The man might be a seducer and predator but more likely was just a crazy young lover like me. I would return Grazia to the unwelcome attentions of the king of coins, whoever he was, or condemn her to lifelong imprisonment in a convent, but her swain faced even more terrible consequences.
Nowhere is far from anywhere in Venice. I recognized the Sanudo arms of anchor and swan on a gondola tied up at some public watersteps, and Giorgio pointed out the house about three doors along. The arcades of rounded arches in white Istrian stone marking the ground floor and piano nobile were in Byzantine style, so it was probably at least three hundred years old. It was also much smaller than I expected and squeezed between two larger buildings, an odd contradiction of Violetta’s judgment that Sanudo might possess enough wealth to serve as doge. Some junior government posts pay a stipend but the senior ones do not. Some bring a severe financial burden, which reserves them for the rich. Perhaps Zuanbattista was merely observing the old republican tradition of frugality.
I banged a big brass knocker in the shape of an anchor. The door swung open almost at once, as if someone had been waiting for me, and the opener was no mere servant, but Minister Girolamo himself, the man Violetta had pointed out to me at the theater. Nobles shed their formal robes at home, and he was dressed like any other rich man, in breeches and hose, doublet and cape, with a fashionable white ruff, although the outfit was less colorful than most and of humbler stuff than the silk I should have expected. It seemed odd for a man of his age and station.
Hand on heart, I bowed, but he spoke before I could.
“ Sier Alfeo?”
“ Sier Girolamo, Maestro Nostradamus sends me with good news, messer.” Goodness always depends on one’s point of view. I would rather have delivered bad.
“Then you are doubly welcome to our house. Come and comfort my parents. My mother is anxious for word.” I heard a hint that the Sanudo menfolk were humoring the foolish woman. “You know where Grazia is?” He bowed me in and almost rushed me along the hallway to the stairs.
There were no heaped bales and kegs of merchandise in Ca’ Sanudo, as there were in Ca’ Barbolano, but the walls were lined with bookcases all the way to the end and the floor was cluttered with crates, a few of which stood open, revealing that they contained books. The air was sickly with the odor of wood, varnish, and leather. This was a major library, many times larger than the Maestro’s, but of course Zuanbattista had inherited the estate of his publisher brother-in-law.
“My master has foreseen her,” I said, reluctant to have to tell the story twice. In fact, of course, the quatrain had given me a fair idea of where Grazia had gone and certainly the Maestro had seen that also, but the prophecy said to wait for her tomorrow on the Riva del Vin, so that was our best chance of apprehending her.
Giro mumbled something about not being properly settled in yet as we reached the midpoint of the hall and turned to climb the stairs. The treads were dished by centuries of feet, and slightly tilted. That is typical of Venice, built on the mud of the lagoon; everything sags after a century or two.
“It is astonishing,” he said, probably meaning clairvoyance.
Of course lawyers are trained not to be too human or too trusting. What could be more alien to them than clairvoyance? If we all had it, they would all be out of work. If Giro himself was at all surprising, it was that he seemed surprisingly nondescript for a nobile homo. His hose covered spindly calves; his shoulders were narrow, his face, voice, and manner equally uninspired. Violetta had called him a nonentity.
We turned at the mezzanine level and a second flight brought us to the piano nobile. More crates stood around there, several of them too large and flat to contain anything other than paintings. Among them stood pedestals and busts, and a couple of freestanding statues, awkwardly placed. The Sanudos were still in the process of moving into their new city home.
Amid this transient clutter stood our host, smiling through his forest of beard. He, too, had discarded his formal robes, and he greeted me as an equal, which was an astonishing concession to my humble station. No aristocratic reserve there- Sier Zuanbattista was probably even more of a skeptic about clairvoyance than his son, but I was a guest and he had a politician’s slant on life. By the time he was ready to make his play for doge, I might be a voting member of the Great Council.
“My wife is lying down,” he explained. “She is very distressed, as you would expect.”
Distressed enough to throw away a thousand ducats; distressed enough for him to keep her well away so she couldn’t increase her offer.
A house clamped between its neighbors could have no windows along the sides. He led me to the rear and ushered me into a fine salotto, where several fine bronzes looked happily at home and seven paintings screamed at me to come and admire them. I also wanted to gawk at the ceiling decorations and the terrazzo floor design and even the furniture, which I rarely notice. The full-length windows stood open on a small balcony, providing welcome air on a sweltering day and a fine view of a surprisingly spacious and well-tended garden. I already knew the Ca’ Sanudo had a garden, of course, but the sight of it raised my appreciation of the house. It was old and small, but exquisite as a reliquary.
“ Sier Alfeo Zeno,” my host proclaimed loudly, presenting me to a heap of laundry in a large chair, “Maestro Nostradamus’s assistant. Madonna Fortunata Morosini.”
The laundry nodded without taking her eyes off the crucifix she clutched in both hands on her lap. She was old and her all-black garb was normal widows’ wear, but her face was swarthy, slashed and corroded by a million sour wrinkles, as if her life had been an endless series of disappointments, like the devil’s mother’s. Had I been a girl of fifteen summers with this Fortunata hag as my chaperone, I would have thrown her out the window instead of myself.
“Pray be seated, sier Alfeo,” Zuanbattista said. “Now what news?”
Giro remained standing. Fortunata just stared at her crucifix. I would be the highlight of her next confession.
I said, “The Maestro has foreseen your daughter, Excellency. He is confident that we can intercept her.”
“Go on! Where?”
“‘When?’ is more to the point,” I said. “The Maestro foresaw me accosting her in a certain public place early tomorrow morning.”
The two men exchanged pouts.
“But where is she now?” Giro demanded.
“That was not revealed to him.”
“Go back and tell him to try again!”
“He could not, not today. He is exhausted. Believe me, Your Excellencies, I have tried many times to see visions in the crystal as he does. I rarely succeed, and when I do I expect my head to explode with the pain.”
My admission made them squirm. The Church might burn me for it. Old Fortunata crossed herself, an unexpected movement proving that she was still with us in this vale of tears.
“That is illogical!” Giro complained. “Why can he foresee tomorrow and not today?”
Nostradamus may risk brushing off a patrician’s questions, but I do not have an international reputation to protect me. “The way he has explained it to me, Excellency, is that there are many possible futures. The Lord gives all His children free will. There is a future where you decide to go to early Mass on Sunday, and a future where you go later, yes? There may be others, but only one of them will come to pass. The ideal situation would be that whoever has taken your sister has firm plans to remain in one place for a while, or be in some place at a certain time-a rendezvous, say. You see? Then one future is much more likely than the others and my master can foresee it and advise on appropriate action. If anything interferes to upset their plans, then the image blurs and disappears, like a canal reflection when a gondola goes by. Does that make sense?”
“No. Where is she now? She must be somewhere.”
“Certainly, but the Maestro has to discover where that is. She and her, um, captors may be drifting aimlessly in a boat on the lagoon. Or she may be tied up in a dark attic-” My listeners hastily crossed themselves. “Either way my master might see her in his trance and still be unable to tell where she is. Whereas it is also possible that they have made an appointment to meet someone tomorrow at a certain time and place. Is that still illogical?”
“No,” Giro admitted. “That makes sense.” He meant that it was a plausible excuse, not that he believed it.
