The Venetian (25 page)

Twenty Seven

“
T
hey have found him.” The gleam in Gabriele’s unblinking eyes was not one of warmth or humor, the dying light of day skipping from their surface as though off polished stones. “They have found him,” he repeated, “and in, of all places, Candia. Can you imagine? Disguised as a merchant’s agent.” He chuckled, his tone quiet, serene. He was very still, only the mouth moving. His eyes, shining though they were, looked dead. Francesco would have preferred an angry rage. This…tranquility was terrifying.

“Signore…”

“Tell me Francesco,” said Gabriele pleasantly, cutting him off, “you are a merchant, yes?”

“Yes…I am.”

“Yes, you are. And a boastful one as I recall. And yet…”

“Signore…”

“And yet!” The words were like an explosion, reverberating off the stone floors of the dark house, a house new to Francesco, one they had never used before. The merchant recoiled, the chair scraping the rough stones. “And yet,” Gabriele continued, his voice calm once more, “you, the accomplished merchant, the jolly fat man who knows everyone. You were unaware.” Gabriele paused, training his eyes on Francesco. He tilted his head quizzically, trying to work out a conundrum. “How can that be?”

Francesco’s lips parted silently. His mouth was arid, a desert.

Gabriele held up a hand. “I do not wish to hear your excuses Francesco. They will only…unsettle me.” He sighed and looked about the room for the first time since Francesco had arrived. He tapped his feet absently like a child might, and the incongruity of the motion chilled Francesco to the bone. “They will send the
Provveditori,
” Gabriele said with resignation. “What am I to do now?” Francesco dared not answer.

The
Provveditori
, Francesco knew, were state inquisitors dispatched to the Stato da Mar,
usually in threes, to investigate the colonies for corruption and acts of treason. They had been quite busy over the years given the nature of the Republic’s relationship with the Greeks. The more rebellious the colonies had become, the more authority the
Provveditori
had been given. Now, they quite literally had nearly limitless powers in the colonies with unchecked freedom of movement. But despite such authority, in an ironically Venetian twist, they had to endeavor to limit their travel costs as much as possible. Francesco had made a great joke of that fact when he had first heard it, however could find little humor in it now. He knew what this meant. Gabriele wished Paolo to disappear without the nagging inconvenience of jurisprudence, and the
Provveditori
would make that very difficult.

“Francesco,” Gabriele began, still the calm, considered voice of reason, “if I come to find that this failure on your part was due to something other than your gross incompetence,” a lazy finger mixed the air, “something intentional, such as perhaps any misplaced loyalty you may harbor for your former employee, I will hook…hang…and flay you like a fish. Do you understand? No, please, just nod if you do. I do not wish to hear your voice just now.”

Twenty Eight

H
ow long had it been? Two, three months?
Chaya sat at her desk in her small bedroom, wondering how Paolo was faring on Crete. No matter how frequently the name Candia was mentioned in the context of her father’s work—which was often considering all the business conducted there—Chaya refused to refer to the island using its Venetian name. It was Crete, had always been Crete, and no martial occupation on the part of an opportunistic state would change that.

Even though she had not spent much time with him while he had been here, Paolo’s absence still left an empty space, a feeling as unexpected to her as it was pleasant. It was ironic, the feeling of missing someone, a pain that was cherished. They had received a single letter from him. It was brief and coded, as they had discussed, knowing it would be read, and laced with an undercurrent of frustration. She remembered the words because they had frustrated her as well:
Met your cousin, was exactly as described, I seem to have a head for figures after all, please send word, it has been long, how does my family fare?

Nothing about her, not even a bland pleasantry one bestowed for the sake of proper form. They had sent a reply, one he would not like, bereft of information as it was.
Say hello to my cousin, glad to hear you are faring well, family is fine and sends their regards, will write again soon.
As retribution, she was ashamed to note, she took a small amount of pleasure in knowing he would be disappointed by the message. Did he even remember her? True, he had other things on his mind, an understatement. But she wasn’t just another thing.
Basta,
enough. She was acting like a doe-eyed girl, silly. And she was not a silly woman.

Her father entered the bedroom and noted the odd mixture of emotions on her face. “We have work to do,” was all he said.

***

“IT MAKES NO
sense.” Chaya and her father sat at the small kitchen table. It was early evening, the meal just finished, the plates cleaned and put away. They sat sipping spiced tea. Two fat candles on a sideboard cast shadows that scurried across the room. It looked like a meeting of conspirators.

“What makes no sense?” she asked.

“Everything. All of it.” Bercu sat back in his chair, frustrated, waving a hand at the room. “I have half a dozen men making inquiries and none of what I know, which is very little, adds up to anything. The glassblower’s guild is professing its innocence. Passionately.”

“Of course they are. Have you ever come across a more monstrous crime than this? They wanted Ciro dead but do not wish to take the blame.”

Bercu shook his head. “No, if they did not want anyone to know they were the perpetrators, they would not have killed Ciro in such an obvious fashion. The way he was murdered was meant to send a message, a message that would be impossible to mistake.”

Chaya considered it. “Perhaps that is exactly the point.”

“What do you mean?”

Chaya ran a hand through her thick hair; a habit her father knew meant she was working through a particularly thorny puzzle. “They killed Ciro in such a way that it would be impossible to consider anyone else the culprit. Then they profess their innocence with outrageous indignation. If they meant to kill him and not be found out, why, they ask, would they do it in such an obvious manner? Why would they not openly admit to the killing since they intentionally left the scene beyond interpretation?”

Bercu nodded, following the logic. “They are being falsely accused. Someone is using them.” He smiled at his daughter, patting her arm. “Clever girl.”

Chaya blushed as she always did when praised by her father—it meant everything to her. “Exactly,” she said, encouraged. “They kill Ciro in a way that implicates them completely, profess their innocence, and argue the complete lack of logic of the crime as their defense.” Chaya nodded to herself, still working through it. “It is merely only one possibility of course. What else have the men found out?”

“A little more about the other deaths.”

“The other deaths?”

“Yes, something Paolo mentioned that I had the men look into.” Bercu raised his hand, resting his elbow on the table, and ticked off each point on his fingers as he spoke. “Ciro is murdered. A trader, Abramo Lanzi, travels to Alexandria to buy pepper. He never returns.”

“Who is Abramo Lanzi?”

“Listen my sweet. I am telling you.”

Bercu continued. “Another trader is found dead in a canal. Cencio da Riva I believe is the name. Drowned. He was seen by at least a dozen people that same evening at a party, very obviously intoxicated.” He waited for Chaya to speak up again, but she remained silent, hanging on his words. “The host of that party was found some days later, strangled on the street.”

“The one who implicated Paolo?”

“The same.” Bercu smiled. “We come to find out that the missing trader in Alexandria was a friend of Ciro’s. In Ciro’s capacity as the contact between the glassworks and the merchants, he and Lanzi had become friendly. Next da Riva, we now know, was a close associate of our friend Signore Lanzi.” Bercu paused, held up a finger. “And, most interesting of all, our good friend Francesco. Apparently he gave Lanzi his start. He seems to derive some pleasure from helping those less fortunate in their time of need.”

Chaya’s hand was buried in her hair again. “You’re thinking of the job he gave to Paolo.”

Bercu nodded. “In light of this additional information, it seems rather suspicious, no?”

“So, other than the fact that they are all dead, the one thing they have in common is Lanzi,” said Chaya.

“Yes, aside from our strangled host, whose connection to Lanzi is tangential through the drowned trader. But his connection to Paolo is dreadfully clear.”

“So we have one theory and one collection of loosely connected events about which we know too little to formulate a working theory. It is not very much to go on Father.”

“As I said.”

Twenty Nine

H
e lived for this. The bitter winter was fading, it seemed, before his very eyes. The slate gray sky that had dominated the lagoon for so long was cracking, bits of blue peering out from underneath as though ascertaining whether it was safe to emerge. The wind struck Pietro Turri’s face like a hand and he could feel the coming spring in the blow. The other two
Provveditori
were below decks, no doubt clutching their small bunks and praying for a swift conclusion to their voyage. All the better. Turri preferred to be alone. He traversed the deck along the galley’s rail in long strides, his tall thin frame moving with assuredness despite the churn of the water. He found it difficult to remain still, such was his anticipation.

The hawk like nose craned out to sea as though willing the ship forward with greater urgency. It was not an attractive nose, or face for that matter. The eyes somehow appeared not a part of the rest, moving separately it seemed of their own accord. It gave people the notion, not that they could quite put a finger on it though, that Pietro Turri could see things that other men could not. It left them feeling, disconcerted, exposed. It all worked to his advantage given his line of work. No, the face was not an attractive one. Imposing, a better word for it, and between the two, Turri would choose the latter every time.

When the council told him he and his colleagues would need to go to Crete to find the traitor, he had nearly whooped with delight. It would only be the three of them that would make the journey. Rather than bring a contingent of men, to avoid any undue attention, they would use a small group of mercenaries employed by the Republic already on Candia. Hunting down a criminal and bringing him to justice was pleasure enough, but to do so in Crete, the very bastion of lawless rebellion, would truly be a treat. The Greeks were animals, possessing neither the intelligence nor the sense to recognize Venice as their master and protector. They were like a dog attacking someone attempting to feed it. After all a dog, hungry though it may be, is still just a dog.

With any luck Avesari was being helped by the Greeks as well as Venetian settlers and Turri would be forced to punish them.
Would they ever learn?
He doubted it. Venice had laid the world at their feet, turning their little island into a bustling hub of commerce the likes of which they had never seen. The riches of countless nations passed through Candia’s harbor, but rather than accept their place in the world’s greatest enterprise, they instead spat upon the Republic’s generosity.
Independence. Freedom
, the battle cry of the Greeks. They were but pretty words with little meaning to a people incapable of keeping pace with the world. Just as well. Turri smiled, absently wiping at the tears streaming down his face from the biting wind. Learn, don’t learn, it mattered little to him. If the dog doesn’t respond to its training, one must simply use the stick.

***

GIROLAMO DONATO ADMIRED
the sunrise. He hadn’t been able to sleep of late, and had taken to coming out onto the long veranda of the Ducal Palace in the early morning hours to snatch a moment of peace before beginning the day. He watched the light and dark trade places over the harbor,
his
harbor. He pulled the robe tightly about his shoulders, trying to keep the chill at bay. It was a beautiful sunrise, but the Duke of Candia could not appreciate it this morning. He would be meeting with the
Provveditori
later, an engagement he was not looking forward to.

Donato had only been Duke for little over a year, but in that short time he had come to love this place. Unlike many Venetians, he sympathized with the plight of the Greeks and endeavored to use the power of his office to help ease tensions between the two people. The truth, he knew but hated to admit, was that he had very little power. True, he
managed
the island, but he answered directly to the Senate in Venice, and his decisions, his decrees were rarely his own. He was a well-paid marionette, his one-thousand-ducat annual salary a reflection of the supposed importance of his position.

There hadn’t been a major uprising in nearly two hundred years. Of course there were skirmishes and small acts of rebellion all the time. Such things were to be expected given the circumstances, but the ignorant and uninformed of the Senate used these minor acts of defiance to justify egregious taxation and laws designed to oppress the population. Donato could still remember how excited he had been to get the prestigious post. It was a chance to make a difference, to heal the wounds of the past. How foolish he had been. How the
Collegio
must have laughed at him at their dinner parties! Now a good and peaceful day was one in which he received no communication from Venice. Donato sighed heavily as he turned back into the palace, his slippers loudly scraping the stone as though he had not the energy to lift his feet. Today would not be a good and peaceful day.