where I had once known order and followed the dark designs of other men, where I had once erred in confusion, unsure of my meaning, now there was only chaos and its certainty.  The meaning of La Torre was to break from all I had known and embrace what had called my name for so long.

It was through Elena that my denials ended and that I could at last embrace my nature. When I first set my eyes on her, in that tower, it was as though I had been struck by lightning. A bolt passed through me, shattering my illusions, such that all my senses were awaken. I had resisted once, but now, I was swept by this truth and sought to be transformed by it. I understand that for many years, I had been ever drawn to it.

And now I am free.

But though I am free, free as Aradia wished us to be, I can never find peace. Peace is elusive for those, like us, who wander between worlds. We are followers of the sacred huntress and yet often, it is we, who are hunted.

Many months after we arrived in Napoli and crossed to Benevento, I received what appeared to be a letter in expensive Fabriano paper. It had journeyed all the way from Venezia and was in poor shape when it was delivered.

When I opened it, I saw that it was embossed with the Contarini seal and signed with great flourish. Before even reading it, I took note of the signature and realized, to my great surprise, that it had come from Lorenzo Contarini.

***

June 1426

Letter from Lorenzo Contarini to Antonio da Parma

Signor Avogadore, or should I say, Antonio da Parma?

It has taken me years to find you. At last, here you are, in the most unexpected of places.  Here, I am told, you have influence and you are well treated.  Important or not, you will read what I have to say.

The last time we spoke, years ago, my life was toyed with by a merciless thug who you, and I believe, a friend of yours of the name, Esteban del Valle, overpowered in the Giudecca Gardens, before returning me safe to my home.

No sooner had I returned, that my mother, who, if you remember, had already taken upon herself the grief of two family members, blanched at my sight. Had I been a fool, Antonio, had I been mindlessly taken by the love of my life—whom I have since married despite the rising hatred toward Jews—I would have cast aside the Giudecca incident and resumed my amorous adventures without a thought for what had taken place.

But Lorenzo Contarini is not a fool. And if I had little time for my father, I knew he would have done all to protect his family. I know that the moment he discovered, through a servant’s indiscretion, that his wife played a part in Elena Visconti’s abduction, he had this very servant murdered. I know this, for I helped him get rid of Luca.

So it is that Giacomo Contarini, the man who I once deplored as a father, has taught me an important lesson. Had you not uncovered this for yourself and scribed notes from his own diary
into yours
, I may have not resolved differences with my late father. But thanks to you and your wonderful prose, his soul is at repose knowing that his son looks up to him.

We are not murderers, Antonio. We are merchants, houses of trade. And when one’s social standing and honor hinge on one’s reputation, you will understand that one often needs to take certain measures.

So I return to that night–the night when my life was spared and I witnessed the alarming tears in my mother’s face. At this instant, she had not revealed her torment. But she was my mother. And as a son who owes his life to his mother, I did what a good Venetian patrician does; I employed spies to protect the
casa
. And among them, I had the ingenuity to employ a spy to watch you.

It matters little who this spy was. But it soon became clear to me, that you possessed incriminating evidence against my family.

I will agree that the Consiglio was a thorn in our side. Any knowledge of Elena’s abduction and her powers for sorcery was something they were ready to silence at all cost. They have since left us alone, just as we have endured in silence.

But you, you are different, Antonio. To have a Florentine, such as yourself, so privy to our secrets, could only pose us with further inconvenience. What if you had shared your knowledge or resorted to extortion?

I later learned that the
sbirri
had arrested you. At that time, I had a clearer picture of what you knew. My mother had shown me your fierce correspondence and while she was shamed by the accusations you placed upon her, I saw that she was also more determined than ever to thwart you.

She and I were bound by blood and a common understanding.

My spy soon advised me that the
sbirri
had been searching for hours in the old silver shop where you had been arrested. It appeared they had not found what they sought… Although I ignored what that object could be, I had great hopes.

And what do you think I did, Antonio?

I returned to this place, this silver shop, in the middle of the night. I found the old hag and I questioned her. Of course she claimed to know nothing. It took certain means of persuasion before the ugly witch consented to grant me your precious diary.

Its pages, including the evidence you retrieved from the Consiglio dei Dieci, are long destroyed now, burned in the mantelpiece of the Ca’ Contarini. I remember that I watched every leaf of paper shrivel and turn to cinders. And while many years have passed, it always pleases me that I was able to do so.

I was content until I learned of your escape. Since then, I did not rest until I had found you. And now that I have found you, I feel that I am closer to understanding my father than I ever was.  Do you see my meaning, Antonio?

You must know that my mother wears her
cimaruta
at all times. She has faith in the power of the talisman to protect her, but she refuses to wear any mask unless she is certain of its maker. Though you are several days journey away from us, she lives in fear nevertheless.

She is terrified of
her
–that spawn of the devil, who lives with you and whom you have since taken as your wife.

I am not.

I know what you and your witches do by the walnut tree, in the groves of Benevento. My spy has told me all. And I have asked myself many times whether Elena Visconti might not have cast her spell on you.

But with all I know, I am now forced to accept an idea that has long taunted me and which I once refused to acknowledge.  And so, at present, I ask myself a different question, and even before it is answered, I am filled with a loathing that vexes my soul.

What are you?
What are you
, Antonio da Parma?

You almost had me fooled,
avogadore
, you two-faced consort of witches. But I have God on my side and I’ve nothing to fear.  I am not the one who will be running for years to evade the Consiglio dei Dieci’s spies. 

And Antonio, if you ever return to Venezia, you and that offspring from hell who masquerades as a woman, you will know, that when Giacomo set out to murder Francesco Visconti, there coursed through his veins, not just petty jealousy, but the undying passion and determination of the Ca’ Contarini to protect family. If you as much believe that this same blood does not flow through my veins, then let this warning redress your error.

I will be waiting.

Lorenzo Contarini