The False Virgin (14 page)

I cringed at her calling me her grandfather, even though it was true. It made me feel old, though that was also true. You see, I gave up counting my years when I passed seventy. And I
didn’t want to be reminded of the fact every time Katie opened her mouth. I pulled a face.

‘I told you to call me Nick.’

Katie frowned and tugged at the golden hair that cascaded down over her shoulders. It was a mixture of her grandmother’s ash-blond hair and my red locks. Though my hair was more salt and
pepper now.

‘I’m sorry, Grand— Nick. But I haven’t known you all that long, and I love having a real grandfather.’

Maybe I should explain why she hasn’t known me all her life. My name is Niccolo Zuliani of Venice, though my friends call me Nick, a name my English mother gave me. And I have spent most
of my life on the furthest edge of the world. The Mongol Empire of Kublai Khan had drawn me like a magnet from the earliest time I heard stories of its fabled wealth. I had travelled there and made
some good friends, even becoming a high official at the Khan’s court. But I had always yearned for home, as all Venetians do. And finally I had returned to discover that my long-lost love,
Caterina Dolfin – the lithe and sexy Cat of my younger days – was still alive and kicking, with a granddaughter called Katie Valier. It had turned out that the pretty girl, who now
stood before me on the quay at Kamares, was my grandchild by the son I had never known. That son had been a seed that I had left spawning in Cat’s belly when I went to seek my fortune on the
other side of the world. Now, having discovered my granddaughter, I was striving to make up for lost time. I sighed, knowing that I was already giving in to her every whim.

‘Then you may call me that, but only in private. Every other time it must be Nick, or Messer Zuliani. Now, where is Querini? I was told he would be here to meet us.’

We had been standing on the quay for some time by now. Our baggage was already piled there too, and the oarsmen of our speedy Venetian galley were beginning to file off the boat. But there was
no one to greet us. Each oarsman – who was a free Venetian, not a slave, as in other galleys – saluted us as he passed. The men were chosen by lot from each parish, and their families
were supported by the remainder of the parish while the rowers were away carrying out their duties. We had been on our travels so long that I had got to know them individually, at least enough to
recognise their faces. I saw the cocky one called Stefano, who was working off his debts. Debtors often paid off their obligations by rowing in the galleys along with oarsmen chosen by lot. He
grinned at me as he passed.

We were still left waiting after the oarsmen had all gone to find their lodgings. At last the Doge’s private secretary, Bertuccio Galuppi, who had travelled with us on this long journey to
the Greek island of Sifnos, came hurrying back down the quay. He had gone to see why no one was waiting for us on our arrival. As he got closer, I could see his face looked like thunder.

‘Messer Galuppi, what is wrong? Is there some delay? I do hope not, as I am quite parched, and standing in this sun is not a good idea for an old man with a thirst.’

Galuppi shook his head. ‘I fear we have a problem, Messer Zuliani.’

‘None greater than my thirst, I can assure you.’

Galuppi, who acted as though he had a rod up his arse at the best of times, bristled at my levity.

‘It is far worse than that. Niccolo Querini is . . . indisposed.’

‘Indisposed? That is an insufficient excuse when the Doge’s representative lands on this little excuse for an island.’

That’s me, by the way – the Doge’s representative. I’ll tell you later how Nick Zuliani, of dubious origins and shady repute, came to be occupying such an elevated post.
But right then I needed to throw my weight around a little. I scowled at Galuppi.

‘Tell him that I don’t care if he’s dying of the French pox, I want him here now.’

Galuppi’s face turned puce, and he anxiously inclined his head to remind me of the presence of my granddaughter. I suppose he imagined such language should not be spoken in the presence of
a lady of such tender years. Especially not one from the noble houses of Dolfin and Valier. I had no such compunction. Before I had known of her existence, Katie, dressed as a boy, had spied on me.
It had been only when I turned the tables on her and grabbed her that I had felt her burgeoning tits. She had cursed me then in a language that was as robust as any Venetian sailor cursing
drunkenly in a tavern in the Arsenal. Which is probably where she had learned it as the wild child she had been before I met her. I had tried my best to be a good grandfather and to put her on the
straight and narrow, but to no avail. Besides, I was secretly proud of her vocabulary, and had learned a few choice expressions from her myself. I was tempted to use one or two now, but saw that it
would be counter-productive with the sober-sided Galuppi. Instead, I laid an arm over his shoulder, and drew him aside.

‘Bertuccio, tell me, what has indisposed Querini?’

His stiff demeanour bent somewhat, and he leaned towards my ear to whisper into it.

‘He is dead—’

‘Dead?’ I cried. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, not dead. Merely dead drunk. He is incoherent and sleeping it off in the tavern along the street.’

I glowered. ‘We shall see about that.’ I turned to Katie. ‘Wait here, the shipmaster will ensure no harm comes to you. I have some business to attend to.’

I saw that she was about to protest at being treated like a child. But she knew the nature of my temper, and decided to save up her complaint about her treatment for when we were in private. I
had no doubt I would be called ‘grandfather’ in the frostiest of terms, but I could bear it. Rather that than she get involved in a scene with Querini that could become nasty. She sat
down on one of our trunks, and rested her chin in her hand in a way that suggested she was not happy with me. I ignored her gesture and indicated that Galuppi should lead me to our drunken
host.

In actual fact, Niccolo Querini was not who I was sent to meet by the Doge. The focus of my long and arduous journey from Venice around the southern coast of Greece and out into the Aegean Sea
was Querini’s wife, Speranza Soranzo. Her father, Giovanni Soranzo, had earned a reputation as the hero of Aegean naval operations. He had taken twenty-five galleys up to the Black Sea and
the Crimea, restoring Caffa to Venice and taking it away from the hands of the Genoese. He became Head of the Navy, and Governor of the Gulf and Islands of Venice. In 1309 he was appointed Attorney
General jointly with Marco Querini, whose son, Niccolo, had married Giovanni’s daughter. All had then seemed well in Soranzo’s world.

But a year later, the Querinis became embroiled in a conspiracy to overthrow Doge Pietro Gradenigo. The plot failed – not without some conniving on my part – and Niccolo Querini and
his wife were banished to Sifnos, an island belonging to the Soranzos. Now, two years on, Giovanni Soranzo had been named Doge himself, and his daughter’s life was about to change. I was on
Sifnos, that aforementioned chunk of rock in the Aegean, to talk to Speranza about her return to Venice, and the terms on which it would be possible. But first I had to deal with her drunken
husband.

Galuppi led me past a noisy boat-builders’ yard and down a narrow cobbled lane to a small doorway pretentiously carved in stone with a coat of arms on the lintel. I didn’t recognise
the armorial bearing, but I certainly did the body inside. I had met Niccolo Querini when I had toyed with joining the plotters in the 1310 conspiracy. Then, he had been a hothead with a powerful
chest and strong arms. The man slumped over the low table in the anonymous tavern had gone to seed. He had put on a lot of fat round his waist, and his once well-groomed hair was greasy and long.
Clearly, Niccolo had not survived his exile well. I grabbed his unwashed locks and lifted his head off the table. He didn’t protest at the mistreatment, merely dragging one bleary eye open to
see who it was who was molesting him. The solitary eye was bloodshot, but gave signs of recognition. He propped his heavy head on his palm, which allowed me to let go of his hair. Thankfully, I
wiped my greasy palm on the shoulder of his tunic. When he spoke, his speech was slurred and jumbled.

‘Zulz . . . Zuliani. Good to see you, man. How’s things?’

I peered angrily into his one functioning eye.

‘They could be better, Querini. I have just come through a big storm that threatened to wreck my galley off the Peloponnese. Then we were attacked by pirates who could have been under the
command of the Duke of Milan, for all I know. And when I arrive at Kamares, desirous of a soft bed and a roof over my head, I find my host has drunk himself silly in a cheap tavern.’

My last words were shouted right in Querini’s face. He flinched and held his head in both hands, no doubt to try to control the headache that raged within.

‘It’s not my fault, Zuliani. It’s hers.’

‘By ‘hers’ I suppose you mean your wife, the daughter of the Doge. Why is it her fault?’

Prising both eyes open, he gazed at me miserably.

‘She’s forsaken me for a monk. And now she’s gone and shut herself in a nunnery.’

His head fell to the table with a loud clunk, and I could see I would get no more sense out of him. I left Querini to bemoan his fate and asked Galuppi to make arrangements to transfer our
baggage across the island to the Querini mansion in the south. He asked about a courtesy visit to the capital, Kastro, but I waved his suggestion aside. The people I needed to see were ensconced in
the south and the capital of this little island was in the east. I use the word ‘capital’ advisedly. It doesn’t take much to be the biggest place on an island in the back of
beyond. No, the Tou Kontou peninsula was where the Querinis were settled, and that is where I would move my household during my stay on Sifnos. Galuppi hurried off to arrange the required
transport.

As I walked back to the quay to meet up with Katie, I pondered on Querini’s words. I was not surprised to find the Doge’s daughter lodged in a religious house. She was supposed to
have been living in the monastery of St John the Theologian at Mongou as the terms of her exile. That she would actually be living with her husband, however, was taken as read, and the Querini
mansion was close by the monastery. So I assumed she had taken herself off to Mongou in anticipation of my arrival, just for form’s sake. But what had Querini meant about her leaving him for
a monk? I would have to do some digging to discover what had been going on here on Sifnos.

My task had all started with a letter. As soon as Giovanni Soranzo had become Doge, the letter had arrived from his daughter, begging to be allowed back to Venice. Soranzo was a canny enough
bird to know that as Doge he had to act cautiously, and not show preference to family. Especially family who had plotted against the previous Doge. What he had done had been a surprise to me as
much as to others around him.

I had been dining with Cat in Ca’ Dolfin, her family home, where I had been living since my own house had burned down. Both of us had finished the meal, and we were talking finance. It was
my favourite subject.

‘I have put what money I have in the Florentine Bank of Peruzzi. They are financing the Venetian bullion trade, which is huge. Twice a year a bullion fleet of twenty to thirty ships, under
heavy naval convoy, sail from Venice to the eastern Mediterranean coast or to Egypt, bearing primarily silver. And they sail back to Venice bearing mainly gold.’

‘What profit is there in that?’

I sighed. Cat had the old aristocracy’s lack of understanding of how trading worked.

‘Because it is a trade between regions that value gold and silver differently. Some merchants are making annual rates of profit of up to forty per cent on very large, short-term
investments.’

Cat yawned and I knew to stop my monologue. Then I saw by the growing look in her eyes that she was thinking pretty much the same as me. It was still only a month or two since we had found each
other again, and the forces of nature worked strongly in both of us. As soon as we could slip Katie’s attention, we would be dashing off to bed together. Old man I may be, but my lust was
aroused by the still lithe and sensuous body of Caterina Dolfin. But we were destined never to get there. A scratching at the water door of Ca’ Dolfin had heralded the arrival of a mysterious
emissary clad in a hooded cloak. It had turned out to be Bertuccio Galuppi with a strange commission. The Doge wanted to find out discreetly about his daughter’s situation, and have his man
recommend what to do about fetching her back to Venice. It seemed I was the man for the job, due, according to Galuppi, to my legendary negotiating skills and discretion. I think he meant I was a
slippery and underhand customer, who could be relied on to sneak in and out of Sifnos without anyone knowing. After Galuppi had delivered his message, Cat and I spoke about whether I should take
the job. She was adamant I should.

‘You can’t refuse. It’s the Doge who is asking. That means it is a command.’

I snorted. ‘That’s what you members of the
case vecchie
think. We mere merchant classes need a good deal to be on offer.’

I often teased Cat about her family being of the old aristocracy, which excluded such as the Zulianis from power. It was one of the reasons I had left Venice. Her father had deemed me too common
for his snooty daughter. Now I had my feet under her table, but it had taken me forty years, the death of her father, and a trip round the world to get there. Our argument would have raged on, but
for the intervention of the one thing that united us both. It was Katie, who had been listening to our row, who finally resolved it.

‘Of course you must go, Grandpa. Then you will have the Doge in your pocket, and eternally grateful to you.’

I pointed at my granddaughter in triumph.

‘See. She is more of a Zuliani than a Valier or a Dolfin. She gets straight to the nub of the matter in the most businesslike way.’ I hit the table with my fist, causing my wine
goblet to spill over. ‘I will go.’