The Alchemist's Apprentice (16 page)

Outside, the Piazza was being swept by damp gusts of February. Official mourning had also helped reduce the usual bustle, but the mountebanks at their stalls were still hawking their quack nostrums. The beggars were still in evidence, the hawkers, porters, priests, nuns, monks, and, of course, the inevitable crowds of aimless foreigners from all corners of the world. I could not hear their voices, but I could guess at many of the costumes—Egypt, Turkey, Dalmatia, Spain, France, Greece, England.

Leaving the depressing wintery sight, I went to admire a large Titian, a family group adoring the Virgin: two men and five youngsters, no wives and mothers allowed. Titian died when I was a toddler, so even if this were a late work, as the fashions suggested, the old man on the right was the wrong generation to be our murdered procurator. I recognized the martyred Bertucci in the heavy-jawed central figure who dominated the composition, the suppliant who would have paid for the painting. He was wearing the robes of a ducal counselor. The children were his brood as listed for us by Alessa—two youths destined to die abroad, two girls to burn in a convent fire, and Enrico. After so much tragedy, it seemed macabre to keep the picture hanging in full view. My mental image of the late Bertucci Orseolo was not yet clear enough to tell me if he had been a maudlin romantic who enjoyed weeping at the sight of his dead children, or the exact opposite, a Spartan with a marble heart and the hide of a crocodile.

Violetta joined me and went through the same reasoning. “That must be Enrico,” she said, pointing to the youngest boy. “The only one of the lot still living.”

The workmen had cleared the last of the furniture and were rolling up a rug at the far end of the hall, ignoring us. From the noises I could hear, the entire house was infested with them.

I was just about to head for another picture—a mythological free-for-all between centaurs and armed nudists—when a rapid tap of heels made me turn, knowing that whoever was coming was not Bianca. He was about my age; tall, self-assured, and holding his chin high as befitted a man whose ancestors had helped rule the Republic for nine hundred years. He wore a black robe of mourning with a train, a black bonnet, and a sling supporting his right arm, all of them beautifully tailored, even the sling.

“Sister Maddalena? May I ask what business you have intruding on my sister's—” Silence.

Violetta had folded back her veil again. His face turned ivory-white. My heart dropped like an anchor.

She curtseyed. “My most sincere sympathy on your loss, Bene.”

“You are no nun!”

She smiled. “As you well know.”

“What do you want with my sister? Why does a harlot force herself on a girl of patrician rank? She says you were here yesterday, too.”

“I came to help her, Benedetto.”

“Help
her? Help her in what way?”

He had recovered from his first shock and was moving swiftly to anger. Had I been alone I might have taken to my heels, but I was much more frightened about what might happen to Violetta than I was about any danger to me.

Aspasia remained serene and confident. “How are you enjoying Padua?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Who suggested you go there?” Her smile would have dissolved the stoniest heart. “Be fair, Benedetto! Admit that you have benefitted from my help in the past. When I made you welcome in my bed, you called me courtesan, not that other word.”

He colored. “State your business!”

She sighed. “May I present
sier
Alfeo Zeno? Will you listen to what he has to say, please, Benedetto? Then you will see why this is important.”

At a glance Benedetto assessed my best outfit as rags and me as poor trash, probably her pimp. He barely nodded to my bow.

“
Clarissimo
,” I said, “my sympathy on your sad loss. The news I bring can only increase the pain. Your honored grandfather,” and I pointed up at the painting, “was murdered.”

He bristled. “I give you two minutes to justify that remark.”

“One will suffice. You have no doubt heard gossip that the procurator's death was prophesied in a horoscope prepared for him by Maestro Nostradamus. Your sister may have told you that the doctor Nostradamus who came to his aid when he took ill at the supper party was the same man. He immediately recognized the symptoms of a certain poison. Whether you believe in astrology, as your grandfather did, or scoff at it like His Serenity Pietro Moro, you must acknowledge that Nostradamus is a celebrated doctor. He says that your grandfather was poisoned. I am helping him discover who did this terrible thing.”

Sier
Benedetto rallied. “On whose authority? Is the Grand Council so desperate for candidates that it is electing boys as state inquisitors?”

“I was instructed to make these inquiries by a close friend of your grandfather's, Pietro Moro himself.”

He glanced at my sword and then said, “Rubbish! Have you tried to tell my father this? You expect me to believe it?”

Actually I did not, but I was determined to keep trying, because the alternative was excessively unappealing. “I assure you,
clarissimo
, that His Serenity granted me not just one, but two, audiences on this matter yesterday. You have heard of the Greek, Alexius Karagounis, who was selling the books?” Receiving a nod, I forged ahead, trying to seem as assured as Violetta. “This morning I called upon Alexius Karagounis, being assisted in my inquiries by the
vizio
, Filiberto Vasco.”

“So?” But Vasco's name had sown a seed of doubt.

“Rather than answer our questions, Karagounis leaped out a window to his death,
clarissimo.
”

Workmen with ladders had started taking down the paintings and propping them against the walls, ready for carpenters to come and crate them. I should have preferred a more private meeting place, but there probably wasn't one in the house.

Under happier circumstances, the turmoil of conflicting emotions in Benedetto's face would have been amusing. “So you consort with the
vizio
as well as the doge?”

“Reluctantly.
Missier Grande
and
Circospetto
are also cooperating. I have no official standing, but the Republic is backing my inquiries.” And all of them would deny me if asked.

“Sier
Alfeo is being modest, Bene,” Violetta said. “This morning he was set upon and almost murdered by a gang of bravos.”

“I am not surprised to hear it.”

Wearing a sword carries certain obligations and I had taken as much as I could reasonably be expected to stand. Despite the throbbing pain in my leg, I laid a hand on my sword hilt.
“Messer
, you hide behind a claim of injury or of nervous prostration brought on by grief?”

He paled. “You
dare
?”

“My name is written in the Golden Book. Yours does not deserve to be.”

“Stop that, both of you!” Medea's eyes flashed fire. “Bene, you should withdraw your remark.”

He bit his lip. “I spoke without thinking,
clarissimo.
”

“And I in haste.” We bowed to each other. My standing had improved.

“I have good reason to believe that the attack on me was related to the matter of your grandfather's murder.”

Young Benedetto was visibly drooping under the load we had just piled on his shoulders. He made an effort to straighten them. “My father must be informed of all this. And the first thing he will ask is why the state inquisitors are employing a…” He looked at me in disbelief. “This
nobleman
to conduct their inquiries for them.”

“It is a tribute to the esteem in which your late grandfather was held,” I told him. “Do you really want your sister interrogated by the Three? Everyone is trying to head off formal proceedings that must be a harrowing experience to those involved. For example, where were you on Saint Valentine's Eve?”

His outrage did not convince. “You dare suspect
me
?”

“You think the Three will not?”

“I don't care if they do.” That was juvenile bravado and unbelievable. “I was not even in the city. I was in Padua—in jail. There was a duel and I was accused of drawing first.” Hence the sling, of course. It was probably a sound alibi and I would get nowhere by asking to see his wound.

“I hope you killed him?” Helen asked sweetly.

He turned to her in anger, but her smile can melt any man. It won a tiny, shamefaced grin. “I didn't get near him. But I will next time.” Then he swung back to me. “If what you say is true,
clarissimo
, the Greek's suicide was an admission of guilt.”

I shrugged. “My master has good reason to believe that it was not, strange as that may seem. But you are undoubtedly right if you think that the Ten are likely to accept that explanation. And in that case your grandfather's killer will escape to enjoy the benefits of his crime. Is that acceptable to you and your honored father?”

Before he could answer, I continued. “Obviously if you were in Padua that night, you were not the killer. Your father was not in the Imer house either. But your sister was. No!” I raised both hands to hold back an explosion. “I am not suggesting that she poisoned your grandfather. But she may have seen something vital. I beg you,
clarissimo
, to allow us to ask her a few simple questions. It will not take long.”

Benedetto was out of his depth. He had much growing up to do yet. “Tell me your questions and I shall go and put them to her.”

I set my jaw in the notch labeled
stubborn
. “My master's orders are that I speak with her in person,
messer.
”

“Then you must call on her when my father is present.”

“I have only one more day to complete my investigation before I must report to the authorities. Shall I say that your honored sister refused to answer my questions?”

“That is a foul lie!”

“Then I must tell the truth, which is that she was not permitted to. Expect
Missier Grande
to come calling tomorrow.” I bowed and offered my arm to Violetta.

She cried, “Oh, no, Alfeo! How awful for her!”

“Wait!” Benedetto snarled. “Did you tell her that you and I were once intimate?”

Violetta's eyes twinkled like stars. “Only once, Bene? You were never satisfied with once. But no, I certainly did not mention that to her. I never discuss my patrons with anybody.”

“If I permit this, then you will remain Sister Maddalena in her presence and you will never have anything to do with my sister ever again, is that agreed—no visits, no letters, nothing?”

“Bene, you know you can rely on my discretion. Of course.”

“And you will never pester her either, Zeno.”

“Certainly.” I bowed.

“Wait here!” His heels went clicking away across the terrazzo to the door.

“You did that beautifully, my dear,” Helen purred, easing me away from the Titian as the ladder crew closed in on it. We wandered towards the empty center of the big room.

“You did more than I did. How long were you a friend of
messer
Benedetto?”

She smiled cryptically. “I never discuss my patrons.”

“Then discuss his grandfather. Why did somebody hate him enough to murder him?”

I thought for a moment she would not answer, but she was just working out what she would tell me.

“He was strict, and had his own ideas. You know that rich families sometimes hire a courtesan as tutor when a boy reaches the age to study calligraphy?”

“Penmanship?”

“Joined-up writhing.”

I laughed. “Yes, Aspasia.”

“And physical intimacy may blossom into friendship. I recall one young man who was very upset and desperately wanted my advice. He said his grandfather was planning to launch his political career right away by entering him in the Santa Barbara's Day lottery.”

Every December the Great Council admits thirty youngsters as young as twenty, the creamiest of the cream, scions destined for greatness. The odds of winning a seat are good for anyone, and I would have been very surprised if an Orseolo had failed to win, because there are ways to adjust lotteries. Putrid would do it if I told him to. You should know by now why I never would, but there are other practitioners of the occult in the Republic and some have nothing left to lose.

“The young man in question,” she continued, “did not want that. He wanted to get away from home, poor little rich boy. He babbled about volunteering to be a gentleman archer on a galley. His ambition was to be a sailor, a great merchant trader like his ancestors. His grandfather would have blocked him. I suggested he ask to study law at the University of Padua. The old man accepted that compromise. It got him out of the city, at least.”