The Rossetti Letter (v5) (4 page)

“That’s twenty-eight ducats,” the clerk said loudly, and Alessandra realized from his tone and vexed expression that he’d already spoken once or twice, but she hadn’t heard him. As she took the neatly stacked gold coins from the table, a commotion at the front of the palazzo turned both their heads.

The guards had opened the wide double doors and the noise from the street echoed inside the marble-floored room. A great crowd had gathered outside, and the calls and shouts that arose from it soon captured the attention of everyone in the treasury. Alessandra strained to hear, but she couldn’t understand what they were shouting.

The clerk stood up, his eyes riveted on the door. The other clerks had risen, too. Even the other patrons—all of them men, she noticed—were turned toward the door in anticipation. But of what?

Within seconds her curiosity was rewarded. Four bearers carrying an open palanquin entered the Palazzo Camerlenghi. Atop the palanquin, a woman more stunning than any Alessandra had ever seen was comfortably ensconced amongst a collection of silk and velvet pillows. Outside, the shouts grew louder as the doors began to close behind her. “La Celestia!” Alessandra heard quite clearly now.

La Celestia.
Even Alessandra had heard of Venice’s reigning courtesan, reputedly the most beautiful in the city—a reputation that was well deserved, Alessandra thought as she stared at her. The courtesan’s heart-shaped face was framed by a mane of glossy dark hair that spilled around her bare shoulders and her generous breasts, which were almost fully exposed above the low neckline of her gown. Her eyes were large and thick lashed, as exotic as a cat’s, her skin as pale and luminous as the moon. She was surrounded by a bewildering number of servants and admirers who pushed their way into the treasury. Judging by the size and sound of the crowd outside, La Celestia’s appearance on the Rialto had nearly caused a riot. The courtesan seemed unfazed by the commotion she had created. As the guards shut the heavy doors, she smiled and waved at the men outside who were still calling her name, clearly enjoying the attention, as serenely happy as a beloved queen among her subjects.

The manager of the treasury rushed over to greet her. La Celestia’s admirers, a dozen young noblemen, filled the room with their self-importance, talking and laughing among themselves. The bearers set the palanquin down, and two of the noblemen rushed to offer their hands to the courtesan. After a second’s hesitation, she settled on the fairer of the two, who gave his rival a smug look as he helped her step down to the floor.

Alessandra gathered her purse and started toward the doors. She was making her way through the crowd when the nobleman whom La Celestia had rebuffed grabbed Alessandra by the arm. Apparently the blow to his pride hadn’t been permanent. He wore a stylish blue tunic under his knee-length coat and a self-assured grin.

“What’s this?” he said, smiling at her but speaking to the friend at his side. “A young miss out alone, without a veil?”

“This is a pretty problem,” his friend said. He was not so well favored nor so fine, but his attitude was equally mocking. “Maid or matron, which do you think?”

“Whether I am married or not is none of your concern,” Alessandra said.

“The lady has a tart tongue,” the blue dandy said.

“Matron, then, I’d wager, for maids are sweet.”

“You are both very rude,” Alessandra said. “If you were gentlemen, you would let me pass.”

La Celestia turned to face them. “What trouble are you two causing now?” she asked. A smile played across her lips, but her expression was kind. “Can’t you see the girl’s in mourning?” she chided her friends. “Leave her be.”

“Thank you.” Alessandra headed toward the doors.

“A moment,” La Celestia called. Alessandra turned around. The courtesan moved closer, seeming to glide toward her instead of walk. She cocked her head, eyes questioning. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere?”

“No,” Alessandra answered without hesitating. Surely she would know at once if she’d met this woman before.

“My mistake,” La Celestia said, turning away.

The guards opened the doors for Alessandra and she walked outside. The crowd had dissipated, but a few gawkers still remained, craning their necks to get another look at the courtesan. Alessandra moved quickly past them, clutching her purse, thinking firmly of home.

22 April 1617

T
HE
L
ANE OF
Broken Vows was a fetid back alley, perpetually cloaked in shadow and strewn with refuse, that burrowed between the tumbledown warehouses of the Cannaregio waterfront. In the most silent hour of the night, under the light of a half-moon, a boy slipped into a dark doorway at the end of the lane. He was a street urchin with pinched features, red-rimmed eyes, and a small, pointed nose that twitched, rodentlike, in moments of uncertainty. He appeared to be no more than eight or nine, but he had been on this earth at least twelve years; or so the nuns of Santa Maria dei Miracoli, whose meager charity had kept him alive, had assured him.

His name was Taddeo da Ponte, and he was a spy.

He sank deeper into the shadows as he heard footsteps approaching. Three men walked single file along the
fondamenta,
then crossed an arched bridge spanning the slender canal known as the Rio della Panada. Moonlight glinted off bobbing sword hilts as the men’s shadows flitted across the silvery surface of the water below. Two were French corsairs—Barbary Coast pirates—and one a Spanish
bravo,
a hired man-at-arms. Taddeo had determined at the tavern that they weren’t the usual sort of layabout mercenaries who frequented Agostino’s tiny pub; the corsairs were men of rank, and the Spanish
bravo
looked a cut above the common thug: tall, strong, with a stony gaze and a silver hoop that dangled from his left earlobe. Taddeo had even been close enough to the Spaniard to see the insignia on his sword hilt: a fox, the mark of Toledo steel and the emblem of the finest rapiers in the world. See where they go and come right back, Agostino had said, but Taddeo had a hunch that he might discover something Batù Vratsa would find worthy of reward.

He wrapped his short cape closer to ward off the damp and glanced up at the mist-shrouded moon. He waited until the men had disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the bridge before leaving his sanctuary, then followed them, soundless as a ghost. Before Agostino had given him work at the tavern, he’d been a link boy, leading the lost and weary through Venice’s back streets and alleys. He could move along the
fodere
—the linings—as stealthily as the stray cats and scurrying rats that showed him their secret pathways.

He carefully approached a small
campo
and watched as the men unlocked a fortified door and went inside a warehouse that opened onto the Rio di Cabriotti. He inched around the side of the building and dashed to the edge of the canal just as a gondola glided past and turned into the warehouse’s wide, arched canal door.

Taddeo steadied himself against the wall as he carefully stepped sideways along a stone ledge that extended from the alley to the portal. He stooped as he entered, then fell to his hands and knees and crept along the warehouse’s back wall. In the dim, flickering torchlight, Taddeo saw that the large room was filled with wooden crates, barrels, and coils of thick rope. The air reeked of damp wood and rotting hemp.

The two corsairs and the Spanish
bravo
stood in an open space at the center of the warehouse, watching as the gondolier secured the boat. The gondola’s lantern light reflected off the water and ribbons of yellow undulated on the walls and ceiling. Taddeo slipped down behind one of the crates as a man climbed out of the gondola. He was dressed in the Spanish fashion and very grand, his black velvet doublet embroidered with silver thread, a short fur-lined cape draped over one shoulder. Like the others, he wore both sword and dagger. A thick gold chain, ending in a large medallion, lay across his broad chest.

The Spanish
bravo
bowed briefly. “Your Excellency.” He turned to the other two men. “It is my honor to introduce you to my lord, the marquis of Bedmar, Spanish ambassador to Venice.” He looked to his master. “May I present Captains Jacques Pierre and Nicholas Regnault.”

“Your Excellency,” they said in unison, bowing low.

The Spanish ambassador?
Taddeo’s nose twitched and the tips of his ears tingled, as they always did when he felt excitement, apprehension, or fear. In the two years he had worked as the eyes and ears of the state, he had never spied on anyone other than a few lowly mercenaries, some local tradesmen, and the tavern whores, and for a moment Taddeo considered running away; he had a sudden premonition that something bad would come of this. Then he thought of Batù Vratsa and knew he had no choice but to stay.

Friend to orphans and outcasts, Batù had said when he’d introduced himself, fixing Taddeo with his chilling reptilian gaze; but no one would claim friendship with Batù, you simply did what he asked.
And Batù will ask about this. How will I look into those cold pale eyes and lie?
Taddeo rubbed his quivering nose and trained his ears on the exchange.

“Do you agree to our terms?” Bedmar asked. His trim, pointed beard had a few streaks of gray in it, but he possessed the vigor and confidence of a much younger man.

The French corsairs exchanged a careful glance. Pierre spoke. “We will of course have to propose it to our men. As I told Monsieur Sanchez…”

Pierre, Regnault, Sanchez, Taddeo memorized. Pierre was slight and dark, with a hawkish nose and nervous hands; Regnault was fair haired, ruddy faced, and beefy.

“I’m sure that the entire crew of the
Camarata
will follow me, but we are less certain of the sentiments among Captain Regnault’s men,” Pierre finished.

“We’re offering better pay than you receive from Venice.”

“It isn’t just the money, Ambassador. They’ll want to know they’re not being led to a slaughter.”

“This is a weak city, unaccustomed to battle,” Bedmar replied. “The Republic’s forces are heavily engaged elsewhere. Surely your men are not afraid of a few
arsenalotti.
”

Arsenalotti?
The shipbuilders at Venice’s Arsenale did double duty as the Doge’s bodyguard in case of attack.

“There will be spoils for those who are valiant,” the ambassador went on. “Think of it, the treasures of Venice. Unlike any they’ve ever…” His voice dropped to a murmur.

They’re talking about an attack on Venice.
He must tell Agostino…must tell Batù. Taddeo placed his palms on the floor and leaned forward, straining to hear. A fat, wet rat scuttled across his hands. He jumped and fell back against the crate.

“What was that?” Bedmar said sharply.

Taddeo froze.

“Search the room,” the ambassador ordered. Three pairs of feet started off in three different directions.

Taddeo quickly backed away from the crate and crawled toward the canal door. He was inches from his escape when a meaty hand grabbed him by the neck and pulled him to his feet. Regnault gripped Taddeo’s wrists and marched him to the center of the room, where the other men had gathered again.

“It’s just a boy,” Regnault said, holding him out like a fish on a line.

“It’s the serving boy from the tavern,” Sanchez added. His tone was suspicious; any second he would denounce Taddeo as a spy.

Taddeo countered his hostile stare with a practiced wide-eyed innocence. “Yes, my lords”—he bowed awkwardly, as his hands were still restrained—“my master sent me after you, to return the money that you overpaid for the wine you enjoyed in his humble inn.”

“This is nonsense,” Sanchez said. “What tavern owner turns away silver?”

“My lords, I assure you, I have the coins in my boot. If you’ll unloose me,” he said to Regnault. Bedmar nodded once and the corsair released him. Taddeo knew that surprise and speed were his only allies. He reached into his boot, straightened, and plunged his short dagger into Regnault’s sword hand. The captain bellowed more loudly than an angry bull. Taddeo bolted while the others were still baffled by Regnault’s sudden outburst, and was out on the ledge before they had drawn their swords and started after him.

Blast the moon, he thought as he ran frantically, making his way through the smallest and darkest of Cannaregio’s warrenlike streets. Along the Alley of the Curly-Headed Woman, to the Street of the Seven Virgins, through the tiny, malodorous passageway behind the butcher and the tallow maker. His mind raced as he ran.
Must tell Agostino…must tell Batù. Stick to the shadows, blast the moon.

He ran across Ponte Arrivosa and through the Calle Volto. Sanchez appeared at the end of the lane, running toward him. Taddeo turned back, only to discover the ambassador blocking his escape. Taddeo collided with him, the cold metal of the ambassador’s gold medallion striking his cheek. Bedmar gripped his arm with one iron hand and looked down on him with an enigmatic smile. Sanchez trotted up to them.

“You should know better than to wag your tongue in a tavern,” Bedmar scolded. “This little gutter rat can listen and speak the same as a grown man, and you’ve led him right to me.”

“Forgive me, Excellency. It won’t happen again.” Sanchez hefted his sword and gestured at Taddeo.

They were going to kill him, Taddeo realized. He felt faint. His heart was beating faster than a rabbit’s.

“No need,” the ambassador said, and sheathed his sword.

Taddeo nearly collapsed with relief. “Your Excellency,” he exclaimed, “you are a man of great mercy…”

There was a flash of steel in the moonlight, then excruciating pain. Bedmar’s dagger sliced through his larynx with a searing, burning agony, an unholy baptism of fire and ice. Taddeo tried to scream but couldn’t; his throat had instantly filled with blood. It was like a nightmare he’d once had in which he’d been cornered and desperate and yet unable to make a sound. He clutched his throat, feeling as though he were drowning, and his hand came away slick with blood, glistening and black in the moonlight. Taddeo looked up at the ambassador, his mouth open, his eyes pleading. Bedmar looked past him as if he were no longer there. But I’m still alive, aren’t I? he thought, confused.
Must tell Agostino…must tell Batù…an attack on Venice…

Bedmar released his arm and Taddeo fell to the ground. He heard the two men hurrying away, their footsteps on the cobbled lane gradually becoming fainter. He was vaguely aware of the gushing wetness at his throat, of his life streaming from him, his warm blood pooling on the cold stone.
Must tell…he must…what?
He couldn’t remember. Taddeo turned his face heavenward. The moon rocked wildly in the sky, the stars whirled in circles, blurred, and grew dim, until at last they disappeared altogether.