Winds of Folly (2 page)

Il Diavolo
observed this prospect with quiet satisfaction. He had made careful preparations for this evening and for once he desired an audience – awe if not appreciation, horror if not applause. The nuns of San Paolo di Mare and their eager young pupils had become notorious, even in libertarian Venice, for their indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh, though the extent and precise nature of their depravity was a mystery, even to the Devil. He had sent his infiltrators, of course, under suitable disguise, but they brought back mixed report: some so lurid he suspected a degree of exaggeration to earn his approbation, others painting a picture of such pious adherence to the vows of the Order his men could only have been bribed by those they had been sent to watch. And one dedicated subordinate
had exhibited the marks of a cane upon his posterior, though it could not be ascertained for certain whether they had been inflicted with sexual intent or out of a normal Christian zeal for chastisement.

Il Diavolo
did not care either way. His current preoccupation with the inner workings of the Convent of San Paolo di Mare had nothing to do with rumours of sexual or spiritual excess, but with more recent report that the good sisters, and one in particular, had been dabbling in affairs that were the exclusive domain of the ruling Council of Ten. And must, of necessity, be discouraged.

From his eyrie across the water he scanned the crowded balconies opposite. The nuns had made a special effort for the occasion. They were adorned in their finest apparel – not a single black tunic or veil between them – and their guest-list almost certainly included some of the most esteemed names in the Golden Book. This, too, was entirely to Cristolfi's satisfaction. He was of the enlightened opinion that for justice to be done, it must be
seen
to be done, even if the means of applying it might be deemed excessive by more squeamish authorities.

His keen eye spotted a movement on one of the upper balconies. Two figures had emerged from the room within. Both were masked, but Cristolfi knew exactly who they were. The woman was Sister Caterina, the Deputy Prioress of the convent, formerly the actress Caterina Caresini and a famous beauty. Which was presumably why she had chosen an elegant Colombine, masking only the upper part of her lovely face. And the man, who wore a plain white
volto
with black tricorn and cloak, was the English Ambassador, Sir Richard Worsley.

Fireworks were clearly not the chief reason for the Ambassador's presence here tonight, for the couple had missed most of the display. One final extravagant bombardment and it was over. There was cheering and applause – but not a lot,
not enough to justify the expense, in Cristolfi's view. Then balconies began to clear and boats to disperse as their varied occupants sought other, less innocent diversions.

Not yet, the Devil silently instructed them, not yet. There was one more spectacle for them to watch: one that would, he hoped, make what had preceded it appear tawdry by comparison. He scanned the crowded canal with unusual concern. Everything depended upon timing and this was an element not entirely within his control. Then he saw it – a simple, black gondola, with no especial mark of distinction, weaving its expert way through the ruck of boats on the canal. Only its direction and a certain purposeful manner gave it away, for it was heading against the flow of traffic and towards the steps of the convent. Cristolfi's eyes rose to the upper balcony. She had seen it, too. Her head bent towards that of her companion as if to murmur some endearment or instruction. Then the Devil stepped into the light and raised his cane.

‘Here he is.' Caterina Caresini gazed down from the balcony as the gondola emerged from the chaos of dispersing craft and glided swiftly towards the convent steps. She turned to her companion. ‘Perhaps we should go down to greet him?'

Her guest gave her his arm and together they re-entered the building and descended the stairs.

It would not have been immediately apparent to a visitor such as the English Ambassador that this was a convent. The corridors echoed to the sound of girlish laughter, the rustle of silks and satins, the soft patter of dancing pumps and the louder clack of platform shoes – worn in flagrant defiance of the sumptuary laws – on parquet and marble floors.

‘I take it yours is not a silent Order,' the Ambassador murmured smoothly as he viewed this excess of feminine zeal through his quizzing glass.

‘We have a special dispensation from His Holiness,' Caterina replied with a composure that equalled his own. ‘For Carnival only. The rest of the time we are quiet as mice and are glimpsed fleetingly, through a grille.'

It was the Ambassador's first visit to the convent and she trusted it lived up to his heretic expectations so far as the Church of Rome was concerned, though in truth Rome had very little to do with the conduct of religion in the Most Serene Republic. Rome had washed its hands of them years ago, though it was not averse to taking a share of the revenues from its Venetian benefices, no matter how scandalously they were earned.

In fact the Convent of San Paolo di Mare was by no means the worst of its kind, not in Caterina's view, not by Venetian standards. It ran a small private casino for invited guests, and gentlemen were hospitably entertained in the parlour, but it was not a bordello in the true sense of the word. More a finishing school for young ladies of good family, though Caterina conceded the distinction could appear trifling at times. But as far as she was aware, neither the nuns nor their pupils took money for their favours. Gifts, of course, were a different matter. Caterina had accepted gifts herself: she was wearing not a few of them at present. And you could not blame an enterprising young woman of good family for accepting what she might quite justifiably consider her due. Most of the girls here had been sent to the convent against their will, their fathers wishing to avoid paying the penalty of a dowry when they were married, and they were disposed to resent it and to try to make up for it by whatever means were available to them.

Caterina's own route to San Paolo had been less straightforward. At the height of her career as an actress she had become embroiled in a scandal of such monumental proportions – even for Venice – that the convent had been presented as the
only alternative to exile or prison. A substantial fee had been required, of course, and certain favours granted to the Prioress which were a little distasteful at times but nothing Caterina could not deal with. Since when she had risen rapidly through the convent hierarchy until it was for all practical purposes hers to command. A secure base from which to launch her political career.

Caterina had devoted much of her youth to the amorous intrigues which occupied any lady of leisure in Venice during these final years of the century. There were times, indeed, when she had imagined everyone of a certain class and disposition to be engaged in his or her own private version of
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
, which had been popular reading at the time of her arrival in the city twelve years before in 1784. But she had grown tired of such diversions. Indeed, she came to hold them, and all who practised them, in contempt. As she had entered her thirties, she had become involved in a much more interesting and far more dangerous game.

Caterina was not Venetian by birth. She was a native of Verona, whose citizens considered themselves far more passionate, far more idealistic than their aloof overlords in Venice. For the true Venetian considered it the grossest form of bad taste to care about
anything
, especially politics. But Caterina did care. She loved Venice, as deeply and more openly than any born Venetian. And she was much distressed by its present predicament.

The thousand-year-old Republic had been as shocked as any king, queen or emperor by the excesses of the French Revolution. But she had refused all invitations to join the coalition of powers aligned against the regicides in Paris. Austria, Prussia, Spain and Great Britain, with most of the principalities of Germany and Italy, might be united for once, but the powers that ruled the
Serenissima
maintained a policy of strict
neutrality. Thus did they hope to preserve what remained of their empire – one could not say their integrity – from the conflagration that engulfed Europe.

The actress-turned-nun thought they were mistaken.

Of course, the prevailing view was that this was of no concern to either actress or nun, or indeed any female of the species. But Caterina begged to differ. No, she did not beg – Caterina never begged – she set her mind upon a course of action and she pursued it with ruthless tenacity. Subtly, of course, until the moment came to strike, and even then her victims were sometimes left wondering how the knife had appeared in their ribs and who had wielded it. She was circumspect: she knew her weaknesses as well as her strengths, but what she had, she used. If the winged lion, the traditional symbol of Venice, had forgotten how to roar, the lioness must show her claws.

She crossed the long reception hall and stepped through the open portal on to the broad terrace above the canal. The recently arrived gondola bobbed at the foot of the steps, the silken curtains drawn across the front of the cabin, shielding its occupant from inquisitive eyes. He had waited for them to come down to greet him, Caterina noted with approval, pleased that he rated himself so highly. But at her appearance with the English Ambassador the curtains parted and he stepped nimbly ashore. Giovanni Galeazzo Dandolo, Admiral of the Fleet, youngest of the Council of Ten, the man who would be Doge if Caterina had her way.

She greeted him with a smile and advanced to meet him, still with her arm on the Ambassador's. She had no eyes for any other, though she was vaguely aware that others were there. The gondolier, of course, and a servant or bodyguard who had stepped ashore after his master. The musicians who had been assembled here, providing an accompaniment to the fireworks,
and were now packing away their instruments. A few spectators, still loitering at the water's edge, pushing and shoving at each other with loud voices and laughter. Caterina felt a slight unease but no sense of threat, none at all. She was still smiling, up to the moment of the attack, and even then she did not recognise it as such. She thought one of the spectators had staggered into Dandolo's path, or been shoved in that direction by one of his companions in their horseplay. She frowned and was about to utter a rebuke when she saw the glint of steel and uttered a cry of warning instead. Too late; they were all around him, lunging with their stilettos, and she heard a scream like a rabbit taken by a fox. She thought later that it was like the scene in
Julius Caesar
, which she had performed once in Verona, and perhaps it was intended as such, for theatre played an important part in the politics of the Republic. Later she remembered the masks, too, though she was not taking any particular note of them at the time. The assassins moved in on him as swiftly and mysteriously as ghosts and then, like ghosts, they vanished, melting into the crowd and the shadows. And then there was just the gondolier and the servant and the musicians. And Dandolo, lying there on the steps, in his blood.

He was still alive when she reached him but he had been stabbed many times. In the chest, in the neck, in his beautiful face. She tore off his mask, shouting for a surgeon. There was blood everywhere. She tried to stop the flow with her hands but there was too much. His eyes were open, gazing up at her, but there was no recognition in them. Then more blood came gushing from his mouth and she knew he was gone.

She felt hands pulling at her, trying to lift her to her feet. Voices urging her to come inside the convent. She resisted. It occurred to her to say a prayer for Dandolo's soul, but the dominant emotion in her breast was one of rage. But then
something made her look up and across the water, and her eyes found the exact spot where he was standing, as if she had known he would be there. And she saw the mask of Pedrolino, the simpleton, in the lamplight.

She stood and pointed like some demented creature from the Greek chorus, pointed and screamed, the blood of her lover on her hands and arms, on her face, on her chalk-white mask.

‘Assassino!'

And she cursed him, a curse that was also a prayer – that the Avenging Angel would come out of the sea and destroy him: the man who had destroyed her dream.

‘Assassino!'

The word echoed back to her from the walls of the surrounding buildings, like laughter.