“Ah.” Di Santo-Germano glanced at the note he held and put it aside. “Is this the first thing he has done for the State, or has he reported my doings regularly?”
“He did not say,” Ruggier told him.
“Well, we may be certain he is not the only spy in this household.”
“Yes, we may,” Ruggier agreed, clear disapproval on his lean face, and waited for di Santo-Germano to go on.
“Milano tells me I am being followed,” di Santo-Germano said remotely. “Is it more of the same, do you think?”
“It may be.”
“Did he tell you what he was after?” di Santo-Germano asked.
“I did not press him for an answer, and he volunteered only that he was serving the State, as I mentioned before; he would not say anything more, even when I told him I would demand an official inquiry, before a Judicial Tribunal,” Ruggier said, clearly dissatisfied. He took a long breath. “He seems confident that his position is unassailable.”
Di Santo-Germano rose and paced toward the window. “Which means it would be folly to dismiss him, for another, possibly more accomplished, would only be sent in his place.”
“It is something to consider,” said Ruggier.
“How long has he been kept in his quarters?” di Santo-Germano asked.
“An hour or so,” said Ruggier. “I put Captain Gozzoli on guard.”
“He must be annoyed,” said di Santo-Germano; the Captain was his guest in appreciation for the Captain’s successful completion of the Galley of Beirut without loss of cargo or crew.
“He is indignant more than annoyed, and his ire is directed at Euchario. The Captain seems determined to talk to the Collegio to assure them of your worthiness,” Ruggier said. “I told him he’d serve you better by making sure Euchario stays in his room.”
“You’re probably right,” said di Santo-Germano. “The Collegio might not like what they discover about Captain Gozzoli if they inquire too closely about him. The armed men he carries on the
South Wind
are as much corsairs as guards, and their Commander, Sereno Guilherme, is as eager for loot as any Ottomite.”
“But Commander Guilherme and his men are
Venezian
corsairs,” Ruggier reminded him.
Di Santo-Germano smiled faintly. “That does make a difference.”
“The Collegio certainly thinks so,” said Ruggier drily. “But Arcangelo Gozzoli would still be a poor advocate, I fear.”
“No doubt you’re right.” Di Santo-Germano turned his back on the window. “Have all the shutters opened. There is a little breeze and it may help to cool the house.”
“As you wish,” said Ruggier, aware that their discussion was over.
“And tell Captain Gozzoli that I will be down shortly. I want to change into my Hungarian doublet and trunk-hose—they are less imposing than this, and cooler.”
“Will you want my assistance?” Ruggier asked.
“Only as I leave my apartments,” said di Santo-Germano. “I may not have everything straight.”
“I will attend to that when you wish,” said Ruggier.
Di Santo-Germano shook his head. “It is occasions like this that makes my lack of reflection inconvenient.”
“You manage well, in spite of all,” said Ruggier.
“Habit,” said di Santo-Germano. “But there is no substitute for your keen eyes.”
“Perhaps,” Ruggier allowed, and left the study, bound for the lower parts of the house.
Di Santo-Germano set the note from Ambrogio under a leather-bound book on Mediterranean ports, then went out of his study, toward his own apartments on the east side of the house. As he walked, he reviewed what he knew of his servants, making mental notes to be more alert to their various activities. Once in his apartments, he locked the door before unfastening the two brooches that held back the sleeves of his dogaline, then he removed it, next he took off his doublet, then his short, French-style round-hose. Standing in his leggings and camisa, he went to the largest chest—a fine piece of furniture of polished oak that matched the other, smaller chests, and the upholstered chairs—and took out a broad-sleeved Hungarian doublet in black, thick cotton, and black cotton deep-pleated trunk-hose; these he donned, and then took a narrow, Polish-style ruff from an upper drawer of the chest, fixing it around his neck and securing the laces. Last, he removed the diamond clips from his garters and placed them, along with his brooches, in a small case; he carried this into the second room of his apartments, his bedroom, which was Spartan in its simplicity: a single small chest and a narrow bed set atop another chest, with only a single blanket to cover the canvas mattress. A high, narrow window provided what light there was. Di Santo-Germano put the case in the second drawer of the small chest, then left the room, unlocked the door of the outer room, and left his apartments again.
Ruggier met him at the top of the stairs. “You are impeccable,” he informed di Santo-Germano after a quick look over his garments.
“Thank you,” said di Santo-Germano, adding in the language of Delhi, “Best to keep to the vernacular; too many foreign words, and we become more suspect than before. You and I will have to be especially careful until we know whom among this household is spying on us.”
“I understand,” said Ruggier in Venezian. “It is a pity that so few still speak the tongue of your people.”
“Truly,” di Santo-Germano agreed. “But such is the fate of exiles.” He went down the stairs behind Ruggier, saying as they neared the bottom step. “Do you remember a Roman called Telemachus Batsho?”
“A decuria, wasn’t he?” Ruggier asked.
“Among other things,” said di Santo-Germano. “Buckled to his work, was he not.” He recalled the endless manipulations of his taxes along with the unrelenting inquiry Batsho had made into his affairs during the chaotic reign of Heliogabalus.
“I can see why he might come to mind,” said Ruggier.
“I learned much from that experience,” di Santo-Germano said as he stepped onto the main floor. “We will need to be meticulous in our dealings, to avoid any misinterpretations.”
“Of course,” said Ruggier, adding, “Speaking of dealings, I have sent another donation to Padre Bonnome, as part of your support of San Luca.”
“Very good,” di Santo-Germano approved, noticing that Niccola was loitering a short distance away.
Ruggier followed di Santo-Germano’s gaze, remarking casually, “Will you want to order a feast for our San Mercurius the Hungarian?”
Di Santo-Germano did not so much as blink at the mention of this spurious saint, saying calmly, “You do well to remind me. Yes, indeed. It is wise to observe old traditions. We must set the cooks to planning.”
“It is the last day of May, as I recall,” said Ruggier.
“Yes. The last day of May,” di Santo-Germano assured him, confident that Niccola would spread the news of the Feast of San Mercurius the Hungarian through the household before di Santo-Germano had finished speaking to Euchario, giving the servants something more to concern them than the fate of a single spy.
Text of a letter from James Belfountain of the Black Cross Company to Conte Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano, written in English, and delivered by courier nine days after it was dispatched.
To His Excellency, the Count Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano, presently residing at Saint Luke’s Square in Venice, the greetings of the Company Commander James Belfountain of the Black Cross Company, along with the information the Count has asked the Company to provide.
The Count has said he wishes to journey to Antwerp, Bruges, and Amsterdam at the end of summer, and has asked for some indication of what the escort of the Black Cross Company would cost. There are three hundred in our Company, and although our numbers are small for war, they are more than is needed for simple escort, particularly since the Count has indicated he will have only three wagons and two dozen horses, as well as four drivers and a farrier accompanying him. For this, no more than twenty men are needed, with horses and remounts for each, and the following figures are predicated on this usage of our numbers: twenty men, forty horses, two guides, and a priest to minister to our souls.
If the weather is good and there is relatively little fighting, you should not have to pay more than twenty gold florins for each se’enight we travel, along with the cost of housing the company at such monasteries, inns, or other accommodations we may need during our travels. This journey should last roughly a fortnight and a se’enight, so your cost would be a total of sixty gold florins. If there is fighting, and we cannot go around it, then the cost would rise to forty gold florins for each se’enight, along with a fee of ten gold florins to each man wounded, and fifty to his family if a man dies.
I have had word with Commander Sereno Guilherme, who assures me that you may be relied upon to abide by your Word and the terms of our contract, so I will not require more than fifty gold florins before we depart, as a deposit on our final payment, and I will not ask that you show proof of having the total sum of our service before we depart for the Lowlands.
We will provide our own horses, tack, weapons, and guides; all other expenses are to be borne by you. If this is satisfactory, please dispatch your acceptance to us at Padua, to Marcello d’Ombrucelli at the Sign of the Blue Bear on Saint Honoria’s Square. If I do not hear from you in a fortnight, I will regard that as proof of lack of interest in the terms I have proposed.
Your Excellency’s to command,
James Belfountain, Commander
The Black Cross Company
At Padua, the 3
nd
day of June, AD 1530. By my own hand.
With a long belch that sent the barmaid scurrying back toward the counter, Basilio Cuor turned to study Leoncio Sen’s smug visage. “And I suppose you think you’re doing well?” he asked sarcastically, though his voice was hardly more than a whisper. He looked more uncouth than usual, with large yellowish stains on his camisa from sweat and other, less savory things; his leather doublet was unfastened, its front gaping wide, and his canvas round-hose were badly in need of washing.
“Of course I’m doing well,” said Leoncio. “Better than you, in any case.” He touched the piping on his doublet, preening with satisfaction.
Cuor shook his head slowly. “If you think that, then you’re a greater fool than I suspected, Camilio.”
“You don’t have to call me that,” Leoncio protested. “You know whose nephew I am.”
“But it’s best if I don’t know which nephew,” said Cuor, leaning toward Leoncio. “Your uncle calls you Camilio to me.”
“Why? Because you insist upon it?” Leoncio was indignant.
“Yes, I do, and you should remember the reason,” said Cuor, shooting a glare at the barmaid to keep her a good distance away. “What do you think our work is? We’re supposed to be invisible. So what do you do? You actually ran after di Santo-Germano’s gondola, not once, or twice, but four times I have seen. And if I have seen you, so have others. You’ve made him suspicious by being too obvious. What were you thinking? If he hasn’t noticed by now, he must be blind, and his gondolier an idiot.”
“You’re offensive,” said Leoncio with as much hauteur as he could muster. “You are dissolute, debauched, dirty, dis—”
“I know I am. I intend to be. It is a pity you’re too vain not to cultivate my slovenliness.” Cuor took a deep breath. “You have almost ruined all the work I have done. Now di Santo-Germano knows he is being watched, and that makes my task far more difficult than it was. And I, unlike you, have made progress.”
“You—work?” Leoncio laughed nastily.
“I have warned you not to assume anything about me,” said Cuor, and raised his voice, “I’ll have your money shortly; my Word on it.”
“What are you doing?” Leoncio hissed.
Cuor’s voice was soft again. “I am keeping the barmaid away from us. If our meeting seems ugly, we’ll be left alone.”
“Who’d listen to a barmaid?” Leoncio chuckled.
“Those whose work it is to listen—men like me; there are more of us than you would guess.” Cuor looked directly into Leoncio’s face. “Until you made such a botch of your part of our mission, I had worked up a contact with the under-steward at di Santo-Germano’s house, but thanks to you, that’s come to nothing; I can’t get anything more out of him. The Conte has warned his staff against outsiders who are suspicious, and they have taken his warning to heart. Not even a new baker’s assistant was welcome at the house this morning. And I—
I
—was forbidden to enter San Luca by Padre Bonnome when I asked what would usually be ignored questions about di Santo-Germano.”
“Surely you don’t think it is because of anything I’ve done?” Leoncio asked, affronted.
“I think it is precisely because of what you’ve done. No doubt di Santo-Germano would have become aware of something eventually, but your obvious, clumsy pursuit has alerted him much earlier in the game than I had anticipated.” He shoved Leoncio’s shoulders. “Camilio, you are a difficult fellow,” he exclaimed loudly enough to be heard in the tavern kitchen. “Let me buy you a drink. We’ll arrange things over some good wine.”
“I haven’t time enough to waste the day with you.” He flung his hand toward the door of the ordinary-looking tavern. “I should be taking prandium with my uncle even now.”
“Should you?” said Cuor. “That wasn’t what he told me, this morning at Santa Maria Formosa. I met with him after he completed his morning walk along La Merceria. He said nothing about dining with you. In fact, he applauded our meeting at this time, when most of Venezia is at table.”
“Do you mean you report to him directly?” Leoncio was shocked, and this time he remembered to keep his voice down.
“I do. Every ten days; oftener, if he sends for me.” The shine in his eyes was not from wine, but from malicious glee. “I gather he didn’t bother to tell you.”
“No,” said Leoncio, a cold sensation beginning to form under his belt. “He didn’t.”
“Well, now you know,” Cuor said with satisfaction, then whistled through his teeth. “Bellissima,” he called to the barmaid. “Two tankards of your best Sangue di Christi.” He held up three silver coins.
From the protection of the counter, the barmaid signaled she would comply, and reached for the double-handled glass tankards that were the pride of Venezia; she reached behind her for the covered pitcher containing their wine.
“Why should I drink with you?” Leoncio muttered.
“Because we must talk, Camilio, and in a tavern, men who talk must also drink if they wish not to be noticed.” He paused and looked around at the table on the far side of the room where a group of sailors were devouring large plates of prawns and scallops, drinking as much as they ate; only two other tables were occupied, and the men at both of them were more interested in their food and wine than in any of the others in the tavern. “You and I have to work in concert, not in opposition.” He pointed to a table near the hearth. “That’s private enough without seeming so.”
“More concern for appearances,” Leoncio said sullenly.
“You would do well to keep such things in mind,” said Cuor as he took the seat with its back to the wall. “I can see everyone who enters, and they will notice you before me.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Your uncle tells me that at the end of summer, di Santo-Germano is going to Antwerp and Bruges, or so he has informed the Collegio. He has business there, which the Collegio already knew. He is traveling overland, rather than going in one of his ships; probably afraid of corsairs. He plans to be gone a year, and has appointed Gennaro Emerenzio as his deputy in his absence. He is going to keep his house open and maintain his staff during that time, as well as his press and his patronage of Pier-Ariana Salier. It is clear that he plans to return.”
“He told the Collegio all this?” Leoncio asked.
Nodding, Cuor said, “More to the point, his household and the men at his press have confirmed it. One of the Collegio’s clerks is going to call up Signorina Salier to find out what she knows of his continuing patronage.” He motioned for silence as the barmaid brought the glass tankards. “Mille grazie, madonna,” he said as he handed over the three silver coins.
The coins vanished expertly. “My husband says that you’re not to cause any trouble.”
“If we do, it won’t be my fault,” said Cuor. “And my companion is too well-mannered to misbehave.”
“Da vero?” The barmaid gave a disbelieving snort and returned to the shield of the counter.
Leoncio tasted the wine and found it fairly good. “For a canal-side tavern, this is quite good,” he allowed.
“Keep your voice down, or Gezualdo will surely throw us out. He prides himself on his wines.”
“Oh, very well,” said Leoncio sullenly.
Cuor was not moved by Leoncio’s morose demeanor. “Not that I anticipate much useful, but what have you found out about di Santo-Germano in your dogged pursuit?”
Rather than answer the question, Leoncio posed two of his own. “Why does this foreigner merit so much attention? The Collegio, the Minor Consiglio, and the Savii, all probing his every move and choice. Why not have him live on the Giudecca with the other foreigners? Then none of this would be necessary.” He glowered at the cold cinders on the hearth. “I shouldn’t think his being an exile makes that much difference.”
“He is a successful merchant and he has a press, and he has sponsored a number of civic projects. As an exile, you must remember his allegiance cannot be called into question. Not that there aren’t foreign merchants living on the Giudecca, but their situation is different,” said Cuor. “For one thing, di Santo-Germano has provided the Arsenal with an improvement on the war galleys, and that makes it necessary for him to live on the main islands. It also means that he must be watched.” He sighed. “I dislike northern cities, but I am ordered to follow him, and send regular reports back to the Collegio.”
“Then why are we talking?” Leoncio asked. “Let the fellow go, and be thankful he’s gone.”
“Camilio, don’t be more of a fool than God made you. The north is a hotbed of Protestantism, and that is dangerous to all who follow the True Faith. You know what has been going on in the German States and among the Swiss.” He took a drink of wine and went on. “It is bad enough that the Ottomites have taken so much Christian land for their own, but now, when united faith is needed, the German States of the Holy Roman Empire and the English are coming apart from the True Church with opposition to His Holiness. A man of means, travel-seasoned and with di Santo-Germano’s knowledge, would be invaluable to those turning from the Church, to say nothing of what the Ottomites would want with him.”
“What nonsense you talk,” said Leoncio, and took a long drink of his wine. “What do the Protestants care about Venezian ships?”
“If I talk nonsense, I learned it from your uncle, Camilio. You would do well to keep it in mind. You and I serve the same master.” He folded his arms on the table. “So—you have yet to tell me what you have learned.”
“His servants are unwilling to speak with me,” Leoncio said reluctantly.
“Given your appearance, I should think so,” said Cuor, unpleasantly amused. “Were I you, I should try the mistress.”
“She won’t admit me. I sent her a box of honied rose-hips, but she sent it back with a note saying that she was not a strumpet.” He laughed. “As if the fidelity of mistresses were legendary.”
“You were foolish to do such a thing,” said Cuor.
“Why? She’s like any other woman—won over with gifts and sweet words, and with more wiles than a hungry fox. You know what women of her sort are—twice as capricious as any wife. I should think she would welcome my attentions, since her patron’s may not always be available to her.” He smiled to show his experience in such matters.
Cuor flung up a hand in exasperation. “This isn’t some lightskirted whore you’re dealing with: this woman is a musician, an artist who has a book to her credit and another to—”
“Her patron has a press,” Leoncio dismissed the matter. “It is another kind of gift he gives her.”
“You’re hopeless, Camilio,” said Cuor, and drank most of the wine in his tankard, then raised his hand for more.
Offended at this dismissal, Leoncio tapped the table in irritation. “Va bene,” he snapped. “What would you do?”
“Learn some of her music, and know what is thought of it, so you might speak about it intelligently,” said Cuor; he had been waiting for such a question. “I would ask to hear her new works, and praise them. I would encourage her to write more.”
“Appeal to her vanity,” said Leoncio, nodding.
“To her artistry,” Cuor corrected. “She is as serious about her tunes as any man who writes them; perhaps more so, there being so few women composing music. Make light of her talents at your peril.” He added this with only a slight hope that Leoncio would heed him.
“Yes, yes,” said Leoncio, nodding as the barmaid approached with two more glass tankards in her hands. “I may try what you suggest. Once di Santo-Germano leaves, I will have a better opportunity to press my suit with her. She’ll be lonely, and a little novelty would likely please her.”
Cuor shook his head, sighing. “You had best begin now, so that your motives will seem more genuine. She’s not going to be fooled by you if you play the seducer instead of the admirer.”
“An excellent idea,” said Leoncio unconvincingly. “I’ll consider it.”
“You had better, or your use to your uncle will diminish. Your gambling priest has not brought the level of intelligence he had hoped, and your debts are mounting again.”
This reminder caught Leoncio’s full attention. “You know about that? How can you?”
“I must remind you again that I am employed by your uncle, as you are, and I have proven my worth many times over, earning his confidence. He knows he may rely upon my discretion so he tells me many things, and I have learned many more.” He took a drink of the second tankard of Sangue di Christi. “Ah. A different bottle. This is an improvement.”
“An appreciation of your custom,” said Leoncio, making no apology for the slight.
“Well-earned, if true,” said Cuor, refusing to be insulted. He put his hand flat on the table. “Now listen to me, Camilio: you must begin to show that you are capable of doing this work, or your uncle will not support you. For your own good, make yourself known to Pier-Ariana Salier, and do it soon, and without compromising her, for if she breaks off with di Santo-Germano, her worth to you is lost, and that would not redound to your credit.”
“I will keep all you say in mind,” Leoncio mumbled. He wanted to leave the tavern and join his uncle and the rest of the family for prandium, as he had planned to do, but he was increasingly wary of breaking in on the meal for fear of earning a rebuke in front of all the family.