Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase (5 page)

‘So children, what do you make of my city?’ he asked with pride.

‘It is beautiful Papa. What’s that tower there…?’

‘The campanile of San Giorgio Maggiore; and the bigger one there is the campanile of the city’s cathedral – San Marco.’

‘There are so many of them. They remind me a little of Damascus, Papa. Are they Muslim here?’ asked Maria.

‘Ah, no. They follow Jesus here, child. Mohammed is not for them. But the people of Venice have traded for hundreds of years with our friends in the east and the buildings here bear testament to that influence. You will see when we land.’

‘If they are not Muslim here, Papa, will we be allowed to stay, after what happened in Egypt?’ Maria sounded anxious.

‘Oh yes, don’t worry about that. The people here are used to Muslims, and Jews. There should be no problem.’

The nearer the ship came to Venice, the more crowded the seas became, until Marco found himself almost jockeying with other ships and smaller boats in order to get into a favourable position to drop anchor. They passed a small island with a large square building, a church, and yet another campanile.

‘What is that one called, Papa?’ asked Maria.

‘That is the island of Poveglia,’ replied Niccolò.

‘It’s so small; just enough room for the large house and its church. Do a family live there?’ Maria continued cheerfully.

‘It’s the plague island. It’s just for people who have the disease and the nurses who care for them.’

Daniele looked up at his father, questioning, anxious.

‘It’s a good idea,’ their father continued matter-of-factly. ‘It helps to keep the illness at bay and stops it spreading into the city. There was a terrible outbreak twenty or so years ago.’

‘So if there had been an island like that in Egypt… Would
Mamma
and the little ones still be with us?’ asked Daniele quietly.

‘It’s impossible to say. They don’t have such things in Egypt and the plague runs like a fire through a community. One day you are well, the next…’

‘So this island,’ Daniele continued.

‘Daniele, please, can’t you see you are upsetting Papa?’ Maria interjected.

‘Let him speak,’ said Niccolò. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘How do they decide who should go there?’

‘Well as soon as someone shows the symptoms of the illness, they are taken there.’

‘And can they make them well there?’ the boy asked.

‘Who knows…?’

Their father turned away in search of the captain. He needed to discuss where the ship would dock.

Daniele slipped his arm through his sister’s and rested his dark head on her shoulder.

The pair gazed at the island as they slipped by, their ship carving a snowy outline through the dark emerald waters, both reflecting on the terrible last illness that had taken their mother and little brother and sister from them. The main hospital building was a large square shape, its walls faced in stone, with high windows criss-crossed with strong iron bars. Smoke snaked into the pale blue sky from a chimney.

‘It looks nice,’ Maria said encouragingly. ‘Maybe they do get people better there…’

‘It looks like a prison,’ said Daniele darkly.

Their father Niccolò joined them.

‘So, Maria – are you packed and ready?’ His voice was brisk and light, always positive.

‘Yes, Papa…’

‘You were sick last night… Are you feeling better this morning?’ He sounded calm and cheerful, as he always tried to do, but she could sense the anxiety behind the question.

‘Yes, Papa; I have told Daniele. I am fine. It was nothing, really.’

‘Good.’

Marco called for the sails to be lowered. The ship would be rowed to its final docking position at Malamocco. The family stood gazing out at the city wrapped around the lagoon.

‘It must be hard for you, Papa – thinking of
Mamma
and all that we had to leave behind in Egypt.’

‘Yes.’ Niccolò said nothing more, but took his daughter’s face in his large hands and kissed her forehead. ‘But having you and Daniele here with me now is a huge joy. I am glad to be back. I am tired. My travelling days are over. Our first task is to find lodgings and a place for our merchandise to be stored. Now come, children, come to the prow and I will show you your new home.’

‘And how does it feel, Papa,’ said Maria, tucking her arm through her father’s, ‘to see your Venice again after all this time?’

‘It is wonderful. It is the most beautiful city in the world. And after all these years, and all that has happened, now that I smell the sea in the lagoon and watch as the morning sun glints on the roof of San Marco, it is as if I had never left.’

T
he house
that Niccolò found for the family was in the district of Castello, east of the Piazza San Marco, site of the Doge’s Palace and the Cathedral. Although it was just minutes away from the religious and administrative heart of the city on its western boundary, Castello spread eastwards out towards the lagoon. It was the first point of contact for anyone arriving by sea and its mixture of industry and commerce, alongside inhabitants from many nations, lent the area a bustling, cosmopolitan atmosphere, in contrast to its regal, more straight-laced neighbour.

On its northern boundary was the area known as the Arsenale, which for hundreds of years, had been the heart of the Venetian naval industry – supplying boats, ropes and munitions. The yard spread across one hundred and ten acres and was divided into separate areas, each producing different elements of the ships, which were then finally assembled in as little as one day. The thousands of
Arsenaletti
, as the workers were described, lived cheek-by-jowl with their workplace in a jumble of houses that rose up out of the waters of the lagoon. A little to the south and west of the Arsenale, in an area called Riva degli Schiavoni, lived settlers from Greece and the Dalmatian coast. They were predominantly fishermen and sold their dried fish and meat along the edge of the lagoon. Merchants from Turkey, northern Europe and North Africa lived alongside their Greek and Slav counterparts selling their wares.

Niccolò settled his family on the western edge of Castello. The house was less expensive than if it had been in the San Marco district, but close to the Doge’s palace and the Rialto Bridge. And if he missed life in the Middle East, he was just a few minutes’ walk from a cosmopolitan hubbub of people that reminded him of his time in Damascus.

Their house fronted onto a canal called the Rio dei Greci and was arranged over four floors. There was a serviceable kitchen and a dining hall; a large reception room that ran the length of the house, a study at the back for Niccolò, bedrooms overlooking the canal for the family, and at the top of the house, rooms for their servants. A cook, Alfreda, was appointed, who was helped in the kitchen and around the house by a maid called Bella who, at eighteen, was just one year older than Maria. From the start Maria liked her and the pair began to form a close bond. The household was completed by the presence of a young man called Andrea, who brought in wood for the fires, served at table, and helped with the heavier jobs. Several weeks went by and they settled into a happy routine, exploring the city with their father, studying each day, and were able to start the long process of grieving for their lost mother, brother and sister. The goods Niccolò had brought with him from the East were installed in the customs warehouse in Punta, opposite San Marco. Here they would stay while the value was assessed and duty could be applied and paid. Only then could the porcelain, spices and silk be sold on. The vase, casket, paintings and desk that had been given to him by the Admiral as a gift for the Doge were safely installed in Niccolò’s study. He would have to deliver them soon, but there was important business to be dealt with first.

Niccolò’s apostasy – his conversion to Islam – had reached the ears of Pope Eugenius IV. He summoned dei Conti to Florence, where he was to meet one of the Pope’s senior advisors.

‘Oh Papa, what will happen to you? Please do not leave us here alone. We’ve been so happy here together.’

‘And will be so again. Besides, you will not be alone, Maria. The servants will be with you.’

‘But I am fearful… We have lost
Mamma
and now you must go too.’

‘I am only travelling to Florence, my dear child. I will be a way a few weeks – two months at most. By the time I return, I shall be able to sell our goods and we can truly begin our new life here in Venice.’

‘But why must you go? Is the Pope angry with you? He might put you in gaol...’

Dei Conti could see how fearful his children were. Their experience in Egypt had left its mark. ‘My darlings, the Pope has written to me and asked that, in penance for adopting the Muslim faith, I meet with his secretary, Poggio Bracciolini. He is a great scholar and man of learning, and the Holy Father himself has asked that I tell him all that I can of our travels. He wishes to record it and to publish it to the world. Bracciolini believes that my knowledge will help others who come after me to understand the lands of India and the East. I have told you, have I not, of the travels of the great Marco Polo, who also came from Venice?’

The children nodded.

‘Well, this great scholar, Bracciolini, is keen that I provide new information and help to create new maps of the world where we have been, for up until now we have relied on maps and accounts made by the great Marco. But they are two hundred years old. It is a huge honour for me to be asked to do this thing. Trust me my darlings, all will be well. I shall tell this man all that I know and then I shall be allowed once again into the faith of my birth. I shall soon return and we shall live happily here. You will see.’

Three days later, dei Conti set off on horseback, accompanied by two servants. Before he left, he held Maria and Daniele to him.

‘Maria, I expect you to take care of Daniele for me.’

‘I do not need looking after,’ Daniele exploded indignantly.

‘Well then, I expect you to care for your sister,’ said Niccolò magnanimously. ‘Continue with your studies – I have arranged for a tutor to come in each day – and Maria, you will manage the servants for me. ’

‘I will, Papa. Oh, but I do so wish I could come with you.’

‘No, you will be safer here. You have the vase with you, remember? Keep it safe for me.’

Maria nodded. ‘Perhaps you should take it with you, Papa?’

‘No, I leave it here to protect the two people I love more than life itself,’ said Niccolò. ‘Work hard, take care of the house and continue your discovery of Venice. You could live here your whole life and never see everything. Try to walk a little each day and explore.’

‘You will write to us, Papa?’

‘Of course!’

N
iccolò left
for Florence early one morning, accompanied by his personal servant, Mattheo, and secretary, Vincenzo. The children missed him desperately, but both were resilient and determined to be positive for the sake of their father, if not for each other. Maria, as her father had instructed, ran the house, ordering supplies and managing the staff. She was a gentle mistress, much as her own dear mother had been with their own servants Chahaye and Kade, but efficient and capable. Daniele, whilst only two years her junior, seemed to her to need special care and she took it upon herself, just as her father had asked, to ensure that Daniele kept up with his studies. This was their only point of conflict, for Daniele hated the school room and struggled with formal learning. But when he was despondent and sad, she would construct a game they could play, or suggest that they put on some kind of charade for their household’s amusement.

Their house had windows onto the canal at the front, and this was where the main entrance was placed, with steps that led down to the water and a small landing platform to allow visitors or members of the household to step safely on and off a gondola. At the back of the building they looked out onto the Church of San Zaccaria. There had been a church on the site for six hundred years and eight Doges were buried there. But the Gothic façade was being re-built under the watchful eye of the architect Antonio Gambello, and there was a stream of workmen filing onto the site each morning. Maria and Daniele were intrigued by the constant activity visible from the upper storey windows. Next to the church stood a convent. The nuns were mostly daughters of prominent noble families, and Maria was fascinated by this closed community of women. In some ways it reminded her of the Chinese Emperor’s household except, of course, in the palace there had been many children too. In the convent there was no sound of childish laughter. Instead there was the distant chorus of singing at regular intervals during the day. When the nuns were not praying or singing they appeared to spend most of their time tending their large vegetable garden. If Maria peered out of the rear window of her father’s study, she could see into the convent’s vegetable garden and observe as the nuns, dressed head to toe in black, weeded and dug and picked, their sleeves pushed up over their elbows. It struck her that their clothing looked uncomfortable for such hard, hot work. Occasionally, one or another would stand up and stretch her tired limbs, or wipe a little sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. One evening, as the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the garden, a young nun caught sight of her; she smiled and waved. Maria waved back just as an older nun came over to the novice and appeared to reprimand her. She looked up at Maria and frowned. The younger woman bowed her head and continued her digging. But Maria couldn’t help but notice that she cast her eyes back up towards Maria’s window one more time and broke into a broad grin as the older nun turned her back. Not wishing to get the girl into further trouble, Maria merely smiled in reply, before retreating once more to the safety of her father’s dark study.

The children’s bedchambers were at the front of the house and overlooked the canal. The proximity of the water was a novel experience for them and they grew to love the sound as it lapped against the walls of the house, slapping against the landing deck, as the gondolas slipped through the dark water.

Each morning they would throw open their shutters and lean out to see who, or what, was being ferried down the canal. The gondolas at that time were decorated in various colours, some with little cabins in the centre where couples could flirt unobserved or goods could be ferried in secret. Over time, the pair began to recognise certain gondolas, and would wave at the
gondolieri
.

‘Bon giorno, gondoliere.’

‘
Bon giorno, regazzi,’
the gondoliers would shout up to the pair.

‘
Cosa ce li dentro?’

‘Qualcosa per mercata!’
they would shout back. And the children would watch as the
gondolieri
steered their gondolas through the water towards the Grand Canal. Once there, they would deliver their goods to the markets on the Riva degli Schiavoni, or travel onwards to the shops on the Rialto, to unload goods at the shops there, or to unload them nearby at the Fondaco dei Tedeschi – a large building that combined a warehouse with lodgings for German merchants trading in the city. Here the
gondolieri
would offload the cargo at the portico, overlooked from an airy loggia above by the merchants and their families. The goods were then shipped out of Venice to the East, or to northern Europe – Germany, the Low Countries and England.

One morning, as Daniele slept on, Maria opened her shutters and gazed as usual down onto the canal hoping to catch sight of one of the familiar
gondolieri
. A pair of seagulls swooped down the canal, snatching a piece of bread that had been cast into the water. Within moments, she heard the familiar slip, slop of a gondola. This one was painted a brilliant shade of red and she knew the
gondoliere
by name.

‘
Bon giorno, Fabio
,’ she shouted down to him.

‘
Bon giorno, Signorina. Come va
?’

‘
Bene grazie
.’

A young man with fair hair emerged from the little cabin in the centre of the gondola. He gazed up towards Maria’s window. Embarrassed, she ducked out of sight, before reappearing once more as the gondola slipped past. The young man, she noticed, had remained on his feet and as she peeked out of her window once more, he waved at her before disappearing onto the Grand Canal.

The following morning, as she took up her familiar position at the window, Fabio’s gondola appeared once again. But this time the young fair-haired man was seated next to the
gondoliere
in the open part of the gondola. He waved up at her and smiled. He had long straight hair, a broad face and a kind expression. She waved back nervously. He called up to her.

‘
Bon giorno, Signorina
.’

His accent was unfamiliar; he was certainly not Italian. She ducked out of sight again, and sat on the window seat from where she could see but remain unobserved. She spent the rest of the day wandering between her bedchamber and her father’s study, musing on the young man with fair hair. Having been brought up in the Middle and Far East, she was fascinated by people with fair hair. Her family’s travels had occasionally taken them to parts of the Middle East where people had fair hair, or blue eyes. She herself had blue-green eyes. But she had never seen hair that resembled fine gold thread. His skin too was pale, far paler than her own olive skin. Since their arrival in Venice, her father had explained that many of the people who lived in the city came from lands far to the north, and they were more likely to have fair hair and skin. On her walks to the market and Piazza San Marco with Daniele, they came across people of all different races, and she enjoyed listening as the merchants bartered and argued over the cost of goods in a hurly-burly of different languages. But without her father to interpret, she had no idea where they came from.

She yearned to discuss all this with her father. She missed his company so badly. She wondered if he would have been shocked that the young man had called up to her. He would probably have invited the fair-haired man to meet them; he was always interested in meeting new people. She went into her father’s study and sat down at his desk with paper and pen to write him a letter. She thought of the young nun who had waved at her a few days before, and wondered if she was in the garden. She stood up from her father’s desk and peered out of the window.

Directly beneath her stood the nun, gathering pears from a large tree that had been trained against the wall.

‘
Buona sera
,’ she called down to the young nun. ‘Those pears look lovely.’ She pointed to the large basket filled with fruit at the young nun’s feet.