Heart of Glass (8 page)

Then the Doge walks down the marbled staircase. His
is a face I recognize all too well, first encountered in the infirmary of the convent. It was I who poured the peony root into his raging throat; it was I who pressed my weight against him to stop the rabid thrashing of his limbs. He doesn’t remember me from his time of ailment—and why should he want to? If rival powers in Europe, or even Venice, knew that this man was weak, our city would lose its leader and be thrown into chaos.

But now I need the most powerful man in Venice to help me. As he walks towards me I fall to my knees and hold out my hands, ready to kiss the ring on his finger. But with a swirl of long robes, he strides past me through a doorway, where the other men wait. The door swings shut, and with a dull thud I am left alone in the echoing hall.

The servant reappears. “The Duchess Besina will see you,” he says coldly as he waits for me to get back to my feet. Roberto’s mother! This may be better—one woman appealing to another.

“Show me to her,” I say. The man sucks in his cheeks and turns on his heel, trotting up the grand staircase. I scoop up my skirts and follow, moving beneath paintings while gilded stucco detail illuminates the ceiling above my head.

Finally, we arrive at the doorway to the Doge’s private quarters.

“In there,” the man says, waving a dismissive hand. Then he’s gone. I gather my courage and step inside.

The Doge’s wife waits for me on a rosewood bench covered in buttoned brocade. She wears a red robe with fine lace around her collar and a cloak embroidered with flowers. Two large pearls set in gold decorate her ears. We’ve
met a few times since I became Roberto’s fiancée, but only at formal occasions. Her eyes have always danced with curiosity and happiness, but we have never had the chance to confide in each other before now.

I move swiftly across the room. She takes my hands, and her fingers tremble. When I look into her face, it’s clear that she shares my pain. The rims of her eyes are red.

“You have heard, then?” I whisper.

The Duchess grimaces. “The head guard brought us the news,” she says. “My son is incarcerated and the citizenry call him a murderer. How dare they betray us so?” She turns her face away, and for the first time, she looks old to me.

I sit beside her on the couch. “I need to see Roberto,” I say.

“You know where he is?” the Duchess asks.

I shake my head. I do not dare tell her that I watched him being dragged away.

“In the Piombi,” she says, her voice breaking on the last word. I shudder. Everyone in Venice knows about this prison—the place where we send our most wicked criminals to rot. Commissioned by a former Doge, the entrance of the prison is two meters from the outskirts of the palace, but the cells rest above the palace itself, right under the leaded roof.

“Why?” I gasp. “Surely he doesn’t deserve that. Nothing’s been proven!”

“The Doge says he cannot intervene. The law courts must go through due process, and besides …” Her mouth twists in a bitter smile. “He’s negotiating with the Florentine ambassador and preparing for the arrival of the Turks
in a day or two. That’s why he could not see you. Negotiations are at a crucial stage, and my husband cannot be seen to be meddling with the law of our city.” She casts her eyes around the room, taking in the gold and marble, the countless oil paintings and lacquered surfaces. “Meanwhile, I sit in a gilt cage and go slowly mad.” Her gaze suddenly turns on me and her face burns with passion. “But you! You can go and see my son. Comfort him. If I gain you access, promise a mother you will do this!” She pulls my hands to her face and rests her cheek against them.

“I promise,” I say. “I will do everything I can. I love Roberto.”

The Duchess’s eyes brim with tears. “So do I. Tell him that for me.”

I get to my feet and ask if a servant can call me a coach. The prison entrance isn’t far from here, but it’s best to be discreet.

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” the Duchess says, the light returning to her eyes. “Come with me.”

She leads me down a warren of wood-paneled corridors. I glimpse cooks and maidservants, officials and guards, who pause in their duties to curtsy or bow their heads as we go by. I sense that we are passing through the entire length of the palace. Only once do we cross an outdoor courtyard, heading through what seems to be a part of the palace under renovation. We enter a rougher section of the building, half finished and uninhabited. We climb several flights of rickety stairs. Such are the quirks of Venetian architecture; I feel we’ve traveled in a circle. A rat has died in one of the dusty passages. Then ascend higher and higher, the air
getting hotter and hotter. At last the Duchess pauses at a door, half hidden in the shadows. I put my hand against it and the surface is cold—it’s made of metal.

“The Piombi,” I murmur. The leaded prison. There is another entrance. I taste the cruel irony of Roberto’s situation—locked in a jail under his own roof.

“I cannot go any farther,” the Duchess explains. “It would be a scandal for the Doge. Here.” She hands me the ducal seal, cast in wax. “Show this, and the warden will allow you access.” Her glance drifts to the secret door. “To think my son is through there somewhere and I cannot even …” She turns her face away to hide her emotion, then retreats back down the corridor. I’m on my own.

The door clangs as I knock on it, then slides open. A man gives me a lecherous, gap-toothed smile, his face red and greasy. “A jewel amidst the pig swill,” he comments. “What brings you here?”

I feel perspiration prickle beneath my armpits. “I am here to see Roberto, the Doge’s son.”

The warden laughs and spits on the floor, littered with damp and rotting straw. “Oh, that one!” he remarks. “Yes, he looks handsome enough to catch a prize such as you. But I don’t think he should be allowed to look upon you now.”

I show him the seal, and he nods thoughtfully before turning his back. “Follow me.”

Immediately, the stench hits me. I can smell sweat and dirt, feces and blood—but, more than that, I can detect the scent of desperation.

This is it, then. I must follow.

As we climb a set of stairs, the heat increases. I am soon aware of the circles of sweat staining the fabric of my dress.
Beneath our feet, I can see rows of roofless cells with men lying or squatting on the packed dirt floor. White half crescents shine from their filthy faces as their eyes watch me, and clothes torn into rags only just cover their bodies. One man is almost naked but for a loincloth, his body writhing as he stretches across his cell, froth at his mouth.

“That man there!” I put a hand on the warden’s shoulder to stop him. “He needs help.”

My guide glances down. “That man needs nothing. He’s spoilt with attention. He’ll be well again soon enough.” I am forced to continue, as the prisoner’s distressed cries fill the air and a jerk of his foot sends a gruel bowl spinning.

I almost wish I’d taken the man’s handkerchief; the heat and the stench are overwhelming. Bile rises in my throat and I think I’m about to be sick. The sensation passes. I wipe the sweat from my face and carry on climbing higher beneath the lead roof that gives the prison its name, the metal taking the heat of the day and doubling it. I hardly dare think about what I’ll find when we reach Roberto.

Finally, we stop climbing. The man jerks his chin towards a cell in a far corner and departs back down the stairs. “A few moments only,” he snarls.

I walk across the floorboards, the gray roof low over my head. The heat is unbearable now. As I come to stand before the cell, I see a shape slumped against the back wall. At first I think it is an abandoned sack, but then there’s a movement and the flicker of white eyes.

“Roberto?” I whisper, throwing myself forward to grasp the bars of the cell.

A head rises and a smile spreads across my love’s face. He gets to his feet, moving stiffly, and as he hobbles across
the cell towards me I can see that every movement causes him pain. He leans to one side as though his ribs have been bruised.

“What are you doing here? How …?”

I smile. “Your mother helped. She says to tell you that she loves you very much.”

His face creases with a sort of despair, but then he gathers himself and wipes a hand over his brow. When he drops his hand again, he is grinning bravely.

“What happened?” I ask, reaching through the bars to lift his tunic. Quickly but gently, he bats me away. His hair hangs in dank locks around his face, and a purple bruise stains his left cheekbone. The skin has split, and blood is crusted in the wound.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Oh, my darling.” He stretches his arms through the bars and draws me to him. I try not to flinch at the smell of him, and I press my lips against his. They are hot with fever.

“Tell me what happened,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. “How did that woman …”

Roberto shoves a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he says, moving away from me. “I’ve gone over it so many times in my own head, trying to remember. I felt ill at the ball … started to make my way home. I can’t remember anything after that. The next thing I know you were banging on the door and that woman was bathed in blood on my floor! You know the accusations aren’t true, don’t you, Laura? Tell me you know that!”

He’s been pacing his cell, and now he turns to me. I hate to admit it, but the look on his face scares me. It’s furious, desperate. But is there a hint of guilt?

“Of course I know that. But if I’m to help, I have to ask. How did it come to this, Roberto?”

“I’ll tell you how!” he almost shouts. “Someone set me up. Those watchmen, turning up when they did. Coincidence? Only in a fool’s head! The whole thing was planned.”

Roberto must be right. Those men who stormed his home were only seconds behind me.

A hand lands heavily on my shoulder. “I said a few moments only,” says the warden, his breath hot against my ear. I find my grip tightening on the bars of the cell.

“Just a minute more won’t hurt,” I say, trying to keep my voice light—flirtatious even. The hand moves to grip my arm, and suddenly I am yanked round and flung back against a wall. Roberto calls out, “Leave her alone!” but the warden has brought his face close to mine, and I can see the spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth.

“Now do as I say,” the warden growls. He begins to drag me down the stairs, and it is all I can do not to trip over my skirts and go hurtling to my death.

“I’ll do everything I can for you!” I call back.

“No!” Roberto’s voice is hoarse with panic. “Don’t get involved. The authorities will realize their mistake. Everything will be fine!”

These are the last words I hear as the warden opens the main doors to the jail and throws me out into the street. The sunlight hurts my eyes, and I raise a hand to shield my face. A woman is walking past with her daughter, and she throws me a nervous glance, drawing the child to her as they scuttle past. She’s just seen me ejected from the city’s
most notorious prison, after all. I smooth out my skirts, pat my hair back into place and wipe the sweat from my throat. Then I begin walking without looking back. Roberto’s last words make my heart beat faster.
Everything will be fine
.…

“It will be, my love,” I mutter. “I’ll make it so.”

11

In my hand is a bouquet of lilies and white poppies tied with purple ribbon. A fresh breeze comes off the water and threatens to tug my hair from its pins. I think of Roberto alone in his stinking cell and my hands tighten around the stems. What am I doing here while he lives a nightmare?

I stand in a line of women, all gazing out across the harbor from St. Mark’s Basin. To one side of me is Emilia and behind me stands Faustina. We are each dressed in our finest, at Venice’s formal welcome party for the Ottomans. They have sent an ambassador to join the talks with the Doge, and as a member of the Grand Council, Father insists that his family be represented today.

“The daughters of Venice will be on hand when the Turks arrive,” he explained. “And you will be among them. Is that understood?”

I tried to tell him that my grief for Roberto made public appearances impossible, but how could I ever have expected Father to understand?

“Roberto has brought shame on this family. It is up to you to retrieve some honor. You will be there,” he said, his voice laden with threat.

So, here I stand. Faustina considered carefully what outfit I should wear. Finally, this morning, we settled on the cream satin embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis, with a front-laced bodice. My hair is plaited and wound around my head, and a string of iridescent shells hangs from my neck. Emilia brought out her best gown from her luggage, and Faustina steamed the peacock silk until every last crease had been smoothed out. It took her the best part of a day to prepare.

Another breeze drifts off the water. Sails flutter, and Venetian flags ripple and snap above our heads. The harbor is alive with noise—people chattering, noblemen talking in whispers. Behind us, musicians play trumpets, clarinets and drums. Ahead of us is the Turkish galley ship, surrounded by smaller vessels. The Ottoman Empire has a huge fleet; everyone in Venice knows that. Constantinople’s shipyard is legendary.