“And children?”
“Very tragic. His oldest son died at sea. Another was killed by janissaries in some stupid brawl in Constantinople. Both his daughters died when the Convent of San Secondo burned. Enrico was the only one left to him.”
“So tell me about Enrico,” I said. The heir to the Orseolo fortune must be an obvious suspect, even if he had not been present at the supper party. “Does he engage in politics or just run the business?”
“Both. He’s been very successful in politics. His father was a fighter, but he is a conciliator. The Great Council approves of men who build bridges instead of burning them, and Enrico could walk across the lagoon without rippling the water. He served a term as a lord of the night watch in his twenties, four or five terms as a minister of marine, and twice as rector of Verona. Now he is one of the great ministers.”
I had not found Enrico Orseolo conciliatory in my few encounters with him. His father had commissioned a horoscope from Maestro Nostradamus. After I had delivered it and asked for payment, the old man had told me to collect from Enrico. Enrico had refused to pay and threatened to have me thrown in the nearest canal.
“I’ve heard him touted as a likely member of the Council of Ten,” Aspasia said. “In twenty years or so he’ll be elected procurator to succeed his father.”
“Did he and his father get along?”
Alessa shrugged. “Fairly well, considering how different they were. He could never replace his martyred brothers, of course. And the age gap was so great. Enrico is…” She mused. “Enrico is hard to describe. He shows the world a cold outside, like crystal plate mail. Yet he is passionate. I assure you, he is passionate! I have known him to weep with happiness after making love, spilling tears on my breasts. He wanted to defy his father over me, and I had to persuade him that his career was more important than a mere concubine. And business is hard now…”
Neither Violetta nor I said a word. Alessa perforce continued.
“Not just the House of Orseolo. A hundred years ago the Republic was great, and the Orseolos were great, but then the accursed Portugese found a way around Africa and now the Dutch heretics are stealing our spice trade. Every mercantile house has been declining. The last twenty years have been especially hard for some, but the old man perhaps did not see this as well as he should. He may have blamed Enrico unfairly.”
“Enrico was not there that night, so far as I know,” I said. “Vi?” She had thought of something. I recognized the glow of Minerva’s eyes.
“Who was the girl with the old man on Valentine’s Eve?”
Alessa frowned. “How should I know? Young?”
“Yes, but old enough to turn a man’s wits. Not a courtesan.”
“Ha! I doubt most greatly that old Bertucci ever glanced at a courtesan in his life. He disapproved of lechery. Most likely you saw his granddaughter, Bianca. Enrico has two children, Benedetto and Bianca. Benedetto is studying law in Padua, I believe.”
“And their mother?” Violetta asked.
Alessa sighed. “I never met her. Her family had money, whereas Ca’ Orseolo was one of the oldest houses in the Republic, fallen on rather hard times. She brought him a legendary dowry, but she never even tried to make their marriage work. So he told me.” The courtesan smiled. “Believe as much of that as you want. She died about a year ago.”
Even if she hadn’t, an unhappy wife is more likely to find consolation with a cavaliere servente than poison her father-in-law. I was no nearer to finding a motive for the old man’s murder.
I rose. “I must go, Reverend Mother. I have an appointment with the cardinal-patriarch, who is looking forward to hearing my confession. I am very grateful for your help. It definitely merits another kiss.” I demonstrated.
“Gratitude can be overdone!” Medea dug claws into my arm. “You mustn’t take up too much of the cardinal-patriarch’s time. Come along.”
As usual, she tried to persuade me to take the orthodox road home, because my route is even trickier in that direction, requiring a run down the tiles to gain speed for an upward leap. As usual, I pointed out that I would give away the secret if I was often seen going from 96 to the Ca’ Barbolano and never in the opposite direction.
I did reach the ledge and did catch hold of the bars before I ricocheted off. Had I not, I should not be telling you this. I changed and hastened to the atelier. The Maestro had been busy, for his side of the desk was littered with books and several pages of scribbles left on my side were recognizably draft pages for next year’s almanac, waiting for me to find a few hours to transcribe their snail tracks into legibility. There was also a scrawled note about Isaia Modestus, the second-best physician in the Republic, which I deciphered.
“You want me to transcribe this into a letter?”
The Maestro looked up vaguely. “What? Oh, no. Just go and ask him those questions. And hurry. I have more important things for you to do than waste time on murders.”
I said, “Yes, master,” very sweetly, and headed over to his precious book shelves.
He watched angrily as I recovered the Apologeticus Archeteles from its hiding place.
“Where do you think you are you going with that?”
“ Nasone wants it back. He also wants some of the balm of Gilead and mustard seed ointment. This should be a good time to catch him, because the senate will adjourn after the tributes to Orseolo. He was a witness, so he may have seen something suspicious. Will it be all right if I take him the batch I prepared for madonna Polo and mix more for her this evening?”
The Maestro growled approval. “What did you learn from your friend?”
“Not much.” I had not told him where I was going, but it does not take a great sage long to guess how a young man will react when given an excuse to call on his lover. I went to the alchemical bench, noticing that the jar of digitalis leaves was missing and the other jars had been spread out to hide the space. I made a mental note to dust all the shelves that evening. While spooning the unguent into a fresh container with a spatula, I narrated the little I had learned at Number 96.
“Of course the woman, or girl, was his granddaughter,” the Maestro conceded angrily. “When he took ill, she got to him even before I did, and she did address him as ‘Grandsire.’ I barely noticed her in the book room. I had to keep answering questions.”
“Even so, it isn’t like you to miss a pretty girl.” I got no reply. Maestro Nostradamus has no interest in pretty girls. Or pretty boys. Books, now, or a shapely alembic…
Back at the desk, I wrote out a label for the ointment. I also made a note in the book catalogue that the Zwingli volume had been returned to its owner, and corrected the original entry. Having replaced the catalogue in its hidden compartment, I wrapped the book carefully and tucked it in my satchel with the jar.
By the time I had done all that, the Maestro was again engrossed in his papers, quill flying, ink spraying. I left quietly, locking the door so he would not be disturbed. Giorgio and his slave gang were still at work in the salone -as a matter of honor the twins would have done as little as they dared while their father was away that morning. When he saw my satchel, he began to lecture them on the terrible things that would happen if they slacked off again. I saved their day for them.
“I’d like some help, too,” I said. “Unless you’d rather wash floors?”
“We’d rather be burned at the stake,” Corrado suggested. He is the leader. Christoforo is larger and stronger but does what his brother tells him, never learning who gets punished for it.
“Or row a galley,” Christoforo added, “single-handed.”
“No. I need you to find Doctor Isaia Modestus for me. You know him?”
They both insisted that they did. They were not as certain as they pretended, but everyone in the Ghetto knows Isaia.
“He may be anywhere in the city,” I explained as the four of us trooped downstairs. “Start at his house; they’ll give you an idea where to try next. If you can find him, then I want one of you to stay with him, but keep the other one informed where he is, understand? And that one is to be at the gate of the Ghetto Nuovo when I get there, ready to lead me to the good doctor. Your father will probably have to wait for me at the Molo for some time, so you can report to him there if your quest takes you to that end of the city. Yes,” I added before they incurred Giorgio’s wrath by asking, “you will be richly rewarded.”
“How much?” Corrado demanded eagerly, and this time failed to move his ear faster than the back of his
