'For Senor Eneko Lopez--your master's Castilian guest,' said Marco, hastily putting a foot in the way and hoping that the heavy iron-scrolled door would not simply crush it.
The heavy door stopped. 'He's Basque, not Castilian!' For some reason, the point seemed important to the door warden. From his slight accent, Marco suspected he was originally from Spain. But Marco found Italian politics confusing enough, without wanting to know the quirks of the Iberian variety.
'I will have it taken to him,' the door warden added, grudgingly.
Marco shook his head. 'No. My master said I must give it into his very hands, and carry his reply.'
The doorman snorted again. But he plainly did not want to anger his master's guest. Reluctantly, he opened the door and allowed Marco to enter. Watching Marco as if he expected this cockroach-in-human-form to instantly begin laying eggs or stealing the silver, he tinkled a small bell. A footman appeared hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The door warden sniffed. 'Louis. Take this . . . messenger up to Senor Lopez. He says he is to wait for a reply.'
The tone said: and watch him like a hawk.
The footman led Marco to the back stairs. Not for the likes of him the front steps. They walked up four flights of ill-lit stairs . . . And then were nearly knocked down them again by an extremely angry woman, who was so busy looking back up that she failed to see them. Even in poor light she was a truly beautiful lady, clad in a low-cut azure Damask-silk gown, trimmed with a jabot of finest Venetian lace. Her hair was on the red side of auburn; her skin, except for flaming patches on her cheeks, a perfect unblemished cream.
The footman nearly flung himself up the wall to get out of her way, with a hasty terrified 'scusi.'
Marco pressed himself against the wall too. She didn't say anything to either of them, but her angry look promised retribution later. Marco was glad he wasn't the footman, and that he'd never have to encounter her again. He had a feeling that despite her legendary beauty, Lucrezia Brunelli (and this could only be her) would enjoy making someone else's life a misery. And she looked mad enough about something to be looking for a victim, shortly. But even angry, she was beautiful.
Marco shook himself guiltily. How could he think this of anyone but Angelina?
They walked on to the upper floor. The footman knocked.
'I am at my devotions, Lucrezia,' said the voice from within. The accent was distinctly foreign. But the tone had a suggestion of tried patience.
The footman cleared his throat. He gave Marco a quelling look. 'Senor Lopez. It is I, Louis. I have brought a messenger to see you.'
'My apologies. Bring him in, Louis.'
Marco found himself bowed into the presence of a short, slightly built man, who was carefully placing a marker in a book. He too had reddish hair. For a moment Marco found himself wondering why the woman who was considered to be the reigning beauty of Venice should interest herself in this man. Then Eneko Lopez turned and limped toward him and Marco realized what attracted Lucrezia Brunelli to this foreigner.
Power. There were the eyes of an eagle under that solid, heavy single line of dark brow. Even without a word spoken between them, Marco knew this to be a man in whom the fires of spirit burned high. And, by his calm assurance, someone to whom command was almost inborn. 'Thank you, Louis. That will be all.' The footman bowed respectfully and left.
'You have come from Mainz, or from the Grand Metropolitan?' The Basque held out his hand to take the scroll.
Marco swallowed, and passed over the scroll. 'Neither, sir. My master is here in Venice. He said I must wait and take a reply.'
Lopez sighed. 'I had hoped . . . Never mind. All things will come to pass eventually. Sit.'
So Marco sat down. The guest of Brunelli's occupied a room that filled him with envy. It was full of books, leather-bound volumes on volumes. Marco gazed hungrily at them. In the meantime, Lopez had taken his own seat at a small desk nearby. He cracked the seal and scanned the contents of the scroll.
When he finally spoke his voice was cold. 'You may tell your master that I am neither prey for blackmail nor interested in treachery. He misinterprets my work here on the Rio del Ghetto, as he does my messages to Rome.'
Marco rose hastily. Rio del Ghetto. Where the 'magicians' sold their charms and wares. Where the Jews were supposed to remain, although in tolerant Venice that practice was widely ignored. Very close to where he and Benito had shared lodgings. Rome . . . well, the Grand Metropolitan was not overly enamored with Venice's religious health, if Father Del Igilo was to be believed.
