A Death in the Venetian Quarter (21 page)

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Authors: Alan Gordon

BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter
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“Fancy meeting you here,” I said. “Quite the romantic setting.”
“Isn't it?” she agreed, nodding toward Evdokia, who was preening in front of her beau.
I had seen him before on my visits to Isaakios but had never paid him much mind. I pulled out my flute and joined my wife's music. The additional instrument startled the lovers slightly. Evdokia smiled with delight when she saw me.
“What a surprise!” she squealed. “You didn't tell me that your husband would be joining us, Aglaia.”
“I thought that music from one loving couple would be most appropriate for another,” said my wife with a straight face.
“How sweet,” said Evdokia. “Thank you, good Feste, for taking these pains.”
“No pains, mistress,” I said, winking at Aglaia. “I take pleasure in playing, mistress.”
Alexios Doukas was watching me with a curious expression, his brows furrowed, almost meeting in the middle.
“These two fools are married, my dove?” he asked, his voice rasping as though he did not use it much.
“Yes. Isn't it wonderful?” she said. “Just as we shall be.”
He took her hand between his and patted it.
“Soon,” he whispered fervently. “It will happen soon. I can feel it in my bones, and I know it in my heart.”
And they dropped into a frenzy of whispering. I couldn't make out their conversation, so I gave myself over to the exquisite pleasures of making music with my wife.
It carried through the prison. Quite well, in fact. The acoustics of the one-time church lent themselves to our duet as they had once done to the preaching of the Word. The myriad conversations going on around us faded, and prisoner and visitor alike turned to hear us.
And when it comes down to it, more than anything a fool loves to perform. The setting doesn't matter. The size of the crowd, the level of wit shared among them, the type of coin flying out of their hands into our caps—none of these things matter. Let us but have a reason to perform, and we are happy.
I watched my beloved, her white skin gleaming in the torchlight, the music transmuting her into some rare and lovely sprite, and I thought, this is all that I need. This is all that I want. I thought of her desire to find a place where we could just be fools together and nothing else. Maybe. I had done more than most for the Guild, risked life and damaged limb on many an occasion. Maybe it was time to quit gallivanting about and become a fixed fool in an out-of-the-way county somewhere, trotting myself out for feasts and state occasions, entertaining the children. Especially my own child. We could watch her grow and learn all that we could teach her.
Well, Theo, live through this little escapade first. Then we shall see.
 
There was a lull in the war for a few days, a calm before the oncoming storm. Broken by the intermittent squalls of sorties by the Greeks, more to harass the Crusaders' flanks and keep them from foraging too far than to actually confront them in combat. However, this meant that
the invaders' provisions would be running low. The Greeks were forcing the issue rather than settling down and waiting for attrition to do the job for them.
After Ranieri's death, I had no more leads. I watched the embolum to no avail. Like much of the city, I spent a fair amount of my time on the roof, looking at the Crusaders digging into the hill and constructing earthen fortifications that baked hard under the relentless summer sun.
I was sitting in our room a few days after my talk with Isaakios, moping with a wineskin. Aglaia came in with bread and cheese.
“You would not believe what I paid for this,” she grumbled, tossing me a loaf.
“Maybe we should just buy flour and make our own,” I said, cutting myself a piece.
“I have no time for baking,” she said. “And if you have, then I'm worried about you. You're drinking more than is usual.”
I made a show of letting the wineskin fall.
“Better?” I asked.
“It might have been had it not already been emptied,” she said. “What's wrong?”
“I'm stuck,” I said. “I cannot piece this all together. I can't find the common thread.”
“You will,” she said. “I have faith in that warped mind of yours.”
She sat back, munching away.
“I'm going to need motley for when I'm huge,” she commented. “Maybe you could sew me one in your free time. I'd like a suit more like yours.”
“Mine?” I said. “It's just one piece sewn onto another. There's no pattern to it. It's all patch. I doubt that there's an original piece of cloth left in it.”
“That's what I like about it,” she said. “It has character. Oh!”
“What?”
“I've spotted your keepsake,” she said. “You purloined my yellow handkerchief and added it to your motley. How lovely!”
“You have found me out, my sweet. Forgive me for stealing from you.”
“And it's over your heart, too. I never noticed it in the middle of all of those colors. You're a sentimental fool, and I forgive you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Her expression changed abruptly. She frowned, thinking hard, her eyes distant, and I wondered if she had changed her mind about the theft.
“Feste,” she said slowly. “I have a riddle for you.”
“All right,” I said, puzzled.
“What's the difference between motley and a rainbow?” she asked.
“I don't know,” I said.
“The color purple,” she concluded, and she stood and capered about the room.
“Not your best effort, I think,” I said, baffled.
“Don't you see?” she asked. “You've no purple in your motley. I've found the common thread, and it's made of silk!”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
She grabbed the wicker box that I had retrieved from Ranieri's body.
“Tell me, Fool,” she said, plucking the cocoon from it. “What garment could you weave from this?”
“From that?” I laughed. “Not even the pinky of a child's glove.”
“Wrong, Fool!” she crowed. “You could get thirty gowns from this, a hundred robes, a thousand tapestries!”
“You must be a wondrous fine weaver, Arachne,” I said. “How do you do that?”
“What color was the handkerchief that Bastiani's lady placed in his coffin?”
“It was purple,” I said.
“Why have you no purple in your motley?” she demanded.
“Well, it's not easy to come by,” I said, then I realized what she was talking about.
“‘I may not be to the purple born,'” she said, imitating Euphrosyne perfectly. “Purple silk, Feste. The rarest of dyes, the finest of weaves, so valued that its manufacture …”
“Is reserved exclusively for the Emperor,” I finished.
“Exactly,” she said. “Ranieri wasn't smuggling silk. He was smuggling silkworms. He was going to set up a rival manufacturer. And Bastiani was in on it. He gave his lover that purple handkerchief as a keepsake. He told her that he was expecting to make his fortune shortly.”
“But you need more than just the silkworms,” I countered. “They have a special diet.”
“Mulberry trees,” she said. “A particular kind like the ones growing at Zeuxippos. They must be smuggling those as well.”
“Wait a second,” I remembered. “When Rico hid in that crate during our burglary, he said that it had some kind of ornamental bush in it. It didn't occur to me at the time, but that's an odd thing to find taking up valuable space in a silk embolum.”
“I'll bet it was mulberry,” she said.
“But is this really something worth killing for?”
“Silk of that quality is worth its weight in gold,” she said. “And gold is always worth killing for.”
“The carpenter was right,” I said. “If it's a merchant, it's probably about money. So, there must be at least one other involved. Ruzzini is the logical choice. He's the top silk man there.” I stopped, thinking. “The Silk Man. Could he be the Crusader contact?”
“Maybe,” she said. “What do we do about this?”
“If it involves a threat to the Emperor's silk monopoly, I can bring
it to the authorities. I should probably talk to Niketas first. It will finally give him a reason to flex his muscles as Logothete.”
I flopped onto the bed and hugged her.
“My dear, you are worth more than your weight in gold,” I said, and I patted her belly. “And you will be appreciating in value soon, if I am any judge of pregnancy.”
“It's good to be appreciated,” she said, snuggling against me.
Let me tell you here of an outstanding deed of valour.
——GEOFFROY DE VILLEHARDOUIN,
THE CONQUEST OF CONSTANTINOPLE
 
 
 
N
iketas Choniates agreed to meet at his office in the Senate before dawn. As I walked down the Mese, there was a glow to my left that had nothing to do with the approaching sunrise. There were bonfires atop each of the guard towers along the seawall, and the flames were strong enough to cast my shadow all the way to the Augustaion. In between the towers, I could see the Varangians patrolling the walls.
A stray unit of the Vigla passed me on their way back to their bastion, a few of them waving as they saw me. Niketas had his servant waiting for me at the Senate doors, and I was ushered quickly inside.
There was another man seated in his office, one I had never met, but who eyed me with a glance that seemed to gather every detail at once. Niketas motioned me to a chair.
“This is Demetrios Gabras,” said Niketas. “He is the Keeper of the Imperial Silk. After I got your note, I invited him to join us.”
“An honor, milord,” I said. “Feste the Fool at your service.”
“I've seen you,” said Demetrios.
“Have you ever seen this before?” I said, placing the wicker box on Niketas's desk.
Gabras opened the box, looked inside, and frowned. He removed the cocoon and placed it on a white linen square, then took a small,
sharp knife and carefully slit it open without damaging its occupant.
The silkworm writhed on the cloth, exposed to the world too soon. Gabras turned it over with the tip of his knife and examined it, then picked out a strand of the cocoon and rolled it delicately between his thumb and forefinger.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded curtly.
“Oh, stop being a bore and put the knife away,” said Niketas. “Feste is here to help.”
Gabras sheathed his knife.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I am upset by this. It was not unknown for my predecessors to lose their heads when outsiders got hold of the Imperial worms.”
“Someone saved you the trouble,” I said. “I took this off the body of a Venetian silk merchant named Ranieri.”
“Ah, the decapitated fellow in the cistern,” said Niketas. “I had a feeling that you had something to do with that, Feste.”
“I was there, but I didn't take his head off,” I said. “Ranieri decided to save his skin by giving up the conspiracy. My guess is that a fellow conspirator removed him before he would talk. Probably the same one who killed Bastiani.”
“He was involved as well?” marveled Niketas.
“I believe so, though we'll never know for certain.”
“Who did Ranieri get this from?” asked Gabras, holding up the cocoon.
I described the rabbit, and he nodded quickly.
“I know him,” he said. “I must report this to the Eparch. He'll have him taken into custody. But the Venetians—”
“Are mine,” said Niketas. He snapped his fingers, and his servant came in. “Rouse those useless fellows who pass for guards and have them meet us in front of the building in five minutes.”
The servant ran out.
“Are they any good?” I asked.
“I don't know,” said Niketas. “They have only had to perform on state occasions. But they march well and dress superbly.”
“I'll take this,” said Gabras, pocketing the cocoon and the dying worm. He held out his hand, which I took, wishing that he had wiped it first after handling that disgusting little grub. “Thank you, Fool. You will be rewarded.”
Niketas put on his official robe and walked with me to the steps. A sleepy and sullen group of guards had assembled, awaiting his orders. He looked over them benignly.
“Good morning,” he chirped. “This is one of those rare occasions where you might actually have to earn your pay. We are going to conduct a little surprise inspection of the silk embolum in the Venetian quarter. No rough stuff, but if they resist, use all available force.”
“A favor,” I muttered.
“What is it?” he asked, turning to me.
“Give me a head start, maybe five minutes.”
He grimaced. “I don't think that these fellows could keep up with you at this time of the morning. Go ahead.”
Behind me, dawn began to break over Anatolia. I ran toward the Venetian quarter, passed the gate, and charged the embolum, my knife drawn.
Ruzzini was seated alone, his hands clasped before him on the table, his head bowed in prayer. He looked up when I crashed through the doorway, but made no attempt to grab a weapon.
“Good morning, Fool,” he said quietly. “Have you come to sing to me again?”
“I think it's your turn to do the singing,” I said. “It's over, Ruzzini. If you want any help from me, you had better start talking.”
“Talking? About what?” he asked. “And why do I need help, and why should I believe that you can provide it?”
I went around the table, grabbed him by the front of his tunic, and threw him down on the floor. He lay there, momentarily stunned, and I straddled him and put my knife to his throat.
“In just a few minutes, this warehouse will be searched,” I said. “They will find silkworms and mulberry trees smuggled from Zeuxippos, and caches of weapons. You will be taken into custody, probably tortured, certainly put to death.”
“Death?” he said. “Not for smuggling.”
“There are two men dead, thanks to you. I overheard your conversation with Ranieri. I know you were in the conspiracy with him and Bastiani. Ranieri killed Bastiani, and you killed him.”
“I killed no one,” he gasped. “And neither did Ranieri. We were together the night Bastiani died. There were several witnesses present.”
“All Venetians, I suppose.”
“Venetians and a captain and several officers of the Vigla,” he said. “We were discussing the brawling that's being going on with the Pisans. Ranieri was as surprised by Bastiani's death as anyone. It served us no use.”
“Why not?”
“Bastiani had the contacts to get the purple dye,” he said. “The silk was important, but that was the other piece of the puzzle. His death set us back months.”
“But you panicked and killed Ranieri,” I said.
He said nothing.
“I can arrange it for you to live,” I said. “I have that power. Ranieri wanted you to kill me, but you killed him instead.”
“No,” he whispered. “It was Viadro.”
“What?”
“You know so much, let me prove it to you,” he said. “Let me up.”
I stood, keeping my knife handy, and pulled him to his feet. He
took a key from the desk and unlocked the padlock on Bastiani's storeroom, then pushed the door open.
“Look,” he said.
I pushed him ahead of me, suspecting a trap. But there was no one in the room. The crates lay shattered, the precious bales of silk tossed about. The weapons were gone.
“Where is he?” I shouted.
At that moment, Niketas entered the embolum, followed by his guards.
“Search the storerooms,” he commanded. “Arrest the Venetian.”
“Logothete, this is a violation of several treaties,” smirked Ruzzini.
“I suppose it is,” said Niketas calmly. “So is the invasion. I'll accept the morality of my position for the moment.”
“Where's Viadro?” I asked.
Ruzzini shrugged.
“He never took me that far into his confidence,” he said grimly.
“Smart lad under the circumstances.”
Two guards led him away, while the rest commandeered some wagons and began loading them with crates of silk, trees, and small wicker boxes.
“Well, that's that,” said Niketas as we walked outside. “Let me wish you a proper good morning—”
He stopped as we heard several crashes in the distance. Distant shouts passed along the wall from watchtower to watchtower. When they came closer, we were able to make them out.
“The fleet's coming across!” came the word from the seawall.
“The army attacks!” came the word from Blachernae.
Niketas looked at me.
“I'd like to talk,” he said. “But the time for talking is over. Go, Fool. Take your wife to safety. I must rejoin the Senate.”
He left me standing there.
Viadro was out there, I thought. He was leading a heavily armed band of Venetians. Where was he going?
Then I remembered the encounter he had with Plossus, down by the Petrion Gate.
I assumed the other fools had sprung into action the moment the alarm had sounded, which meant that Aglaia and Rico were on their way to Blachernae and Plossus off to alert Father Esaias. I had no troops to marshal and couldn't go running to any soldiers without something solid to tell them. I had no choice. I had to check it out for myself.
It took me less then ten minutes to run the distance to that part of the seawall. Stones went whizzing overhead in both directions, crashing into ships and buildings. People fled the houses near the walls. I cut through them as well as I could. At one point, a stone hit just behind me, smashing into a fish seller's stall and sending his wares flying.
I ran to one of the towers by the gate. Its entrance was guarded by a Varangian, who was watching the stones fly above us.
“What's going on?” I shouted in Danish.
He stared at me.
“They're attacking, Fool!” he said. “Get out, if you value your hide.”
I moved on to the next tower and accosted its guard.
“What's happening?” I shouted in Danish.
He stared at me.
“What is the situation?” I said, this time in English.
Still no response.
“Your mother is a whore,” I said in Venetian. His eyes widened, and he started to raise his axe. I kicked his legs out from under him and rammed my knife into his throat.
I slipped through the entrance to the tower. Two Varangians lay dead on the floor. Real Varangians this time. They must have been
taken by surprise and the Venetian stationed at the tower base in their stead.
The fighting had been fierce inside. The Venetians had the advantage in numbers but inferior armor. Body after body littered the steps, and the blood made it slippery underfoot. I sheathed my knife and pried a crossbow from a Venetian hand, arming it with a bolt from his quiver. I still felt inadequate in my motley. I took another crossbow and worked my way carefully up the steps, holding them both before me.
With every turn came more carnage. I was halfway up the tower before I found a living soul. It was Cnut, his axe bloody, four men dead around him. A bolt protruded from the barrel-shaped armor around his torso.
“Feste?” he whispered.
“How many are left?” I asked, feeling the pulse in his neck. It was weak.
“I don't know,” he said, trying to rise. He winced and sunk back down. “We were watching the fleet. We didn't expect to be attacked from within.”
“You did well,” I said in Danish. “You honor your ancestors.”
“I failed to hold the tower,” he said. “I can never look my comrades in the eye again.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Rest, Cnut. I'll be back.”
I left him and continued upward. The fighting had been fiercest at the top of the tower. When I reached it, crossbows at the ready, only one man still stood. He was tying something to the edge facing the Golden Horn.
“Signor Viadro,” I said.
He turned slowly, and smiled when he saw me.
“Hello, Fool,” he said. “Isn't this a glorious sight? Come and look.”
I pointed a crossbow at him, and he moved away from the tower's edge. Beyond him, a large flag caught the breeze and fluttered merrily.
It was the winged lion of Saint Mark, the same silk flag that had been on the wall of the embolum.
“A flag?” I asked. “Is that all this was supposed to be?”
“A flag and a tower,” he said. “A tower on the seawall where the shore is narrow. We were to accomplish that one simple task, and we did. You came too late, Fool. Look beyond the flag.”
I did. One of the giant merchantmen was heading straight at us, the extended bowsprit projecting far beyond the bow, reinforced by planks and ropes into a flying bridge, covered with soldiers, three abreast. It rose and fell with each pull of the oarsmen but was high enough that the end of the bridge was level with the top of the tower.

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