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Authors: Alan Gordon

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There was an odd mood in the quarter tonight. A suppressed excitement combined with apprehension, a sense that the world could end soon. Children chased each other in and out of the flickering pools of light cast by the torches, while couples held each other close, wondering how much longer they had together.

Plossus was now standing on his hands on top of the stilts. Suddenly, he let one fall so that he was balanced on just his right hand, ten feet off the ground. As all eyes turned upward, I reached behind my back and tapped the cloak.

Rico, who had been clinging to a leather harness that wrapped around my chest, slipped to the ground behind me. I held out my arms for a moment, shielding the alley from view with my cloak, while he noiselessly fiddled with the padlock on the side entrance to the embolum. I heard a soft click and a satisfied grunt. Checking to make sure no one was watching me, I stepped backward until I found the door. Then I went in.

I had a small burglar's lantern that I held in front of the door where I had seen Ranieri move his crates. Rico examined the padlock, then selected an iron key from several on a ring at his waist. He slid it
gently inside the padlock and turned it. The lock fell open.

“Cake and candy,” said Rico. “Shall I do the others?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Let's get these crates open.”

I was wondering how we could pry them open without being heard from the outside. Just then, I heard the crowd start singing along with our two colleagues, a fervent, patriotic air.

“Perfect time for a sing-along,” said Rico as he slipped a short crowbar under the lid of the first crate. I did the same on the other side, and the lid came away with a creak. Rico pulled himself up to the top of the crate, and we took a look at something blue and fluttery.

“Just a bale of silk,” said the disappointed dwarf.

I took my crowbar and tapped the bale in a few spots. The third tap produced a muffled clank.

“Not just a bale of silk,” said Rico. He slipped inside the crate and stuck his hand carefully into the bale. He grunted, then pulled out a sword that reflected the lantern brightly. He held it up.

“Does this make me the true king of England?” he asked.

“Better put it back,” I said.

He replaced it, then squatted to see what else was there.

“I count over fifty blades,” he said. “Good steel, no fancywork around the hilts. I wonder what kind of worms spun them.”

“Come on out. We'll check the others.”

The next crate held four dozen shields stacked under the barest of coverings. A third opened to reveal crossbows along with a slew of bolts. I shuddered upon seeing them.

“What gave you the shivers just then?” asked Rico, ever watchful.

“Ugly things, these,” I said, holding a bolt up to the light. “Took one through my thigh a couple of years ago. Lucky I still have the leg.”

“Well, just because you had one little unpleasantness with a crossbow
doesn't mean they're all bad,” he reasoned. “I find them useful once in a while. When you're my size, you think highly of anything that can even the odds.”

“Want to take one as a souvenir?”

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I already have one back at my place.”

The remaining crates produced more of the same.

“Whose storeroom is this?” asked Rico.

I held my lantern up to the door. There was an engraved plate bolted onto it with the name of Bastiani in large letters.

“Interesting inventory for a dead man,” said Rico.

“Or a good storage room for a live one,” I said. “If the weapons are found, they could always blame the deceased.”

“What should we do about all of this?” asked Rico. “Tell the eunuch?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “We need to know why the weapons are here. Are they supplies for an insurrection or just kept as a precaution in case their Pisan and Genoese neighbors decide to take advantage of the times and attack the quarter?”

“Or maybe someone's just smuggling arms,” added Rico. “And your friend Bastiani got wind of it somehow and was killed before he could pass along the information.”

“So, if we alert Philoxenites now, we don't discover who's behind Ranieri. We'll just frighten them into inactivity.”

“Not the worst result,” he said. “But you also want the murderer, don't you?”

“I don't like letting him run around loose,” I said. “At the very least, I want to know who it is before we decide what to do about him. Maybe I can convince Philoxenites to hold off any action until we've learned the full story.”

He gestured at the opened crates. “We didn't bring our glue pot with us. They'll know someone's been poking around.”

“Let's put the lids back. If they're not checking inside every day, they might miss the damage.”

We replaced the lids as snugly as we could, then closed the door and locked the padlock.

“Where next?” he whispered.

“Ranieri brought the crates out of that one,” I said. I held the lantern up. The plate read “Ranieri.”

The lock succumbed quickly to Rico's manipulations, and the door swung open. The room contained many more crates than had Bastiani's, many of them stacked to the ceiling.

“Where do we begin?” I wondered, looking around.

Rico peered around the corner of the pile.

“There're a few more in back,” he said. “It looks like the front stack was placed to conceal them. Unless they're all put anywhere.”

“Ranieri seems too careful a man to be messy,” I said. “Let's try it.”

We had just finished prying the lid off the first crate when Rico looked up in the direction of the street. The singing had died down.

“Someone's coming,” he whispered.

“Hide,” I said, handing him my crowbar. I crept to the door to the main room of the embolum. To my dismay, I heard the padlock on the front door being unlocked and voices in the alley by the side. There was no other way out. The best tack was to take the offense. I stepped out of the storeroom, closed the door, and set the padlock so that it appeared locked without actually being so. Then I blew out my lantern and placed it under a table.

Torchlight preceded the entrance of several young men who stopped when they saw me standing motionless in the darkness.

“Who are you?” one of them called in Greek.

“Who are you?” I replied in my best Venetian dialect.

“You're not supposed to be here,” he said. “Lay down your weapons.”

I held my cloak open to show that I wore no sword. I did have a knife and dagger secreted about my person, but I wasn't ready to give them up just yet.

“Which one of you is my contact?” I demanded.

They stared, then looked uncertainly at each other.

“Come, men of Venice, I have little time,” I continued. “I've been waiting far too long. If I'm not back on my boat before daylight, we may all be dead men. Who is my contact?”

One of them stepped forward. “You are from the fleet?” he asked.

“Children,” I said, shaking my head in amazement. “Useless. All right, I'm going. If anyone comes in here looking for me, tell him I will return tomorrow at this time. Now, get out of my way.”

I strode toward them. For a moment, I thought I might pull it off, but the one who had just spoken to me blocked my path.

“We heard a noise like someone was breaking into this place,” he said.

“That was me,” I said. “This is where I was told to go.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you're just a common burglar.”

“Do you see me with any stolen goods?” I demanded. “Or tools to break down doors? Use your head, boy. Now, let me go. Our Doge awaits my word.”

He put his hand on my chest.

“If it is so important that the fleet contact one of us, then you shall stay,” he declared. “Tie him up.”

The others, given something simple to do, grabbed me. In a minute, I was trussed to a chair.

“We'll be back with our elders,” said the youth. “Then we'll figure out what is happening here.”

They ran out, leaving me bound and in the dark.

But not alone. As soon as the last youth exited, a knife blade slid through the crack of the doorway to Ranieri's storeroom to dislodge
the padlock. Moments later, Rico and I were running through the back alleys of the quarter.

We found my bag, which I had stowed for safekeeping before this venture. I was in full makeup and motley in under two minutes, the Venetian garb and fake facial hair tucked under my juggling clubs.

“Should be enough to conceal your identity,” muttered Rico. “Good try with that story, by the way. You almost convinced me that you were a Venetian spy, and I know you.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said, picking up my bag.

“Mind you, I was a little worried that you would walk right out, leaving me cowering in that crate. I could have been shipped anywhere.”

“Cheap way to travel, though. Did you find anything interesting while you were in there?”

“Just some ornamental bush packed up to be sent to somebody's mother-in-law,” he said. “No weapons concealed among the leaves. But I only was in the one crate. There were still about forty others, and I don't think we can get away with doing this again. Once they discover someone has been poking his nose in there, they'll get rid of the contraband and increase the security.”

“Agreed,” I said. “Let's go find the others.”

We strolled back to the embolum, arriving as if we had just passed through the gate to the quarter, and joined our colleagues in time for some eight-handed juggling. We noticed my recent captors come in with Ruzzini, Ranieri, Viadro, and several other silk merchants. Moments later they emerged, looking around wildly, pointing in all directions before scattering.

We finished with Aglaia standing on Plossus's shoulders and Rico on mine, while the clubs went back and forth on two levels. Then Rico scooted around the perimeter of the crowd, collecting coins, while Aglaia and Plossus packed their gear.

Rico returned, his cap filled with silver.

“A most profitable night,” he said. “At least, financially.”

SEVEN

“What's a drunken man like, fool?”
“Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman.
”

ââWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
TWELFTH NIGHT,
ACT I, SCENE V

“T
here's something wrong about dividing the proceeds four ways, don't you think?” commented Plossus as Rico sorted out our Venetian take the following morning. “It seems to me that those who did most of the performing also did most of the earning.”

“What about those of us risking prison?” asked Rico. “It was a joint venture, share and share alike. If we had gotten caught, would you have volunteered to do a quarter of the sentence?”

“At least you made it back for the big finish,” said Aglaia. “That was fun. We haven't done a four-fool routine in a while.”

“You're gaining weight, by the way,” said Plossus. “Next time, I'll take Rico and you can stand on your husband's shoulders. It's only fairâhe's the one who got you in that condition.”

“But you're stronger than I am,” I said. “So, you get to carry her. Just make sure you don't drop her, or you'll have to answer to me.”

“And if you are going to commit a burglary, couldn't you at least steal something?” continued Plossus. “All this breaking in just to get information. What's the profit in that?”

“In this case, precious little,” I said. “We didn't even narrow down which of the merchants might be in contact with the fleet. They all showed up.”

“I think they're all in on it,” said Rico. “The embolum is the center of the insurrection. Bastiani wanted out, or they figured out he was reporting back to the eunuch, so they killed him.”

“How?” asked Aglaia.

Rico shrugged.

“I keep getting back to how it was done,” she said. “Figure out the how, and you'll figure out the who.”

“I'm still stumped as to how go about doing that,” I confessed.

“I'd like to see his room,” she said. “Any way you could get me in there without drawing too much attention?”

“Actually, there is,” I replied. “I told the landlord that he might receive a visit from a wealthy and debauched patron who liked to seduce young women in macabre settings. Care to play an impressionable maiden?”

“That would be a stretch,” scoffed Rico.

“I vaguely remember what that was like,” she said, glaring at him. “All right, we'll do that tomorrow night.”

“I volunteer to play the debaucherer,” cried Plossus.

“Nonsense,” I replied. “Nobody seduces my wife unless they are me. Are you two off to the palace today?”

“My liege is afield,” said Rico. “I'll wander the city and see what I can learn.”

“And I must make the charitable rounds with my lady Evdokia,” said Aglaia. “Chatting all the while in my foolish feminine way.”

“I think Plossus and I had better insinuate ourselves into the community some more,” I said.

“I'll fetch my stilts,” said Plossus, and soon after, we were back in the Venetian quarter.

We hit the south end by the larger embolum. Too much performing near the silk merchants would arouse suspicion, and I didn't see any need for an immediate resolution of this matter. Besides, there were
other commercial circles with their own pools of information. We set up outside the seawall near the Great Wharf and began.

The children gathered first, as was usual, but the halt in the shipping brought about by the raising of the great chain meant that a lot of dockworkers were idle. Soon we were surrounded by a rough, burly group who called out a number of rude suggestions as to our parentage. We reached into our bags of comebacks and soon had them laughing at each other as well as our own antics.

Working with a young fool always brought out the competitor in me, and Plossus was a particularly skilled colleague, not at all beneath some friendly scene-stealing. And, I must confess, I was feeling a bit jealous after seeing him work with my wife last night. No good reason for it, but I found myself digging for all the tricks that my advantage in years could give me.

It was a successful performance and soon spilled over into a nearby tavern favored by the dockworkers. The house ale was a lethal concoction with a foul aftertaste. My guess was it had been brewed with water from the Golden Horn itself. This nevertheless did not prevent any of our newfound friends from consuming vast quantities of it, but even with their tongues so amply loosened, we learned nothing to help us further in our search. The main complaint we heard was over the lack of work, but no one seemed eager to blame his situation on the fleet.

We shifted after lunch to the central wharf outside the Porta Drungarii. As we passed by an open shed, I spotted Tullio putting together a number of crates and stacking them against the wall.

“So, this is where you work,” I called to him.

He waved and kept going.

“I have to get these done quickly,” he said. “Who knows how much longer people will be able to pay me? And I have to pack my tools
and move them out of the shop before the invasion comes. Everything on this side of the wall will be fair game.”

“Do you really expect them to challenge the seawalls?” asked Plossus.

“They have to challenge them somewhere,” he replied. “I'd rather not take any chances.”

“How will your friend the huntsman take to having you working in his sleeping quarters?” I asked.

“As long as he's drinking like this, he'll sleep right through anything I do,” said Tullio.

“Then may his snoring drown out your sawing,” I said. “Godspeed.”

He nodded pleasantly, and we set up by the wharf.

“It is a holy profession, carpentry,” commented Plossus as he pulled his clubs out of his bag.

“Because Our Lord apprenticed to it?” I asked.

“No, because it is devoted to the making of holes,” he said. “And I am often struck by the fact that Our Lord, who was raised by a carpenter, died on a carpenter's creation. I wonder if He appreciated the irony.”

“Careful, lad,” I cautioned him. “You may mock any church in my presence, but show respect for the First Fool, Our Savior.”

Another crowd, another retreat into a tavern, this one on Drungary Street, just inside the gate. Venetians who still had active jobs poured in for dinner, and we strummed away and led them in increasingly raucous songs.

I spotted Viadro and nodded in his direction. Plossus followed my glance. The youth was seated on a a stool by the tapster, downing one cup after another.

I walked over to him and called to the tapster, “My good host, this fellow drinks with my coin. I will usurp your position and fill his cup from now on.” I tossed some coins onto the bar and snatched a bottle
and Viadro's cup. “This way, sirrah,” I beckoned, and he followed me, puzzled.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Good master, I am attempting to make amends for my behavior the other night,” I said, slurring my speech heavily. “I offended you with my choice of music, it seems.”

“Odd,” said Plossus. “Normally he offends just by the quality of his voice.”

“Hush, boy. Sir, you must drink with me.”

“Drink with a fool?” said Viadro, amused.

I stood up and slammed my bottle down.

“Sir!” I bellowed. “I spend my life figuring out ways to get others to buy me drinks. For a fool to buy a drink for somebody else is the highest possible compliment in our profession. I asked you to drink with me, now drink!”

“Humor him,” Plossus muttered to Viadro as I poured another round. “He gets like this. He'll get angry, then weepy, then he'll pass out. It's all harmless. I'll take care of him.”

“A toast!” I cried, holding my cup aloft. “To the memory of your late friend.”

“He was no friend of mine,” said Viadro.

“There, you see?” I said. “He offends so easily. I told you what happened the other night?”

“You tell me so many things, how am I supposed to know which one you're talking about at any given moment?” replied Plossus.

“I was hired to play for a dead Venetian at a Venetian wake,” I explained. “So, what would you expect me to play?”

“Venetian music?”

“Exactly!” I shouted triumphantly, then I sat down and almost toppled off the bench. “And this gentleman gets angry with me.”

“Why did he do that?” asked Plossus.

“I do not know,” I said. “Says the dead man, what was his name again?”

“Bastiani,” muttered Viadro, staring into his cup.

“Right, Bastardiano,” I continued, prompting a quick laugh from Viadro. “Says he's a traitor, or something. Now, how was I supposed to have known that?”

“I don't see how you could have known,” said Plossus.

“So, you see, signore,” I said to Viadro, “the offense was mine, for which I humbly beg your forgiveness, but it was an offense of ignorance, as is usually the case with me, for I am but an ignorant fool.”

“You are forgiven,” said Viadro, trying to rise, but I grabbed his wrist and poured him another drink.

“To Venice!” I shouted, and he was forced to join that one. I spluttered and coughed as I sipped, which allowed me to spill most of it onto the floor. Viadro didn't waste a drop of his.

“Here's something else strange,” I said to Plossus. “He thinks that the deceased was murdered.”

“Murdered?” exclaimed Plossus. “How extraordinary!”

“Now, sir,” I said, addressing Viadro. “I saw the corpse. I have been to hundreds of wakes and thousands of taverns, so I have seen all manner of dead men who died in every possible way. This Bastamenti did not have a mark on him. Not a bruise, not a scratch, not a drop of blood. How could he have been murdered?”

“Well,” began Viadro. “It could have been poison.”

“Well said, signore,” said Plossus. “What say you to that, Feste?”

I shook my head.

“Young sir,” I said. “I will endeavor, by a series of proofs that will withstand the scrutiny of the highest of philosophers and the lowest of fools, both of whom are sitting across from me at this very moment, that this merchant could not have been poisoned.”

“I believe he just called you a fool,” commented Plossus.

“All right, Fool,” said Viadro, automatically pouring himself another cup. “Proceed.”

“Primus,” I began, holding up one finger. “His room was undisturbed by the throes of the recently poisoned, nor was there any sign of drink or food that could have been the vehicle of such method.”

“He could have taken poison outside of the room,” objected Plossus.

“Exactly!” agreed Viadro.

I held another finger. “Secundus, if he was poisoned outside his room, then it would have had to have been when he dined. But he dined at your embolum with all of you. Someone would have seen it.”

“He could have stopped on the way home,” said Viadro, shifting uncomfortably on the bench.

“Exactly!” agreed Plossus.

“There's no place to stop,” I said. “Not a single establishment in between his home and the embolum. No, sir, he had his evening meal and came straight home, walked unaccompanied up to his room, closed the door, barred it, and lay down to his everlasting sleep.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Viadro. “You weren't there. This is just idle gossip.”

“Sir,” I said indignantly. “This is no ordinary, cheap, everyday, secondhand gossip. This is the freshest of gossip, from firsthand observations. It is completely reliable. Bashti died alone in his locked room, resting peacefully on his bed. No one went upstairs with him.”

“Then what killed him?” demanded Viadro.

“God's will,” I said piously, pressing my palms together and casting my eyes upward. “It was his time to depart this crumbling rock.”

“He could have been poisoned at the embolum,” insisted Viadro.

“That would explain it,” said Plossus.

“Where was he sitting?” I asked.

“What?”

“At the table, boy,” I said, shaking my head with exasperation. “Who was by him?”

“He was seated in the middle of the bench by the wall, between Ranieri and â¦ and â¦” He stopped, the blood draining from his face.

“Go on,” I prompted him.

“Myself,” he whispered.

BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter

8.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub