The Venetian (23 page)

“And what of the Greeks?” asked Paolo, now interested.

“Ah, the Greeks,” he said softly. “Very bad. Crete is like a bull with a rope on its horns, one that has unraveled down to a thread. It will break, the bull will run, snorting madly, wild eyes searching for its tormentors. It will rage, maul, and kill before being subdued and tied once more. And then it will all start again.” There had been countless uprisings in the 300 years of Venetian control Adnah went on to explain. Crete was far too important to the Venetian Empire to be allowed to govern itself. The island was at the crossroads of Venice’s two great trading routes—those that led to Constantinople and the Black Sea, and those that went to the spice markets of Syria and Egypt. It supplied the ports of the Holy Land and was a place for warehousing goods and repairing and provisioning merchant galleys. It was also critical to naval operations throughout the Aegean in times of war.

But in truth there had never been even a remote chance that there would be peace, no matter the island’s strategic importance. Crete was loyal to the Orthodox faith and the Byzantine Empire, an empire in whose destruction Venice was deeply complicit.

“And where do your sympathies lie?” Paolo asked.

Adnah raised an eyebrow.
Is it not clear?
“I daresay I would not be helping you if I did not feel some kinship to the native population. The Orthodox Church here is repressed. The peasants are worked relentlessly to provide grain and wine to the Republic. Venetian settlers continue to arrive, depriving landowning families of their estates. And…” Adnah hesitated as though the next point were particularly loathsome, “there is a strict racial separation. No man can hold a post in the administration of his own home if he is not ‘flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone.’ I find that particularly distasteful, as you might imagine. And there is slavery.” There was disgust in his voice.

“But slavery has been banned in Venice for over 100 years,” said Paolo skeptically.

“Oh yes,” replied Adnah in a way that made Paolo feel instantly foolish. “You are absolutely correct. And yet the slaves flow freely through our harbor, some bound to Venice as domestic or sexual servants. Others stay here to work the plantations, and still more go to the Mamluk armies of Egypt.”

“And what becomes of all the labor?” Paolo asked. “Do they earn a fair wage?”

Adnah snorted. Paolo’s ears reddened. “Forgive me. I have been here too long. I sometimes forget that not everyone is aware of our circumstances. No, there is no such thing. Crete, all of Crete, is taxed heavily by the Republic.” He took a breath before continuing. “The
capinicho, acrosticho,
and
zovatico
are taxes levied on households, landholdings, and animals. The
arico, commerclum,
and
tansa
fall on the sale of oil and wine, exports of cheese and iron, skins and salted fish, and the mooring of ships.

The
angariae
are taxes levied for the construction of fortifications, guard duty, and the supply of fodder and firewood, especially irksome to the Cretans I might add.” There were also special levies to cope with military emergencies and pirate attacks. He laughed but there was no humor in it. “So many, one cannot keep track. And we Jews,” he continued with a small smile, “we are taxed with a…singular zeal.”

Chaya suddenly came unbidden into Paolo’s mind, Adnah’s descriptions of the Jews’ plight bringing back her outrage back to him. “I mentioned grain and wine and you inquired about a fair wage. Venice also mandates a monopoly purchase of core commodities, especially wheat. And that monopoly comes at rates far below what the open market is prepared to pay. So no, fair is not something to be found in abundance on Crete.”

“So I take it we are in between rebellions now?”

Adnah chuckled. “Yes indeed. But one never knows when the next uprising will be. The last one of any consequence was in 1363, and they still remember it here as though it were yesterday.”

“Tell me. I know a little of the story, but I’m embarrassed to say that I am discovering a great deal about my home that I never knew. Or chose not to see,” Paolo amended.

“Do not feel badly. Most Venetians see only the great and good in their city. It is easy, even preferable, to be blind to the rest. No one wants to believe such things of their home. As the story goes, the rebellion of 1363 was over taxes levied by the Republic to clean and maintain the harbor here at Candia—the harbor that makes the Venetians rich.” Adnah was clearly dismayed by the logic. “They steal the harbor, get rich on the backs of the people they took it from, and then tax them to clean it. Well, you can imagine, the Greeks were outraged.” He held up a finger, raised an eyebrow. “But not just the natives this time. It was the first revolt to include Venetian colonists. Over the 150 years of occupation, the very thing that the Republic sought to avoid was happening—assimilation. High level colonial officials were rotated every two years to prevent
local contamination.
Venetian settlers were forbidden facial hair so they were distinguishable from the bearded Greeks. And yet, still they mixed. Venice, not wishing to bloody its own hands, raised a mercenary army to retake the island. Villages were burned, suspects were tortured, rebels beheaded. Cretan and Venetian alike.

“A different story in Venice,” said Paolo softly.

“Oh yes, I am sure. The vanquished are not the ones who have the privilege of telling the history of a thing. But crushing the rebellion and retaking the island were not enough. Those areas that were the centers of the rebellion, the upland plateau of Lasithi
in the east—very fertile by the way—Anopoli in the Sphakian mountains, they were razed of life, turned to desert.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just as I said. Cultivation was forbidden on pain of death, though either way it was a death sentence for many. The land remained barren for a hundred years. Only in the last generation has it come back to life.”

“I did not know.”

Adnah nodded. “Just so.” They walked in silence for a while. “It is a wild place, Crete,” said Adnah to no one in particular. “Three mountain ranges, deep ravines, high plateaus, fertile plains, thousands of mountainous caves. And bandits.”

A question on Paolo’s face.

“Oh yes. Warrior clans. In the mountains, the Sphakia and White mountains. Very dangerous.” Adnah smiled, this time showing teeth. “So, how do you like your new home?”

***

ADNAH AND ESTHER
proved to be the consummate hosts—Esther, perpetually good-natured and fussy as though Paolo were a dutiful son home for an extended visit, and Adnah, entertaining and informative with a dry sense of humor. Each evening he quizzed Paolo on the business of Candia and Venice to better entrench him in his new identity.
How were new trade partnerships funded?
What was the going price of exotic dyes? And what, by the way, could he tell him of the winter cyclones in the Black Sea?
Paolo proved to be an apt pupil. Enmeshed in this new world, he needed to periodically remind himself that Renzo Conti, his name in Candia, was just that, a name and not a man. Adnah saw this as great progress, Paolo’s path to safety. Paolo felt as though he were losing himself, hating it when he caught himself feeling safe and comfortable. The wish to leave Paolo Avesari behind, to make a life such as he was living, adhered to him like some dark desire and Paolo despised himself for it.

In the end he performed his duty admirably. Adnah had been briefed on the details of the contract in advance and was there to assist Paolo were he to find himself in any difficulty, but there had been no need. It was actually a fairly complicated affair, the wax purchased through a partnership of three parties. Following the tenants of Fra Pacioli—Francesco would be proud—Paolo dutifully recorded the transaction in no fewer than four books—his own day book, a memorandum book, a journal, and a ledger. He copied out the terms and conditions of the deal, cross referencing the various instruments involved, painstakingly calculating then recording the contributions of the
compratori
in cash and goods. Paolo was especially grateful for the recent lesson from Adnah concerning French wool, a substantial stake of which was part of the transaction. He found that his mind was calmed rather than bedeviled by the churning figures. There was a tranquility in the repetitive nature of the bookkeeping. How easily could he silently slip into such a life he thought, a life where no one need be brutally murdered for sins still yet to be revealed.

But no, this was but a means to an end, although that end remained maddeningly unclear. Paolo now had two deaths to avenge, and perhaps a third reason to remain alive. He thought again of Chaya, their last moments together seeming more like a dream with each passing day. Had it truly happened? It was a world away now. Such a cruel thing, to find something so beautiful and unexpected at the very moment it was to be taken away.

***

WEEKS PASSED WITH
no word. Paolo felt sure that Bercu had forgotten him. Paolo’s presence had been a sober reminder to Chaya and her father of the treachery of which
The Most Serene Republic
was capable. But he was no longer there. The moneylender was as much a victim of Venice as Paolo, but treachery or no, Bercu still needed the city and its fluid morality for his own survival and that of his daughter. Chaya. He wondered if she thought of him as he did of her. It had been difficult to admit, but he knew their lives would be much easier without him. Undoubtedly they had discovered this.

He took refuge from this growing anxiety in the business of trade. While he had been initially sent to Crete under the guise of facilitating the wax transaction, his extended stay required him to continue in his role as agent to a well-respected merchant on the Rialto. He pursued the task with an eagerness that he himself found surprising. There was a logic to business. No matter how complicated or confusing, transactions were conducted according to a set of established principles. This ordered world, so unlike the one from which he came, was like a soothing balm to Paolo. Perhaps it had been the endless mixing of the wine, Paolo mused, the calculating of proportion of water to wine that had provided this unexpected talent for figures. He had thought his time as
Canever
would always be a dark spot in his history. Perhaps there truly was a reason for everything.

***

“PAOLO, THERE IS
a shipment of Turkish cotton bound for Germany in the harbor.” Paolo was just finishing his breakfast as Adnah entered the small dining room. “Your master,” a wink from Adnah, “apparently has a stake in it, and there seems to be some confusion as to the extent of the percentage.”

Odd,
thought Paolo. “Why are we not hearing of this from Venice?”

Adnah shrugged. “It is not all that unusual for complications to arise in the midst of transport. Indeed, ownership may very well change hands more than once while the merchandise is still afloat. If you’re here long enough, you will see things far stranger than that.”

Paolo pushed his chair back from the table, surprised at how much he was looking forward to sorting out the discrepancy. Esther was busying herself in the kitchen. She clearly enjoyed having Paolo there, endlessly fussing over him. Adnah was a small man with an equally slight appetite. The fact that Paolo enjoyed Esther’s cooking gave her immense pleasure and she prepared meals far out of proportion to the number of people she was feeding. Adnah complained about the excess, but only half-heartedly. It was clear that he was enjoying himself as well. They certainly made an odd little family Paolo thought, and he wondered why they had never had children.

“Thank you Esther. It was magnificent as always. I greet the day with a belly full of riches.” Esther blushed. Their interaction had become more and more playful as the days went by. Each meal garnered ever more heightened praise from Paolo until his assessment of the food was as equally out of proportion as the amount she cooked. He smiled at Esther’s now rosy complexion and put a companionable hand on Adnah’s shoulder. “Well then, let’s get to it.”

***

THE SKY WAS
an endless, piercing blue, the water a drab carpet below it. A brisk wind was rumbling up the Ruga Maestra as they walked down toward the harbor, hands crammed into coat pockets. The shopkeepers were opening for business up and down the street, extending awnings and wheeling out squeaking carts filled with sweets and the small treasures that sailed to their doorsteps from around the world.

“So,” Paolo said, “do you have any more details?”

“No. A messenger from the harbor was sent to fetch us. He had no information beyond what I told you already.”

Paolo grunted. It was still early. Despite his good-natured exchange with Esther, he wasn’t quite fully awake, but he took such pleasure in their playful banter that it required little effort on his part to rise to it, early or not. He was warming to the day though. The bustle of the harbor, now in view, always filled him with energy. He found it curious that this little replica of Venice engendered such a different feeling in him than its inspiration. The melancholy that had persisted after he had arrived had abated somewhat, as long as he didn’t dwell on what he had left behind.

They arrived at the Delfino d’Argento, a small tavern
facing the harbor. A sleek silver dolphin graced the sign that swayed over the door on chains nibbled by the salty air. It was a favorite spot of excited sailors reaching land and reluctant ones leaving it. Anxious merchants would often await the arrival of their goods at the small tables by the window, endlessly cursing the gods of weather and sea that set their stomachs to churning and placed their fortunes always in doubt.

It was at one of these tables that they met the man who had summoned them. He was only slightly larger than Adnah. A sharp nose hooked down toward thin lips and a few strands of defiant hair clung to his spotted pate. Paolo had never been inside the tavern. Despite the brilliant morning outside, the interior of the building was gloomy, its low ceilings pressing down the light coming from the front window facing the harbor. The sun ventured a few feet into the tavern and abruptly stopped as though repelled by the denser shadows. The man rose when they entered and smiled broadly, an act which failed to improve the nature of his face. He gestured to two chairs. A small pile of papers sat on the table next to a plate of bread.