The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (61 page)

This was the knowledge that came to play as he moved silently along the familiar path to his father’s house, inched through the window, crept up the cellar stairs past the doctor’s curtained door, and sneaked into the doctor’s study.

There he mounted the set of library steps beside the bookcase and, agile as a monkey, reached up to the very top shelf for a rolled-up painted canvas tucked behind a bound set of
The Letters of Marcus Aurelius
. It was his mother’s portrait rendered by Andrea Mantegna. Beside it sat the familiar cloth-of-gold book bag in which his mother’s secret book was kept, tied with a velvet ribbon.

His next stop was the blanket chest in his bedroom, where he retrieved the jeweled dagger he had received with the Sultan’s blessing on the day of the boar hunt. Then he stooped to loosen his girdle and to carefully wrap a canvas around his body. And after securing the book in its gold bag around his neck, he made for the cellar stairs.

As he approached the door of the doctor’s room he was hit by an urge to take a chance and embrace the father he might never see again. But if Saida was right, as she so often was, that might be putting his father in danger.

With a sigh and a shake of the head, he resisted the impulse and threaded his way, without mishap, out of sight of the foot patrols that surrounded the house. He didn’t look back until he was cuddled up in the straw of Bucephalus’s stall, ready to be found when Narcissus came to fetch him just before dawn.

“Psst! Wake up! And take off your pants.”

“But —”

“No time for buts.” The slave held out a hand to help the sleepy page to his feet. “Your ship sails at sun-up and Italian captains are never tardy.”

“But I don’t need —”

“Oh, yes, you do.” The eunuch reached into the carpet bag hanging on his arm and held out a pair of sky-blue pants. “Put these on.”

“They’re blue,” Danilo protested.

“What did you expect? Violet? That’s for Armenians. Sky blue is the Jew color. And remember this: aboard the
San Domenico
you are the Jewish son of a Jewish merchant traveling home to Italy from Persia.”

Once again the slave rummaged around in his satchel and this time brought forth a pair of sky-blue slippers. “The princess went to a great deal of trouble to get these dyed for you.”

Reluctantly, Danilo took off his precious yellow slippers. “Can I wear my caftan at least? The Sultan gave it to me when I rode for him in the hippodrome.”

The eunuch stood back to consider this. “What kind of a merchant wears a brocade caftan with a miniver lining?”

Years of living under constant surveillance had sharpened the page’s ability to invent quick responses. “A rich Jewish merchant,” he answered without a pause. “He would be bringing the caftan home to show off in the marketplace.” Then he added, “Rich merchants get themselves dressed up in Italy,” trying to sound as if he actually knew from personal experience how rich merchants comported themselves in Italy. Then, seeing no improvement in the eunuch’s doubtful countenance, he added, “The Mediterranean is a very cold sea. I don’t think your mistress would like me to catch a fever and die out there without a cloak.”

“Very well. Wear the caftan. This is for your head,” he said, holding out a square black headpiece with silk fringes hanging from the corners.

Danilo understood the rules of games: you win some, you lose some. He held out his hand gamely, but as he placed the hat on his head he made a counter demand: “You understand I must carry my
gerit
with me.”

“You must not,” the slave replied with equal conviction. “Jew merchants do not travel with lances.” Clearly, the point was not negotiable. But then, because even a stone would be moved by the picture of dejection on the proud young face, the slave added, “You can buy a new weapon in Italy. You will be well able to afford it. Now put on the hat.”

“Can’t I even wear my turban?”

“This hat is a Jew hat. Wear it. And keep your blond Frankish hair hidden. The princess wanted me to give you a henna rinse, but there isn’t time. So keep the Jew hat on at all times. Which reminds me . . .” Once again the eunuch dove into his capacious bag. “You don’t want to get this stuff in your eyes. It stings.”

He uncapped a small jar, and Danilo began to feel the fat fingers dabbing away at his face with a greasy concoction that he could see through his half-closed eyes was the color of mud.

Finally, with his wardrobe complete, his fair hair tucked into his fringed hat, and his light skin browned to a deep tan, Davide dei Rossi, the dark-complexioned son of a merchant from Mantova, followed his minder out into the night and down the steep path to the shore of the Bosphorus.

There a dilapidated barge awaited, a craft too decrepit to attract attention even at this ungodly hour. The bargeman had received his orders not to cross the Bosphorus directly but to deposit his passengers well below the Galata docks. Taking the roundabout way, the barge dipped south of the Sultan’s marble quay into the quiet waters of the Golden Horn, where it was tied up at the royal shipworks, a yard certain to be deserted until after the first morning prayer.

Once on shore, the bulky eunuch and the swarthy Jew page turned into the warren of back alleys, where the only sound to be heard in the silent night was the raucous cry of the night watchman and the tip-tap of his staff on the cobbles as he made his way past the massive warehouses that lined these lanes. As the furtive pair crept along they began to hear the first sounds of the day: the spitting of camels, the meowing of cats, and the occasional plop of a wet fish being landed. Danilo felt something soft against his ankle — a cat, one of the hundreds that scavenged the docks. He was tempted to kick it aside, but on second thought if he did it would probably squeal and give them away.

At the turn into the quay stood a Greek charcoal burner with a face as black as hell — and a heart, they say, to match. And straight ahead, Danilo found himself facing a galleon clearly identified by the legend on the side of the prow:
San Domenico
.

Beside him in the shadows, Narcissus pointed at the gangway. Stationed there, ramrod straight and fully armed, stood one of the Sultana’s Men in Black, his head encased in a dark woolen face-mask, his musket cocked.

Was this a single sentry, one of many scattered around the city to search out a treasonous page? Was he stationed by the ship because the eunuch’s plan had been discovered? Believing the worst, Narcissus gave Danilo the sign of defeat — palms to the sky, head bowed. But Danilo del Medigo was, as his Albanian riding master once observed, of the breed that never gave up. Motioning the slave back into the shadows, the page leaned down and took a kick at the cat, which squealed.

“Are you mad?” Narcissus barked. “The masked man will come to get us.”

“Exactly.” For the first time in a long evening of submissions, Danilo took command. “Do as I say. When he comes over to investigate, poke your head out and back — just enough to decoy him.”

“He will kill us both.” The slave was shaking with fear.

“I can take him,” Danilo insisted.

“Are you blind?” Narcissus pointed to the musket. “He’s armed.”

“So am I.” Danilo reached into the folds of his girdle for the jeweled dagger hidden in a scabbard at his waist. “The Sultan promised me that if I kept this weapon with me it would always protect me. All you have to do is give that guard a quick sight of you to get him over here. I will do the rest.”

With that, he gave the cat another kick. The cat squealed.

This time the guard took the bait. Weapon aimed, he marched across the quay to where Danilo and Narcissus were hidden in the shadows of the warehouse.

“Step out, whoever you are! Step out or I will shoot!”

Danilo took a swing at Narcissus’s backside, forcing him to straighten up and show a flash of white turban. The sentry stepped into the darkness, his weapon pointed at the slave’s white turban. As he lunged for the headpiece, a lithe figure sprang out with a dagger held high to stab the masked man full force in the chest. Once, twice . . . On the third thrust the guard collapsed into a shapeless puddle of blackness.

Moving slowly and with great care, Narcissus knelt beside the body, placed his ear against the sentry’s open mouth, gave a nod, yanked the dagger out of the dead man’s wound, wiped the blood off on his pant leg, and held it out to Danilo.

“You may be needing this on your journey,” he muttered. “Now help me.” He grabbed the inert body by the feet and started to drag it into the closest doorway. “This body will stay out of sight here until after the first prayer. By the time these places open you will be far away sailing over the Sea of Marmora.”

Little glints of sun were beginning to shine through the early morning clouds, but not brightly enough to light up the two shadowy figures creeping across the wide swath of boardwalk and slithering up the gangway onto the anchored
San Domenico
.

The slave led the way along the lower deck to the stern of the ship and the ship’s castle, a small, stout three-storied turret. On the top tier of the little tower sat the wheel the helmsman used to guide the vessel. The level below housed the crew’s eating table surrounded by sheepskins that served as seats by day and mattresses by night. A few steps below deck there was a small round cabin with no portholes called the
pizola
, a room normally reserved for the use by the ship’s owners. It was small and airless, to be sure, but the most private and comfortable space on the vessel, and, as Narcissus was at pains to explain to Danilo, it had been made available for his comfort at some cost.

“Captain Loredano has been well paid to carry you safely ashore at Venice,” he pointed out.

“Venice?” Until this moment Danilo had given no thought to his destination. “I was thinking the port of Rome.”

“Rome is where the pope lives. You will be much safer in Venice. Think yourself lucky. If
San Domenico
were bound for Genova you would be spending at least two extra weeks at sea.”

Suddenly the voyage ahead took on a new reality. “How many weeks will it take to get to Venice?” Danilo asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Only six or eight. A couple of months if the winds go against you.” The slave was in charge once again as he inspected the cabin, shaking out the coverlet in search of insects and vermin. “Think of what’s in store for you,” he went on, oblivious to Danilo’s distress. “Cruising the Mediterranean in the owner’s cabin on a grand sailing ship.”

Danilo shuddered at the thought. His mind leapt back to the voyage across the stormy Mediterranean a decade ago, when he and his mother took to the sea in flight from the sack of Rome. He shivered.

Narcissus reached over to cover him with a shawl thrown over the bunk and continued. “You should be counting your blessings, with everything planned for your comfort and safety.” He reached into his carpet bag and held up a leather purse on a metal chain. “Spending money,” he explained as he wound the chain around Danilo’s neck. “The princess thinks of everything.”

“God bless her,” muttered Danilo, half lost in memories of the savage Mediterranean storm.

“You must never remove this wallet from your person.” Danilo heard a click at the back of his neck as the chain of the purse was fastened.

“Not even when I sleep?”

“Especially then. That is when the thieves come out. Many of the oarsmen on this vessel are slaves impressed into the Venetian naval service. They will not hesitate to rob you blind. Try to remember that you are no longer a penniless page. The purse is full of gold.”

Now the slave held out the carpet bag itself. “Inside you will find a set of identity papers should you need them. You are described as Davide dei Rossi, a member of the dei Rossi family in the service of the Gonzaga dukes of Mantova. These papers should see you past the Venetian customs officers who will meet the ship at the
dogana
before it docks at San Marco. Speak Italian to them. And once you are in the city, my mistress says that you will easily find fellow Jews to help you settle.”

He was interrupted by a loud clang of the ship’s bells.

“That,” he informed Danilo, “is the warning bell. At the next bell this ship departs, and I do not intend to be on it. So listen carefully,” he said, wiggling his forefinger for emphasis. “Do not leave this cabin until you are out in open water. Rest, sleep, anything, but do not be seen. And when the captain addresses you as Signor dei Rossi do not look surprised. The princess picked that name to put on your forged documents because it is the name of your mother’s family. Remember you are no longer a page in the Sultan’s
cul’.
If anyone asks for your name . . . ?”

“I say I am Davide dei Rossi.” Danilo repeated the name like a catechism. “My father is a merchant in Mantova.”

The slave nodded approvingly and, without another word, waddled over to the ladder leading up to the deck. Then, teetering at the top of the stairs, he turned. “Think of it this way. You are a rich tourist cruising the Mediterranean in first-class style.”

But, try as he did to feel rich and touristy, what dominated Danilo’s thoughts was his voyage long ago en route from Rome to Istanbul through these very same waterways. As he peered out through the porthole he could feel in his bones the icy waters of the Mediterranean sloshing over the deck and sliding in under their cabin door. He could almost hear his mother’s voice beseeching God not to let them drown and could feel the choke of terror at the thought of pirates in the nearby coves lying in wait for their ship.