I could relax somewhat and joined in the toasts to a sea “free of Turks.” I put my feet up against the mast, leaned back against the hatch, and felt a surge of well-being that erased the effects of a night awake with a cankered spirit. The food and wine were good, the sun was warm, but tempered by a freshening breeze. The sky was a perfect blue and the sea reflected it like a polished mirror. Among the empty rigging, gulls were preening themselves, making themselves at home.
Alas, the unction was as short-lived as it was blessed. It was interrupted by a stare as sensible as a slap on the back of my neck. I turned and saw her eyes, jealous of my ease. Now we shall see, those sultry brown eyes said, closing to an intense squint. Those words were as clear to me as if they had been spoken aloud. Her eyes dropped as soon as I met them, but there was plenty of time for the message to be passed. She thought, I suppose, that it was only fair to give me warning of what she was about to do. Either that, or she was so certain of victory that she took no care to have it be an ambush.
When Baffo’s daughter was assured she had my attention, she got up from her place and moved to the one her aunt had vacated to go and rid herself of salt pork. The place just happened to be at the elbow of the Knights’ lanky captain.
“Venerable Knight,” the girl began tentatively.
“Yes, Madonna?” The Knight sat up to attention and blushed to be so addressed.
Madonna Baffo herself remained as white and cool as cucumber flesh. She continued, “Venerable Knight, why do you search Christian vessels for Turks? Surely good Christians have no commerce with the heathen?”
“You’d be surprised, Madonna. They’re like rats, and no ship on the sea is free of them.”
Madonna Baffo was shocked and amazed—at least, she pretended to be so. “But what sort of Christian would allow such a thing?”
“It’s not always easy to tell a traitor from the outside. But I will tell you this, Madonna. Your Venetians are the worst offenders. Worse than the Spanish, worse than the French!”
“I can’t believe it!”
“As God is my witness, it’s true.”
“But why?”
“Because they love money more than Christ Jesus. Because they’ve been on the Turks’ side since we took Jerusalem. As the Lord said, ‘they are whited sepulchers, full of death and corruption within.’ :
“I cannot believe it,” she said again. “/ am Venetian.”
“Ah, but you are pure and innocent, Madonna. Innocent of the ways of the world. It gives a man pleasure to protect such innocence. It makes me feel that the job I do is worthwhile.”
“I thank you for it,” she told him. “And may sweet Mary and the angels bless you.”
She was playing stupid for him. For this man she had to play very stupid indeed, and I knew it was a dangerous game she was playing, even had their talk been of other matters. I got slowly to my feet and walked with feigned nonchalance to the dying fire on which our quiet ride at anchor had allowed the cook to heat his pork. There I furtively picked up a glowing coal in a pair of gunner’s tongs. Pretending absentmindedness, I continued to listen intently to their talk.
“But how should I know these corrupted men when I meet them, Messer Knight, if you are not about? You have assured me greatly that this ship is clean. And yet, how should I have known otherwise? I might have thought that there were Turks aboard. How should I know our captain, Signor Veniero, for example, from a friend of the Turks? He seems harmless enough, but. . .”
“How has Captain Veniero raised your suspicions, Madonna?”
“Well, it’s foolish of me, of course...”
“Perhaps not,” the Knight said, intensely interested. “You can never tell. What has the captain done?”
“Nothing, really. But there is his great black slave. He got him in Constantinople, they say. A Turk and a heathen, I am almost certain of it. He frightens me senseless. See how I shiver, just thinking of him.” And she tugged up her sleeve to the elbow to show the gooseflesh and, incidentally, a fine white arm.
“He is a terror to look at, that black man, yes. Certainly to one of your delicate sensibilities. But he is—forgive me, Madonna—a eunuch and a slave besides.”
Over the couple’s heads, I caught Piero’s eye as he stood testing the foot-ropes along the withdrawn sheeting so as to be ready to unfurl the instant we were allowed. I shot him a look of congratulations: he had been playing his part well. Then I shifted the tongs carefully in my hand so they remained behind my back as I continued to work my way around the deck.
The Knight pursued his topic: “You have nothing to fear from him. I trust your captain has had him baptized a proper Christian name and has actually done much to save the poor devil’s soul by bringing him here to these waters.”
Baffo’s daughter could not hide her disappointment that she was not to see Piero, her first disgracer, shot full of the Knight’s lead. But when she had recovered from that, she began at once to seek other satisfaction.
“I’m certain you are right about Captain Veniero,” she said. “You have so much more experience than I in such things, and I trust your judgment implicitly.”
The Knight reeled with flattery; he was ready for the strike.
“And yet, there is his nephew, the young Signor Veniero, the first mate. I just happened to overhear such a curious conversation of his last night.”
“What conversation was that?”
