Merveiglio Trevisan was sea-weathered and walked with a limp but was otherwise an impressive figure: tall, richly dressed in clothing embroidered at the slashings with lines of matched pearls. At fortyfour, he was a close friend of Alvise Mocenigo, and although he did not trade on his alliance with the Doge, all Venezia knew of it, and treated him accordingly. As a Consiglier of the Minor Consiglio, he had much influence of his own. He stood in the main reception room of di Santo-Germano’s house on the Campo San Luca, a glass of excellent Toscana wine in his hand, and a genial smile revealing the deep wrinkles in his skin. “I thank you for seeing me so promptly, Conte,” he said to his host.
“I am delighted to have you a guest in my house,” said di Santo-Germano in perfect form; in spite of the heat his pourpoint had a standing velvet collar and the sleeves held their exaggerated shape with stiff taffeta ribbons reinforced with borders of silver braid and little clusters of rubies. His camisa beneath was glossy white silk, all unblemished, with lace at the wrist and neck; he held an orange stuck full of cloves in one hand against the ripening odors of a sweltering summer afternoon; the air was still and close, muffling the thunder trampling the low clouds spread over the lagoon and the hills beyond.
“I’m pleased for the occasion that brings me here. I believe the Savii and the Collegio have much to be proud of in regard to their decision; I voted for your modifications at the first and advocated for them in our debate. If the Maggior Consiglio approves your improvements, I think you may anticipate high recognition as soon as the innovations are put into effect and proven.”
“Do you,” said di Santo-Germano, indicating the open window. “To come out, with a storm brewing, your mission must be singularly important.” He held out a round fan of painted silk. “Here. This may lessen your discomfort.”
Trevisan took it and carefully studied the painting. “From China, by the look of it.”
“Yes. Brought from Trebizond, along with bolts of silk, and casks of spices.” He smiled. “I have also received three barrels of pepper.”
At that, Trevisan put the fan to use. “Three barrels! If you were not rich already, such bounty would make your fortune.”
“No doubt,” di Santo-Germano agreed. “But you had something to tell me …” He let his rising inflection serve as an invitation.
“Oh. Yes. Your designs for modifications of the war-galleys. The Collegio and the Minor Consiglio have approved them, and this morning, so did the Doge. They all agree that although you are a foreigner, your improvements will work to our advantage, particularly raising the upper decks by three handsbreadths above the current height. Doge Mocenigo agrees that cannon-fire will carry farther from a slightly higher deck, and the new design of the keel will compensate for any possible instability the rise will require. The corvus, placed as you have recommended, will be able to inflict more damage in close battles.”
“The Romans of old found the corvus useful in that position,” di Santo-Germano murmured, then raised his voice, saying, “So the Maggior Consiglio is the last hurdle to clear,” as if this were only a small concern.
“Yes. It will be put before them next week; I anticipate they will finish their review by the time you return from the north. It is very important that you do not remain away for longer than you have stated you will be, for the Maggior Consiglio would take your absence as an indication of intrigue. Keep in mind that they are putting great consequence on your designs. When something is that important, they act swiftly.”
If di Santo-Germano found fourteen months less than swift, he did not mention it; as a body of more than a thousand men, the Maggior Consiglio often took five years to reach consensus. “If you need any more material from me to aid them in their deliberations, you have only to ask.”
“You have already provided ample,” said Trevisan. “I cannot imagine what more they would need from you.”
“I am pleased to have given you something of worth.” Di Santo-Germano paused as the thunder trundled closer. “A bad time for masts.”
“True enough. Many of the ships are moored in the Bacino di San Marco, away from the docks and quays, to lessen the chance of fire. And men are posted to the Arsenal, to douse any flames that are ignited. Rain or no rain, lightning fires burn fiercely.” He finished his wine and achieved a slight smile. “May the Saints be thanked that, with drinking water so scarce in Venezia, we can enjoy such good wines.”
“True enough,” said di Santo-Germano, a wry turn to his mouth.
“Although I see you do not drink,” said Trevisan as he set his glass down.
“Alas, no; I do not drink wine. I haven’t the stomach for it.” He did not add that he had no stomach at all; he went to pour a second helping for his guest. “Do not let my incapacity stop you.”
“It is an excellent wine,” Trevisan allowed. “I thank you for your generosity.”
“Someone must drink it,” said di Santo-Germano at his most urbane. “If you find it so much to your taste, then it pleases me to pour it for you.”
Trevisan drank, swallowing twice, then set the glass aside again. “The Collegio and the Minor Consiglio have authorized me to inform you that the Doge will hold a feast in your honor in ten days’ time—well before the time you have named for your departure to the north. It is hoped that the Maggior Consiglio will pay attention to this distinction being shown to you.”
Di Santo-Germano’s answer was overwhelmed by a wallop of thunder; when it had passed, he repeated, “I am honored by such an invitation, as all who live in Venezia must be.” The storm was closer and there was a odor like that of heated metal on the air.
“The Doge will not be offended if you do not eat. We all know that you keep to the practice of your people, and dine in private.” Trevisan coughed lightly. “It would be best if you come alone. No women will be present for the banquet, not even holy Sisters or the wives of the Savii.”
“I understand,” said di Santo-Germano. “And I will do as you suggest.” He was about to say something more when there was a discreet tap at the door.
Trevisan waved him away. “Attend to it. Otherwise we shall have no peace, servants being what they are.”
“Grazie,” said di Santo-Germano, and went to the door expecting to find Niccola or Rinaldo waiting for him; instead, Ruggier stood just beyond the arch of the door, a suggestion of a frown on his usually unexpressive features. Di Santo-Germano regarded him narrowly, now alert. “What has happened, old friend? Your face is grave.”
“Two ships are lost. I have only now had word from the secretary of the Savii, who provided confirmation on the report—one sank, almost everything was lost; the other was seized by Ottomites.” He sighed. “Their messenger just came, in spite of the rising storm. I thought you would want to know.”
“Which ships?” di Santo-Germano asked, glancing about and noticing that they were observed by Timoteo, the under-footman. “What did the message say?”
“The
Harvest Moon
and
the Golden Ladder
,” said Ruggier. “The former sank; there are a few witnesses.”
“And survivors,” di Santo-Germano said urgently.
“Four from the ship, and nine crates were recovered. Everything else is given up to the Adriatic.” Ruggier paused for a long moment. “What if there are ransom demands from the Ottomites?”
“The ransom must be paid, of course, as soon as possible, in full,” said di Santo-Germano, “and through the Sultan’s Court so that there can be no reneging on the terms, and the transfer should take place on Venezian territory—Corfu, perhaps.”
“We will have to make arrangements through the Collegio,” Ruggier said.
“Then I shall attend to it in the next three days, or as soon as the Collegio will see me.”
“You may want to consider a broad approach: you have five other ships on galleys, and there may be more unwelcome news. You may need to be prepared for more calls on your purse. Winter is coming, and storms, and more Ottomites are hunting Venezian ships.”
“True enough. And while we are gone to the north, certain precautions must be made.” Di Santo-Germano looked toward the reception room. “The broiled pheasant should be ready, and its accompanying dishes. Have Enrici or Rindaldo bring it up, and send Niccola to the quay to find out all he can. He’s the most inquisitive of the pages. In this weather, curiosity is necessary.”
“He’s also the most wary,” Ruggier approved.
“That he is,” said di Santo-Germano. “It should stand him in good stead. He will not be tempted to do something reckless, no matter how intriguing it might be.” He took a half-step backward. “It would be best if I do not keep the Consiglier waiting.”
“Truly,” said Ruggier, and stepped back. “I’ll send Niccola out and have Enrici bring up the pheasant.” He cocked his head very slightly toward Timoteo. “And I will set all the household about their duties.”
“Very good of you. Oh, and make sure there is a second bottle of the Toscana with the food,” said di Santo-Germano, as soon as another peal of thunder had shuddered to silence. “Keep in mind that we are being watched,” he added in Chinese.
“I have done so thus far, and will continue,” said Ruggier in Imperial Latin, lowering his head respectfully as di Santo-Germano returned to his guest.
Merveiglio Trevisan had finished his second glass of wine and was pouring a third. “You say this is from Toscana?”
“From the region between Fiorenza and Sienna,” di Santo-Germano confirmed.
“It is quite wonderful. You are most gracious to offer it, all the more so because you are unable to enjoy it, this blood of the vines.” Trevisan held up the glass, allowing the flickering lamp-light to shine in its red depths. “I thank you for it.”
“You are welcome to the whole bottle, and more, if you like. I have ordered another for you delectation. You are also invited to remain here until the storm passes. This afternoon weather is inhospitable, so I will offer you an alternative to braving the elements. Perhaps you would like to avail yourself of my music room? if not that, then my library? After your kindness in coming here, I have no wish to send you out into dangerous weather.” He indicated the small, square table near the window. “If you prefer not to be exposed to the rain while you dine, I will gladly move that to the French chair.” He pointed to the piece of furniture with the upholstered seat and the bent-wood arms.
“A very good precaution,” approved Trevisan, wincing in spite of himself as more thunder battered the afternoon. A moment later there was another squirt of lightning, and then, hardly more than two heartbeats later, a long, rolling smash that shook the air and rattled the windowpanes and shutters and sent echoes banging along the tall buildings. When there was quiet again, the Consiglier said, “Perhaps it
would
be best if I remain here for the time being. The rain, as you surmise, must begin shortly.”
“Stay as long as you like,” di Santo-Germano offered, then went to secure the shutters on the windows, and to move the table to the French chair. Now only one window remained open, a small, narrow one on the north wall. “If you are not sufficiently comfortable here, I can remove us to my study.”
“This is quite satisfactory,” said Trevisan, taking his place in the chair. “I wish more Veneziani were as obliging as you are, Conte.”
“It is kind of you to say so,” di Santo-Germano said, wondering what more Consiglier Trevisan wanted of him, beyond shelter from the storm. As if to underscore his apprehension, a new clap of thunder sounded, and on its echoes came rain, pouring in cataracts from the clouds, so that the air outside was veiled in silver and all of the city looked like a blurred charcoal sketch. “Shall I shutter that window?”
Trevisan shrugged. “Not on my account. I would prefer to see what is happening out there. I always ride out storms on my decks, tied to the mast when necessary, but where I can see the fury of the waves.” The sound of the rain was a loud, persistent chatter, broken with thumps of thunder. “I must say I am glad not to be at sea in this.”
“I agree—wholeheartedly.” Just the thought of being aboard a ship in such a storm made him slightly queasy; he had memories of tempests and floods that added to his discomfort, and was relieved when there was a tapping on the door to distract him from his recollections of Roma, of Burma, of the beach below Leosan Fortress, of Tamasrajasi’s temple, of the defile near Kiev … “This must be your pheasant; it has a wonderful aroma,” he said to Trevisan, and went to take the tray with three covered dishes from Enrici. “Thank you for being so prompt. And you have the wine open. Excellent.”
“A good day to stay in and drink wine,” said Enrici, with an informality he would never use in addressing a Veneziano.
“No doubt,” said di Santo-Germano. “How much rain-water do you think we will save?”
“The cistern will be half-f by nightfall, Signor’ Conte,” the page said, touching his forehead as he stepped back.
“Fine. Have more barrels set out. Since we are being deluged we might as well make the most of it,” di Santo-Germano said, and closed the door.