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Authors: Alan Gordon

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“I'm heating up some gruel,” she said. “Would you care for some?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Are you alone here? Besides the gardener, I mean.”

“Yes,” she said. “I no longer have the funds to maintain this house the way I used to. I've started selling a few pieces of jewelry to keep myself alive, but so many others are doing the same that I can't get much for it.”

“Bastiani was keeping you?”

She turned upon me furiously.

“I was not being kept!” she shouted. “I am not some whore preying on a lonely merchant.”

“Forgive me,” I said hastily. “I meant, he was helping you?”

She collapsed into a chair suddenly, her fury abated.

“There's a fine line between the two, isn't there?” she said ruefully.

“Yet when two people love each other, then
keeping
is the wrong word.
Helping
is the wrong word.”

“What is the right one, lady?”

“I don't know anymore,” she said. “Do you believe that love is a sin?”

“No, lady. But it can lead to sin as well as anything I've ever seen.”

She was silent as she ladled the warm gruel into two bowls. She slid one to me. I waited. She nodded and popped a spoonful into her mouth.

“Quite safe, Fool,” she said. “That's what you were worried about, wasn't it?”

I shrugged. “He was poisoned somehow. You had the opportunity. But I don't think that you did it.”

“Thank you for that,” she said. “Why don't you think so?”

“One woman's faith in another.”

“You don't think women are capable of murder?”

“Of course they are capable,” I said. “But a woman who murders a lover does not behave the way you do. How came you to be lovers?”

“I came to him, seeking to sell some tapestries. My husband had been away for some time, and I was getting desperate. Camilio was very kind. He gave me a good price and insisted on escorting me back here. And then we started seeing each other secretly. He was married, too, but his wife was in Venice, and he was a lonely man. He said that I was all of the colors of the rainbow in an otherwise gray world.”

“A pretty sentiment,” I said. “Didn't you fear discovery?”

“No one in the quarter knew me,” she replied. “No one on the Fifth Hill knew him. The circles of gossip did not intersect. We both shut the world out when we were alone, and we shut it out even more when we were together.”

“Why do you think he was murdered?” I said.

“I don't know that he was,” she said slowly.

“What do you think happened?”

“I thought that he killed himself,” she said briefly.

“Suicide would have been a sin to a Venetian,” I said.

“So is adultery,” she replied. “No doubt he is in Hell, and I am
going to my grave without seeking absolution to make certain I can join him there.”

I shivered. “These are terrible thoughts, lady. You are still young. There is life to be lived.”

She gave a bleak bark of laughter.

“I am young, destitute, and still married to a man who doesn't want me,” she said. “What prospects of happiness are left to me?”

“Why do you think Bastiani killed himself?” I asked.

“Toward the end, he was becoming more and more nervous about something,” she said. “He said something about his ship coming in, then would laugh quietly. He told me that he'd soon be able to take us away from here to someplace we could be together.”

“And?”

“And I said no,” she said. “When I was faced with a choice between happiness and duty to a vow I never wanted to make, I suddenly became a coward. I saw the path of my life in a vision, the road to Paradise stretching out before me. But I somehow knew it was an illusion. I said no. Bowed to conformity, even though I had certainly paid it little heed to date. I left him that night. He was distraught. He closed the door and barred it behind me. And the next morning, I found out he was dead.”

She started weeping. I took her hand.

“Lady, I cannot tell what the right choice was,” I said. “But surely he would have left a note of some kind if he had killed himself, some explanation to his friends and family, or to you.”

“Maybe,” she said dubiously.

“Did he have any keepsake of yours?” I said. “Some token of your love?”

“A ring,” she said. “An emerald set on an enameled cross on a ring of gold.”

I shook my head in puzzlement. There had been no ring in that
room. I would have to ask Feste if he noticed it on the body. Of course, it could have been stolen or lost.

Thinking of Feste reminded me that I wanted to find out if he was back by now. I rose.

“Lady, I would like to be of more comfort to you,” I said sincerely. “Will you let me visit you again?”

“I don't know,” she said. “It was good to share this with someone. With a woman. I doubt that I could have faced a priest.”

“Then as a representative of the sisterhood of bereft women, I absolve you,” I said. “Take care. I still don't know why Bastiani was killed, but I will find out.”

“I hope that your husband returns,” she said.

I thanked her.

“And I pray that mine does not,” she said softly.

“Amen, lady,” I said, and I left her there.

It occurred to me about halfway down the hill that I still didn't know her name.

“Greetings, Sister Fool,” said a man's voice when I reached the bottom.

I turned to see Father Melchior walking toward me. I bowed.

“Well met, Father,” I said.

“Indeed, Sister, for you have saved me the last portion of my journey.”

“You were coming to see me?”

“You, or your husband. Father Esaias sends word that he made enquiries on behalf of Feste. No prostitute visited your late merchant.”

I had forgotten that Feste had asked them to look into that. I thanked Father Melchior for the information.

“There's another matter,” he said. “Father Esaias feels that we should confer at the church. Where is your husband?”

“He went across the Golden Horn last night,” I said briefly. “He hasn't returned yet.”

And then this murderer in monk's garb placed his hand on my shoulder. “Be comforted, Sister,” he said. “He's a hard one to kill. I prophesy a long life together for the two of you.”

“Thank you,” I said, disconcerted but grateful. “One or both of us will be there. While you're here, tell me this: do you know a Moslem sailor, missing two fingers on his left hand, with a fearsome scar cutting a swath through his beard?”

He chuckled, a bit grimly. “I know him,” he said. “But I am not at liberty to reveal what I know. If Father Esaias wills it, you will learn more tonight.”

“Until later, then,” I said, and he glided silently away.

I stopped at home. No sign of Festeâor of the others, for that matter. I didn't want to sit around waiting, so I went back to Blachernae.

No sooner had I entered the Empress's throne room when a shriek rent the air. Euphy, who was seated on the throne with a cold cloth pressed to her head, started, and guards came rushing in from all directions.

“Are they here?” cried Euphy. “What is happening?”

Irene dashed in, wailing. For once, it sounded authentic.

“He's dead!” she cried. “My husband is dead! Oh, Mother, what shall become of me?” She threw herself onto her mother's lap, weeping.

Euphy stiffened momentarily, then recovered and patted her daughter on the back.

“So, he really was sick,” she said. “I had my doubts. Forgive me.”

“He was recovering,” cried Irene. “I thought he might ride to battle soon. It happened soâ” She stopped suddenly and turned pale. “Where is she?” she hissed. “Where is that little tramp?”

“Who?” asked Euphy, perplexed.

“Evdokia!” shouted Irene.

Her sister came in, removing her cloak.

“I'm here,” she said calmly. “What's all the fuss about?”

Irene strode toward here.

“He's dead,” she said, choking.

“Michael's dead?” exclaimed Evdokia. “Oh, Irene. I am so sorry.”

“He was alive until I let you start nursing him,” spat Irene.

Evdokia looked shocked.

“What are you saying?” she said. “You've been telling us that he was at Death's door ever since the fleet showed up. And now that he's finally passed on, you're blaming me?”

“You little bitch â¦” Irene said, starting toward her.

“Daughter, cease,” commanded Euphy, rising to her feet. Irene's fear of her mother stopped her in her tracks.

“I'll have no more of this,” Euphy continued. “It's giving me a headache. Irene, you have funeral preparations to make. You had better get started if you want to give him a proper burial. Would you like me to have it announced that he died heroically in battle? It would help us in finding you your next husband.”

“Mother!” wailed Irene.

“Get going, girl,” ordered her mother, and the new widow fled.

“Shall I go with her, Mother?” asked Evdokia primly.

Her mother looked at her with an expression that was difficult to read. Yet I thought there was some recognition in her as she looked at her youngest daughter. Even some pride.

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “My guess is that she won't accept consolation from anyone in the family right now. You'd better sit here with me, Evy.”

“As you wish, Mother,” said Evdokia, and she pulled up a small bench beside the throne and sat by her mother.

The resulting tableau was a caricature of a mother and daughter
together. It sickened me, and in my condition, quite a few things did. I slipped out before anyone realized I had been there in the first place and went home.

Feste was lying on our bed when I arrived. I took one look at him and threw myself on top of him, holding him for all I was worth. He held me weakly, then lay back again.

“Are you injured?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Just exhausted. There were crossbows, Aglaia. Hundreds of them. I ran.”

“And you made it!” I shouted triumphantly.

“Please,” he said, wincing.

There was a clatter up the steps, and Plossus burst into the room.

“Is it true?” he cried. “They're talking about it all over the city.”

“Is what true?” I asked.

“Shut up, boy,” muttered Feste.

“They're saying that he ran across the great chain like a squirrel across the treetops,” said Plossus breathlessly.

“He did what?” I exclaimed.

“Shut up, Plossus,” barked Feste.

“And that he stopped in the middle, pulled out his lute, and sang an insulting tune to the oncoming ship!” continued Plossus.

“That part isn't true,” said Feste quickly.

“But the first part is?” I shouted. I went over to my chest, opened it, pulled out a crossbow, and leveled it at my husband. “I swear by the First Fool, Our Savior, that if you try to go to the Crusaders one more time, I'll kill you myself, just to end the suspense.”

FOURTEEN

The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.

WILLIAM BLAKE, “PROVERBS OF HELL”

O
ne may be frightened by the same event twice: once when it is actually happening and a second time when you look back and realize that it was far more dangerous than you first had thought, now that you've had some time to reflect upon it. Or, if you don't reflect upon it but have a wife who is more than willing to do so while pointing out the numerous flaws in your intellect, character, foresight, and so forth. I did as any man would do under the circumstancesâI mumbled apologies, swore that I would never do anything like this again, and begged her to leave me alone for a short while so that I could catch up on my sleep.

She left me reluctantly, and I did manage to get a brief nap. I woke shaking to find her holding me tight, tears coursing down her face, and thought more seriously about honoring my oath to her.

Plossus and Rico joined us for dinner. Aglaia caught us up on her information, and I told them of my encounter with the troubadours. My companions looked at me with dismay.

“How could they?” said Plossus. “I could see Raimbaut caving in like that from what I've heard about him, but all of them?”

“They became too isolated from the Guild,” speculated Rico. “Sing
the songs of the warrior long enough, and you start to believe you're one as well.”

“In all fairness, they don't believe there's anything more that they can do,” I said.

“But they gave up too soon,” said Aglaia. “Without even finding out what we're going to do.”

“Right,” I said. “It's time. Let us go meet with our crooked allies.”

We walked toward Father Esaias's church as the sun set. Rico was intrigued by the death of Michael Palaiologos.

“I never thought little Evy had the nerve,” he said. “Do you really think she poisoned him?”

“I think it, Irene thinks it, and Euphy thinks it,” said Aglaia. “But no one can prove anything. It's good riddance as far as Euphy's concerned, and I think she's realized that she underestimated the capabilities of her little girl. She's beginning to take her into her bosom more and more. But she's having her food tasted, just in case.”

“What about Anna?” I asked.

“She's telling her husband to stay in the thick of battle. It's safer for him than staying home.”

We reached the church and stayed with Father Esaias through dawn, discussing the merits of various plans until we settled on the one we thought had the best chance of working. Rico and Aglaia were needed at Blachernae, so Plossus was selected to be our liaison to the underworld.

“Makes sense,” he observed as we staggered back to our place to grab a few hours sleep. “I can run faster than you.”

“Not if there's a crossbow pointed in my direction, you can't,” I said.

The gates of the city were shut and barred, except for one the public used near the Golden Gate. The traffic through this one was a continuous
flow away from the city, as the populace began sensing the depth of the incompetence of their ruler.

The Venetians regularly sent ships patrolling around the city, just out of the reach of the defenders' catapults. There was no military purpose for this. There was no Imperial Navy left to contest them. But it was a constant, floating taunt, and it did not wear well on the Greeks.

The city, with much of its daily commerce shut down, took to the roofs, watching with morbid fascination the preparations across the Golden Horn. The machines of war were being assembled on the decks of the larger ships, and carpenters swarmed over the bowsprits, extending them further and hammering planks and railings along their lengths.

Meanwhile, the main body of the Crusader army moved up the harbor to the remains of the stone bridge and began the arduous task of rebuilding it.

The Greeks could have engaged them there. Taking a bridge is one of the most costly efforts in warfare, yet the Emperor didn't even bother sending archers to pick off the French peasants who were doing the heavy lifting in the hot sun. Their noble lords supervised them from the shade of their gaily decked pavilions, a safe distance away.

And, an even safer distance away, Emperor Alexios the Third sat on his throne and fretted.

“It was a strategic retreat, can't anyone besides me see that?” he whined.

“Just an advance in the other direction, that's all,” said Rico.

“And the rest of your plan, Your Majesty?” asked a general, warily.

“Do you question me?” shouted Alexios.

“I do not question you, sire. I asked a question of you,” replied the general.

“Simplicity,” said Alexios. “Let them bring the battle to the walls. They will lose so many in the attempt that they'll be powerless to resist us in the end.”

The generals looked at each other.

“Then you mean to let them cross the bridge unopposed?” asked the first general.

“Well, you haven't done such a wonderful job of opposing them so far, have you?” said Alexios. “Barely able to protect the Imperial Person, much less the rest of the city. But the walls will protect us.”

“And what of your people outside the walls?” I said, sitting by Rico and strumming my lute.

“Their fault for choosing to live outside the walls,” said Rico. “We can't save people from their own stupidity.”

“Precisely,” agreed the Emperor, patting the dwarf on the head. “The farmers will come through all right. They always do. A few fields get burned, some peasant women violated. A small price to pay for the safety of the Empire.”

“Whatever's left of it,” I muttered.

I stood, bowed, and left. Philoxenites collared me in the hallway outside.

“He's falling apart,” he said. “He lost all support in the city when he ran. Everyone saw it happen.”

“Yet relying on the walls to repel the Crusaders isn't the worst idea I've heard,” I said.

“Strategically sound, but politically insane,” he said. “There's as much danger from within the city as without. The people want action, not retreat.”

“You have always been a man of the people,” I observed.

“What did you find out from your friends?” he asked.

“That my proposal would probably have the desired effect.”

“Now, you realize that for me to have any part of this plan would be treason,” he said quietly.

“But I, on the other hand, have no loyalties,” I said. “Or is it treason for me as well?”

He smiled. “I'll let your conscience be your guide on that point.”

“And your conscience?”

“I have none,” he said. “Now, before you put whatever plan you have into action, I ask one more thing.”

“What?”

“Talk to Isaakios. I cannot, and it would be dangerous if even one of my men sees him. See if he'll be up to the task before you go ahead and restore him to the throne.” He walked away, then turned. “If this works, there'll be something in it for you.”

“And if it doesn't?” I asked.

“I'll do my best to get you out of the city alive,” he promised.

I didn't go see Isaakios right away. I was still hammering out the details of our plan with Father Esaias. I also didn't want to have the former emperor sitting in prison with this new hope in his breast. The old fool might babble the secret too soon to the wrong ears and would find himself strangled within hours.

When some free time presented itself, I decided to satisfy my curiosity as to Ranieri's visits to the silk factory at the Great Palace. He was up to something, no matter how innocent the ostensible reason for these trips. I covered myself once again with my cloak so as to pass as an everyday citizen and waited outside his home one morning.

He arose at dawn and went to the embolum, as usual. I spied through the windows from across the street but saw nothing out of the ordinary within. He spoke to Ruzzini for a few minutes, then spent the rest of the morning making entries in a large ledger book, occasionally rising to check on bolts of green and yellow silk that were being carried into his storeroom.

Around noon, he left and headed toward the gate leading to the rest of the city. I trailed him from a safe distance, but he never looked back until we reached the covered portion of the Mese. I quickly ducked
into a stall and haggled halfheartedly with a paper-seller, but resumed the chase as soon as Ranieri entered the Augustaion.

He went as he did before to the grounds outside of Zeuxippos, but the rabbity man wasn't there. Ranieri waited, looking around impatiently. Finally, he walked to a door at the side of the building, opened it, and went inside.

I crept up to the door and listened but couldn't hear anything. I opened it cautiously, peered inside, and was met with a faceful of steam for my troubles.

The part of the building that once held the baths was ideal for the silk operation that currently occupied it. The water was heated beyond the bathing level until it boiled, and the steam that rose from it enveloped frames holding stacks of wooden trays, which in turn held the cocoons of the silkworms. The steam softened the protective casings and allowed the silkworkers to begin the delicate process of unraveling the luxurious threads that became the fabrics of the rich.

As the steam billowed about the room, I felt the sweat pouring through my makeup. I walked between the stacks of trays on narrow planks over the boiling baths, taking care not to go plunging over the sides. Unfortunately, it was the distraction of maintaining my safety that brought me up face to face with my quarry before I realized it.

“Why are you following me?” Ranieri demanded.

“I, sir? No, sir!” I riposted. “I am as surprised to see you here as you are to see me.”

“You followed me from my home this morning,” he said. “And watched me in the embolum. You're a spy of some sort.”

“Why would anyone want to spy on you?” I asked. “Sir, you mistake me. I came here to meet a friend for lunch. What could you possibly be doing that would be of interest to anyone?”

“Certainly nothing that would be of interest to a fool,” he said.

“Why, sir, a fool has nothing but interests,” I rattled on. “So much
to see, so much to learn. It is only men with true callings who can stay with only one occupation. You, sir, are a silk man. Where else would you be but here?”

“True enough,” he said slowly. “I come down here often to discuss shipments. Not that it matters to you.”

“No, sir, of course not,” I said. “No doubt there was a shipment in that tiny wicker box you received outside when I saw you here the other day.”

He flinched, then recovered quickly. “That was merely a gift from a friend, Fool. A token of gratitude for my business.”

“Then your friend must be grateful indeed, sir,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“For he is standing behind you with another token of his gratitude.”

He turned and saw the rabbity man standing some feet away, holding another small wicker box in his hands. He looked at Ranieri uncertainly. Ranieri turned back to me.

“You should be careful where you stand, Fool,” he said pleasantly. He nudged the board I was on with his toe so that it rocked gently. “The footing is a bit unsteady. One false step, and they would be serving boiled jester for dinner.”

“Actually, sir, a fool is usually served as dessert,” I said, bouncing lightly on the board. Then I launched myself into a backflip, landing on the board behind me. “Sir, just the other day I ran the length of the great chain. These planks are good road by comparison. Care to dance?”

He looked at me, fingering the hilt of his sword.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I have some questions,” I said. “Somehow, I think that you may be able to answer some of them.”

“Why should I?”

“No reason,” I said. “But it is curious that when given the opportunity
to allay my suspicions, you choose instead to increase them.”

“And what do I gain by satisfying this strange curiosity of yours?”

“My thanks,” I said. “And perhaps my influence.”

“How far does that extend?” he asked.

“I have friends in high places and low,” I said. “You'd be surprised.”

He grinned suddenly. “All right, Fool. I'll chance a meeting with you. But nowhere public.”

BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter

4.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub