gondola. She has been known to produce dinner, twins, and supper in the same afternoon. Settling for a small cup of soup, I headed off to my room to make myself respectable.
I had barely removed my shirt before I heard a familiar thumping and the Maestro hobbled in, wielding his staff. He avoids all unnecessary movement, so I was touched that he had made the effort to come and inquire after my well-being.
“Who was ransacking my atelier?” His voice tends to become shrill under stress. Acerbic, brilliant, cantankerous, duplicitous, and encyclopedic, Filippo Nostradamus has a great reputation and a large head, but the Good Lord skimped on the rest of him. Short and scrawny sums him up, and he wears a foolish goatee, which he dyes. His knees and ankles give him much pain, so he would do better leaning on two canes, but prefers an oaken staff taller than he is, inlaid with cabalistic signs in silver and topped by a large crystal. It impresses some people.
I sighed. “No one ransacked anything. Raffaino Sciara read the letter on the desk and took a quick look at the book shelves. Would you care to prescribe a soothing unguent for the lash marks on my back and the burns under my toenails?”
“Why did you let him in here?”
“Because he threatened to arrest me if I didn’t.”
“And then arrested you anyway? Bah! He was bluffing.”
“Four swordsmen are no bluff.”
“Arresting people is Missier Grande ’s job. What did Sciara want?”
“He wanted to tell you something. It can wait.” I turned my back and opened my shaving kit. The oaken staff thumped a few times on the terrazzo, then the door boomed shut.
I made a fast toilet, washing away as much of the prison frowstiness as I could while considering what I was going to wear. Between yesterday’s rain and today’s jail, I was running out of fresh clothes. I decided to poultice my wounded self-esteem by trying out my newest outfit.
Venice is the most beautiful city in the world, a fairyland of islands and canals set in an opalescent lagoon; it boasts a hundred great palaces and as many glorious churches, all of them treasure chests of incomparable art. Curious, is it not, that the people dress mainly in black? Lawyers, doctors, and widows wear black, as do the hordes of priests, nuns, monks, and friars. A nobleman wears a black robe, black bonnets, and a strip of black cloth, a tippet, draped over his left shoulder. Admittedly nobles holding high office bloom in reds and purples and everyone dresses up for Carnival. The only real exception to the prevailing drabness, though, are young men.
I cannot afford to dress in the silks and satins of the true aristocrats, but I emerged from my room resplendent in red knee britches, white stockings, a linen shirt with a modest ruff, puffed sleeves, and lace cuffs, a waist-length doublet striped in blue and white, ornamented with acorn-shaped buttons, topped off with a shoulder cape trimmed with squirrel fur and a bonnet like a gigantic blue puffball. On my way back to the kitchen I had to go by the mop-wielding slave gang, and I noted the gleam in Corrado’s eye as I approached. The moment I passed, he predictably muttered something admiring about buns, and then yelped as the back of my hand cracked against his ear. Christoforo squealed with laughter.
Even Giorgio grinned. “Let that teach you not to sass swordsmen,” he said. They are all impressed that a mere apprentice like me can take fencing lessons, but the Maestro pays for them because he is physically very vulnerable and works a dangerous trade. I have known him advise wives to stay away from their husbands for their own protection, for example, and that is an excellent way to make enemies.
Predictably, Mama had provided a bathtub-sized bowl of pidocchi soup and a cannonball of mozzarella cheese, my favorite. When I let myself into the atelier, the Maestro was seated at his desk, peering into a book. Three more were stacked within reach, and I recognized them all as herbals. He scowled as I laid down my tray. He has so little interest in food that I keep track of his meals to make sure he eats at all.
“I can take it to the dining room if it bothers you,” I said, “but on reconsideration, I think my news is urgent.”
He pouted. “Sit, then.” He pouted even more as he studied my appearance. “A gift from your friend?”
“Certainly not!” I pirouetted, to increase his enjoyment. “Most of last year’s income and half of this year’s. An apprentice who fails to flout the sumptuary laws reflects badly on his master.” I sat down and tied a napkin around my neck to protect my freshly starched ruff.
The big double desk works well for us. We can pass documents back and forth readily. He is left-handed, I am right-, so we can both have light from the windows on our work. Noting that the medicinals I had bought the previous day had been removed, I started in on my delicious pidocchi, made from the sea louse, which is not as bad as it sounds, being a type of shellfish. Soup is easier to eat while talking than most things are-except when it is scalding hot, and Mama does make her dishes hot.
“So what was this message?” the Maestro demanded.
“I paid the gondolier five soldi.”
His eyes glinted. “That’s your privilege if you’re too lazy to walk.”
“True. But then I can’t be here for another twenty minutes.”
I spooned soup, smacking my lips to decorate the silence. I’m never quite sure when his crabbiness is genuine and when he’s just staging a fit of pique for our mutual amusement.
This time he conceded the point. “Enter it in the ledger, then.”
“Oh, thank you, master! Most generous of you. As you foresaw, we had an important visitor about an hour after midnight. I congratulate you on the quatrain. Admirable personification, antanaclasis, and metonymy.” I gulped and winced my way through my soup and the events of the night while the Maestro never took his eyes off me. He kept his book open and his finger on the place.
“It was a charade, of course,” I concluded. “The doge is the only permanent member of the Ten and Sciara has been Circospetto for years, so they must know how to work together. They want to give you a chance to escape before they are forced to open a formal inquiry. Sciara was mad that you were not here for him to bully. That’s all.”
“If you believe that, you’re even more naive than you look.” My master smiled, meaning he bunched up his cheeks and stretched his lips sideways without showing his teeth.
With saintly patience, I said, “If you had been home last night, Sciara would have given you the message and left, taking his guards with him. You weren’t, so he made the point more forcibly by scaring me half to death. But the doge is insistent-you must flee!”
I could guess what was coming from the jutting angle of the goatee.
“No! I’m too old to start over somewhere else. There is my wealth-” He waved a hand at the bookshelves. “Will you carry them for me? And where will I find a new clientele, a new palace to live in, new printers for my almanacs?”
I sympathized. I did not want to run away either, to be a homeless vagrant. But the risk was appalling.
“Can you prove that Procurator Orseolo died of apoplexy or hemorrhage or anything other than poison?”
The Maestro removed his finger and slammed the book shut. “Of course not. As soon as I examined him I knew he had been poisoned.”
I burned my tongue and spluttered. “Did you say so?”
“You think I am an idiot?”
“Not until now. It wasn’t your doing, I hope?”
“No, it was not.” The fact that he answered the question at all showed that he was worried. He could see his predicament; it was the solution he rejected.
I cut myself a hunk of bread and a wad of mozzarella. Needing some chewing time, I said, “If you didn’t poison him, who did?”
“I don’t know.” He seemed to shrink slightly, unaccustomed to admitting ignorance. “Ottone Imer is an attorney of citizen class and a bibliophile with more taste than money. Alexius Karagounis is a book dealer from Athens. He had some rare volumes to offer-looted from some Macedonian monastery, no doubt. Imer invited a few of the city’s most prominent collectors to view them at his house.”
In this case prominent meant wealthy. The Greek would face tax or licensing problems if he tried to sell the books openly in the Republic. Imer had acted as official host in return for a commission, and the learned Doctor Nostradamus had been hired as a consultant to testify to the works’ authenticity. He was a prominent collector too,
