The Alchemist's Apprentice

16

S o now you will go on to Ca’ Tirali?” Sister Chastity inquired as we cuddled once more in the privacy of the felze.

“I do as my master tells me,” I said. “But I am convinced that the procurator was called to the Lord in the normal way. The truth may have to wait for Judgement Day. In mortal terms we have found no real motive, nor opportunity, because Bianca would have seen the crime committed.”

Violetta said, “Mm?”

I pricked up my eyebrows. “What am I missing?”

Minerva pulled loose from my embrace. “I think there is an obvious motive. How much was the supposed Euripides manuscript worth?”

“Perhaps nothing, if it is a modern fake. A handsome sum if it is an ancient fake. But even if it is the only surviving copy of a genuine play by Euripides of Athens from two thousand years ago, it is still just medieval paper or vellum with ink marks on it.” Whichever it was, it now rested in the secret compartment in the chest in my room. I might not get thousands for it, but I would certainly be able to buy some wonderful gift for my love, gold and rubies, the sort of miracle jewelry her patrons gave her. It was a thrilling thought.

“I think you’re wrong,” she said. “A unique item is not a bottle of wine or a loaf of bread, for which the state can decree a fair price. It will fetch whatever someone is willing to pay for it, and that is one ducat more than the second-most determined bidder can afford. The winner might not even be the richest bidder at the auction, just the craziest.”

I followed her trail through the mental forest. “And Procurator Orseolo might have been the craziest, you mean?” In public he had been a Grand Old Man and in private a tyrant; he had been enormously rich and reluctant to pay his tradesmen; but those things were true of many noblemen. “You really think anyone would commit murder just to stop another man outbidding him on a heap of dog-eared paper?”

“I think you should finish the job, my darling Alfeo. Go and ask Pasqual Tirali the same questions you have been asking the others. He’s taking me to Carnival tonight, so he should be at home now, getting ready. I have no idea whether the senator will be there or not.”

“Is Pasqual a suspect?” I asked incredulously. “You were with him. Could he have poisoned the old man without your seeing?”

Giorgio’s voice faded away in the ending of a verse. His oar creaked in the rowlock; other voices picked up the melody in the distance.

“I didn’t notice Pasqual doing anything in the least suspicious,” Aspasia said. “And I can’t imagine he would murder anyone for any reason at all. But I wasn’t watching his father. I don’t know the senator well. He is the most charming man you can ever hope to meet, yet he has the reputation of being ruthless. I know he is a fanatical bibliophile.”

“I shall certainly go by Ca’ Tirali,” I said, wondering if I had just been given a hint. I would try not to murder dear Pasqual in a fit of jealous fury.

The Tirali mansion is a close neighbor of Ca’ Barbolano, situated on the far side of the Rio San Remo, within sight but not hail. Having delivered Violetta safely to 96, I asked Giorgio to take me there and offered to walk home.

“Not on that leg, you won’t,” he said. “I’ll send one of the boys to wait for you. He can run and fetch me when you’re ready.”

Lounging in the gondola I had almost forgotten my wound, but it did hurt when I walked on it, so I agreed. There is much to be said for decadent self-pity. I disembarked and hammered the door knocker. I gave my name and the Maestro’s to the doorman, expecting him to leave me moldering in the entrance hall while he plodded upstairs and returned with orders to drop me in the canal. Then I would have to start dropping careful hints about murder and the Council of Ten.

Wrong. The flunky bowed very low. “You are expected, sier Alfeo. If you would be so good as to follow me?”

I was so good, but I was also scared prickly as a hedgehog. I had claimed no title when I gave my name. And expected? I do not like being surprised when there may be murderers loose. This reception was too reminiscent of that morning, when I had been expected at the church.

I had never spoken with any member of the Tirali family in my life, and would have been both astonished and hurt to hear that Violetta had ever mentioned me to Pasqual. I knew him by sight, though, and he was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.

He was young, rich, and dazzlingly handsome, clad in embroidered silk jerkin and knee britches and a sleeveless robe of blue velvet trimmed with miniver, for he would not wear his formal gown at home. He had been admitted to the Great Council the previous year and was expected to have a notable career in politics, following his father. He could afford the finest, most beautiful courtesan in the Republic and charm stars down from the sky to make her a bracelet. Just looking at him, I wondered why Violetta bothered to share the time of day with me, let alone her pillow.

He came forward smiling a welcome. “Sier Alfeo! I hoped that was you I heard. I am Pasqual Tirali. This is a great pleasure.”

“The honor is mine, clarissimo.” I went to bow and kiss his sleeve, but he caught me in the embrace with which nobles greet their equals.

“Come in and share a glass of wine,” he said. “My parents are as eager to meet you as I am.” He led me across the wide salone whose ceiling was of gilt and stucco, supported by jasper columns. The fireplace was of black marble, the chandeliers were flamboyant multicolored fantasias from the glassblowers of Murano, and the statues were original marbles or bronzes, not copies. I noted several Romans without noses and some antique Greek urns and kraters, no doubt items from the collection Violetta had mentioned. I did not see King Cheops around, but anyone who can afford to buy such ancient junk must have a serious excess of wealth. The rugs beneath our feet were worth kings’ ransoms and the paintings on the walls made me drool like the source of the Nile. I must have gaped at them as we went by; Pasqual noticed.

“You are a lover of art, sier Alfeo?”

“Is that by one of the Bellini family, sier Pasqual?”

He smiled. “It is indeed. Jacobo Bellini. Let me show you them while we still have some light…” Forgetting his parents waiting to meet me, he took me on a tour of the glorious, shining paintings, rattling off the artists and subjects, and several times commenting on the technique, pointing out Tintoretto’s influence showing up in Titian’s later work, and so on. I was impressed by his knowledge. I wanted to hate him and was charmed against my will.

Very rarely I had been flattered like this in the past, and always by people who wanted something I was determined not to give them-but Prejudgment is no judgment, as the Maestro often tells me.

Eventually Pasqual took me into a small but luxurious salotto and there presented me to the senator and his wife, madonna Eva. Giovanni Tirali was a robust man in his fifties, with bright, questing eyes and a winning smile. He looked neither ruthless nor fanatical, but Violetta had also called him charming, and there I could not disagree. He embraced me, bid me welcome, and flawlessly acted the role of a distinguished and gracious nobleman.

His wife was a silver-haired matron who still retained much of what must have been spectacular beauty. She was not of noble birth, but he had not been stricken from the Golden Book when he married her; his political career had survived and prospered. No doubt she had brought him a stupendous dowry. The Great Council can tolerate that sort of marriage.

I was assigned a seat with a view of the canal and asked what wine I preferred. A footman brought it. It was starlight on the tongue.

“We were reading some of Petrarch’s sonnets together,” the lady said, closing a book. “Are you a poetry lover, clarissimo?”

Oh, how sweet! “I love sonnets as I love the stars, madonna, and know as little about them.”

“But swords you know. We heard that you had a very narrow escape this morning.”

I shrugged modestly. “There were only six of them.”

The laughter was convincing.

“I noticed you limping,” Pasqual said.

“I think they nicked my calf, but I may have done it myself. I was flailing quite wildly.” Nicking with a rapier would be tricky.

“I expect you were,” the senator said, smiling in cherubic innocence. “You were lucky that they tried to take you out with knives. Such bravos usually wear swords and know how to use them. They did not expect to find you armed, obviously.”

Thanks again to the Maestro’s incredible clairvoyance! But how did Tirali know all this? “They probably thought that six unfamiliar swordsmen would be conspicuous and attract the locals’ attention,” I said.

“Very likely. You had a busy morning. You went to see a man in the Greek quarter.”

Alarm horns were blowing. What was going on here? How did he know that? “You are well informed, Your Excellency. You even knew I was coming to call on you.”

He laughed. “I have friends in high places. You came to ask if we noticed anything unusual at Ca’ Imer the other night?” He had a rich, sonorous voice, an orator’s voice that could speak out along the length of the Great Council’s hall and be audible to more than a thousand people.

Now I was more than a little nettled. “And did you notice anything?”

“I did. My son did not.”

“Nor I,” his wife said.

“But you were not in the viewing room, my dear, and that is what interests sier Alfeo.”

“Why should that be, Your Excellency?” I asked softly.

His smile told me that he had been baiting me. “A friend told me.” He took a sip of wine and when he spoke again he dropped the banter and changed his tone to make his next words more significant, like the practiced orator he was. “I am interested to meet you, sier Alfeo. I admire what you are doing. We have far too many impoverished nobles sitting around believing that the Republic owes them a living and honest work is beneath their confounded dignity. They whine in the Council, demanding sinecures and phony offices with many rewards and few duties. The career you have chosen is unusual but quite honorable. Many patricians put off their political careers until midlife and do well regardless.”

I wondered if all this oil would make the floor dangerous, and if he was flattering me or just nagging his son the playboy.

“Your Excellency is most kind.” Giovanni Tirali was certainly gracious, yet Violetta had called him ruthless. I found Enrico Orseolo repulsive, but he had the reputation of being a negotiator, a maker of deals. People are unnecessarily complicated.

“I mean it,” he said. “I mean it! I was very shaken by Bertucci’s death. He was twenty years my senior and I had always looked up to him. That evening at Imer’s he seemed frail but quite competent and cheerful, and yet the next day he was gone. Dominus dedit, Dominus abstulit, sit nomen Domini benedictum.”

“Amen,” we said in chorus.

“But…”

Calculated pause. My cue.

“But?” I echoed.

“That evening, when we had looked at all the books and told all the lies we wanted about what we thought of them, our host suggested we join the other guests. I emptied my glass. Pasqual, I am sure, emptied his. And Bertucci drained his. And I saw him make a face, as if it had tasted bad.”

“Dregs?”

His Excellency shrugged. “I assumed so, although properly trained servants know to look out for sediment. I did not get a chance to speak to him again. I thought little of it at the time. When Bertucci took ill, later, I recalled the incident. It niggled at me. After the funeral service this morning, I sought out my friend and told him my worries. And he told me that there was a serious possibility that Bertucci had been poisoned.”

Again the senator paused for effect. I wondered if he made speeches in bed to his wife. “A friend in a funny hat?”

He smiled. “Yes, that one. I asked if the Ten were looking into it. He told me that the Ten were bombardiers who blow up everything and injure the bystanders; this was a case for a stiletto. He had set Maestro Nostradamus himself on it, and his apprentice, Alfeo Zeno. And if they could not solve it, he said, then the Ten would never even get close to the truth.”

I was having trouble not purring or rolling over on my back. “So much flattery is bad for my liver, Excellency. And I should not dream of telling my master what you just said. He would be unbearable.”

The senator’s eyes nailed me to my chair. “Was it murder?”

“I don’t see how it can have been. Another witness saw what you saw, but how could anyone have put poison in his wine with so many people watching? Nobody saw that.” I glanced at Pasqual.

He shook his head, somehow subtly implying that the Old Man got bats in his bonnet sometimes. “I did not see even what my father saw. I have asked the lady I was escorting and she saw nothing untoward.”

Violetta had not mentioned that.

I said, “Thank you. It does seem unlikely that anyone could have poisoned the procurator without being observed. I cannot discover any motive to commit such a terrible crime. Can you suggest one?”

Three heads shook.

The senator added, “Every politician has enemies, but we do not go around poisoning people here in the Republic-not like the Borgias did in Rome. The Council of Ten has the reputation of disposing of people in that fashion, but not here in the city, only enemies living elsewhere, out of its jurisdiction. I could name many men who yearn to be procurators of San Marco, but there are very few who have a reasonable chance of being elected, and none of them was there that night. I certainly cannot imagine a man who aspires to such a job bribing someone else-a servant, say-to commit murder for him. He would pay blackmail for the rest of his life.”

“I thank Your Excellency for an expert analysis. I shall report to Maestro Nostradamus that I have found nothing to indicate foul play.”

“Then why,” Pasqual inquired in a subtle soft voice, “did the Greek throw himself out the window this morning? Did you threaten him?”

I included his father in my reply. “You will understand, messere, that I do not have permission to discuss everything concerned with this case.”

“Of course.” The senator showed no resentment. “ Sier Alfeo, the Senate has paid me the wonderful honor of electing me ambassador to Rome.”

I congratulated him and his lady and drank a toast to them. Her smile looked genuine and probably was. Two-thirds of the Great Council would murder for that appointment. It established her husband as one of the inner circle, the fifty or so men who actually run the Republic, trading senior posts around among themselves. It offered tantalizing glimpses of a shot at the dogeship in another twenty years or so.

“When I go to Rome,” Tirali said, “Pasqual will remain here to look after the family’s affairs. As is customary, I shall take a few young noblemen along with me, both as aides and to teach them some of the ins and outs of serving the Republic. I especially need a personal secretary. While you are younger than others I am considering, I have been aware of your reputation for some time. I am prepared to pay a very generous stipend to a man who can be relied upon to perform his duties with intelligence, diligence, and discretion. You would rank third in the embassy.”

I managed to blush. Indeed I blushed without meaning to, and much hotter than I wanted. “Your Excellency, this is a totally unexpected-”

“Stop!” He raised a hand. “Do not say a word! I can tell you that the doge himself recommended you, and so did several other men I consulted-right after their own grandsons, in every case. Your decision will influence the rest of your life, so I insist that you take a few days to consider it.”

I did not want to consider it. I wanted to turn it down flat before it began gnawing at me like the Spartan’s fox. He was offering me his patronage and a political career. I could never aspire to the dogeship, for that requires enormous wealth and powerful family connections, but I could become a real noble, marry a woman with money, hold office, live in comfort, be worthy of my ancestors. The prospect was giddying.

“You must excuse me, Alfeo,” Pasqual said, with a glance at the winter dark looming beyond the windows. “I need to prepare for an engagement this evening. I do hope you will accept my father’s offer, though. Very few of my contemporaries seem to know what real work is. I know he has tried to explain it to me many times and still it escapes me.”

His oil was not quite as smooth as his father’s. First-name terms so soon in our acquaintance overstepped the bounds.

I said, “Believe me, Pasqual, what he is offering does not sound in the least like real work. Your Excellency, you shall have my answer in a few days, my thanks now, my gratitude forever…” And so on.

Violetta had urged me to come to Ca’ Tirali. Had she known what was in store for me there?

Was I being bribed to overlook a murder?