The Alchemist's Code

3

D innertime was over and a dozen men and boys of the Marciana family were back at Ca’ Barbolano’s watergate, busily unloading the lighter, but not so busy that they failed to notice my emergence from 96. I worked my way along the ledge and fled upstairs pursued by much jealous ribaldry. A man cannot smile at a girl in San Remo without the entire parish discussing what he is up to-usually in intimate detail.

Armed with a glass of water from the kitchen, I returned to the atelier. The Maestro had made his way back to his favorite chair, but he was hunched over and shrunken, obviously in pain. Clairvoyance is an ordeal for him, leaving him drained and incapacitated, sometimes for days. He sipped the water, passed it back to me, then again bent over and held his throbbing head in both hands.

“What did I see?” he mumbled.

I went over to inspect the results, the scrawl chalked on the slate table. His writing is atrocious at the best of times; when he is foreseeing it can become totally illegible, even to me, and he never recalls what he has written.

“Impressive,” I said. “Almost legible and the words make so much sense I fear I must be missing something.” Clarity normally means short-range prophecy, as this one seemed to be.

Where the fish stands on a shore of wine and no flags fly,

Why does a black swan wear a white collar?

Amid a hundred bronze mouths the great one is silent.

Steel will ring louder and tears must flow.

He grunted. “Tomorrow.”

“That’s how I read it, master.”

The news would sound a bitter note in Ca’ Sanudo. Give the girl a night away from home with her accomplice and “unharmed” would mean less than her mother was hoping. For my part, I disliked the mention of steel ringing. At least the quatrain mentioned tears flowing, not blood, but drawn swords automatically increase uncertainty and thus blur foresight.

The Maestro was aware of that also, of course, since he had taught me. “You need not do this, Alfeo,” he mumbled. “Unless you want to.”

“Good! It sounds far too dangerous. I won’t.”

He looked up in dismay, visualizing a thousand ducats subliming away like his sulfur crystals.

I laughed to put him out of his misery. “If you had thought there was one chance in a million I was going to say that, you wouldn’t have made the offer, right? Of course I’ll go. I am the knave of swords who stands between the lovers and the world.”

“What?”

“Tarot.”

He grunted again and heaved himself upright. I handed him his staff. He seemed steady enough, so I left him to thump his way across to the door while I headed for the desk.

“We need a contract,” he said as he left. “And her father’s authority.”

“Italic, roman, or gothic?”

He slammed the door without answering, so I trimmed a quill to write italic.

Giorgio and I trotted downstairs to sea level and stepped out into the gondola. “That way,” I said, making myself comfortable on the cushions in the felze. “Ca’ Sanudo.”

“Which one?” Giorgio Angeli is a wiry little man with the strength of a horse. He adjusted his feathered gondolier’s cap and set his oar in the rowlock.

“Zuanbattista.”

“Don’t know it.”

I turned to peer up at him in amazement. “I thought you knew every building in the city.”

He shrugged, pleased but rueful. “Venice has more Sanudos than seagulls. I can ask.”

A stroke of his oar sent us off along the Rio San Remo. It is a quiet little backwater canal, but on a Saturday afternoon it had traffic enough, and it had the timeless beauty of Venice, where every building is different, shining in dancing, ethereal reflected light, never the same from one moment to the next. Voices shout greetings or ribaldry, others sing. People going by in boats call to people in windows or on bridges, but there is never the clatter of hooves or rattle of carts that mar other cities.

Giorgio pulled up close behind a gondola going in our direction and shouted, “Giro?”

The gondolier looked around and said, “Ey? Giorgio!”

Obviously this was not the same Giro-noblemen elected to the Collegio do not row gondolas on Saturday afternoons, nor any other time. This Girolamo did not know the Ca’ Zuanbattista Sanudo either, so he shouted to another boat going the other way. I hastily closed the curtains on the felze, but I could not disguise my gondolier and it would soon be all over the parish, if not the city, that Master Nostradamus’s henchman Alfeo was looking for Zuanbattista Sanudo.

The third man asked advised us that the palazzo we needed was the old Ca’ Alvise Donato in Santa Maria Maddalena parish, over in Cannaregio. There are even more Donatos than Sanudos in the Golden Book, but Giorgio knew the house and shouted thanks. If sier Zuanbattista had just bought himself a grand new mansion, he must have done well in Constantinople.

“I’ll need you tomorrow morning,” I said. “Early. Bruno, too.”

“Good cause?” Giorgio paused from eyeing the canal ahead to give me a shrewd, appraising look. He has seen the murky labyrinths into which my work for the Maestro can lead me.

“A very good cause,” I said firmly. But was it? I was going to make at least one person utterly miserable. The man might be a seducer and predator but more likely was just a crazy young lover like me. I would return Grazia to the unwelcome attentions of the king of coins, whoever he was, or condemn her to lifelong imprisonment in a convent, but her swain faced even more terrible consequences.

Nowhere is far from anywhere in Venice. I recognized the Sanudo arms of anchor and swan on a gondola tied up at some public watersteps, and Giorgio pointed out the house about three doors along. The arcades of rounded arches in white Istrian stone marking the ground floor and piano nobile were in Byzantine style, so it was probably at least three hundred years old. It was also much smaller than I expected and squeezed between two larger buildings, an odd contradiction of Violetta’s judgment that Sanudo might possess enough wealth to serve as doge. Some junior government posts pay a stipend but the senior ones do not. Some bring a severe financial burden, which reserves them for the rich. Perhaps Zuanbattista was merely observing the old republican tradition of frugality.

I banged a big brass knocker in the shape of an anchor. The door swung open almost at once, as if someone had been waiting for me, and the opener was no mere servant, but Minister Girolamo himself, the man Violetta had pointed out to me at the theater. Nobles shed their formal robes at home, and he was dressed like any other rich man, in breeches and hose, doublet and cape, with a fashionable white ruff, although the outfit was less colorful than most and of humbler stuff than the silk I should have expected. It seemed odd for a man of his age and station.

Hand on heart, I bowed, but he spoke before I could.

“ Sier Alfeo?”

“ Sier Girolamo, Maestro Nostradamus sends me with good news, messer.” Goodness always depends on one’s point of view. I would rather have delivered bad.

“Then you are doubly welcome to our house. Come and comfort my parents. My mother is anxious for word.” I heard a hint that the Sanudo menfolk were humoring the foolish woman. “You know where Grazia is?” He bowed me in and almost rushed me along the hallway to the stairs.

There were no heaped bales and kegs of merchandise in Ca’ Sanudo, as there were in Ca’ Barbolano, but the walls were lined with bookcases all the way to the end and the floor was cluttered with crates, a few of which stood open, revealing that they contained books. The air was sickly with the odor of wood, varnish, and leather. This was a major library, many times larger than the Maestro’s, but of course Zuanbattista had inherited the estate of his publisher brother-in-law.

“My master has foreseen her,” I said, reluctant to have to tell the story twice. In fact, of course, the quatrain had given me a fair idea of where Grazia had gone and certainly the Maestro had seen that also, but the prophecy said to wait for her tomorrow on the Riva del Vin, so that was our best chance of apprehending her.

Giro mumbled something about not being properly settled in yet as we reached the midpoint of the hall and turned to climb the stairs. The treads were dished by centuries of feet, and slightly tilted. That is typical of Venice, built on the mud of the lagoon; everything sags after a century or two.

“It is astonishing,” he said, probably meaning clairvoyance.

Of course lawyers are trained not to be too human or too trusting. What could be more alien to them than clairvoyance? If we all had it, they would all be out of work. If Giro himself was at all surprising, it was that he seemed surprisingly nondescript for a nobile homo. His hose covered spindly calves; his shoulders were narrow, his face, voice, and manner equally uninspired. Violetta had called him a nonentity.

We turned at the mezzanine level and a second flight brought us to the piano nobile. More crates stood around there, several of them too large and flat to contain anything other than paintings. Among them stood pedestals and busts, and a couple of freestanding statues, awkwardly placed. The Sanudos were still in the process of moving into their new city home.

Amid this transient clutter stood our host, smiling through his forest of beard. He, too, had discarded his formal robes, and he greeted me as an equal, which was an astonishing concession to my humble station. No aristocratic reserve there- Sier Zuanbattista was probably even more of a skeptic about clairvoyance than his son, but I was a guest and he had a politician’s slant on life. By the time he was ready to make his play for doge, I might be a voting member of the Great Council.

“My wife is lying down,” he explained. “She is very distressed, as you would expect.”

Distressed enough to throw away a thousand ducats; distressed enough for him to keep her well away so she couldn’t increase her offer.

A house clamped between its neighbors could have no windows along the sides. He led me to the rear and ushered me into a fine salotto, where several fine bronzes looked happily at home and seven paintings screamed at me to come and admire them. I also wanted to gawk at the ceiling decorations and the terrazzo floor design and even the furniture, which I rarely notice. The full-length windows stood open on a small balcony, providing welcome air on a sweltering day and a fine view of a surprisingly spacious and well-tended garden. I already knew the Ca’ Sanudo had a garden, of course, but the sight of it raised my appreciation of the house. It was old and small, but exquisite as a reliquary.

“ Sier Alfeo Zeno,” my host proclaimed loudly, presenting me to a heap of laundry in a large chair, “Maestro Nostradamus’s assistant. Madonna Fortunata Morosini.”

The laundry nodded without taking her eyes off the crucifix she clutched in both hands on her lap. She was old and her all-black garb was normal widows’ wear, but her face was swarthy, slashed and corroded by a million sour wrinkles, as if her life had been an endless series of disappointments, like the devil’s mother’s. Had I been a girl of fifteen summers with this Fortunata hag as my chaperone, I would have thrown her out the window instead of myself.

“Pray be seated, sier Alfeo,” Zuanbattista said. “Now what news?”

Giro remained standing. Fortunata just stared at her crucifix. I would be the highlight of her next confession.

I said, “The Maestro has foreseen your daughter, Excellency. He is confident that we can intercept her.”

“Go on! Where?”

“‘When?’ is more to the point,” I said. “The Maestro foresaw me accosting her in a certain public place early tomorrow morning.”

The two men exchanged pouts.

“But where is she now?” Giro demanded.

“That was not revealed to him.”

“Go back and tell him to try again!”

“He could not, not today. He is exhausted. Believe me, Your Excellencies, I have tried many times to see visions in the crystal as he does. I rarely succeed, and when I do I expect my head to explode with the pain.”

My admission made them squirm. The Church might burn me for it. Old Fortunata crossed herself, an unexpected movement proving that she was still with us in this vale of tears.

“That is illogical!” Giro complained. “Why can he foresee tomorrow and not today?”

Nostradamus may risk brushing off a patrician’s questions, but I do not have an international reputation to protect me. “The way he has explained it to me, Excellency, is that there are many possible futures. The Lord gives all His children free will. There is a future where you decide to go to early Mass on Sunday, and a future where you go later, yes? There may be others, but only one of them will come to pass. The ideal situation would be that whoever has taken your sister has firm plans to remain in one place for a while, or be in some place at a certain time-a rendezvous, say. You see? Then one future is much more likely than the others and my master can foresee it and advise on appropriate action. If anything interferes to upset their plans, then the image blurs and disappears, like a canal reflection when a gondola goes by. Does that make sense?”

“No. Where is she now? She must be somewhere.”

“Certainly, but the Maestro has to discover where that is. She and her, um, captors may be drifting aimlessly in a boat on the lagoon. Or she may be tied up in a dark attic-” My listeners hastily crossed themselves. “Either way my master might see her in his trance and still be unable to tell where she is. Whereas it is also possible that they have made an appointment to meet someone tomorrow at a certain time and place. Is that still illogical?”

“No,” Giro admitted. “That makes sense.” He meant that it was a plausible excuse, not that he believed it.

I noted that no one had asked me to define they. He might be thinking kidnappers. More likely we were all agreed on lovers.

“I will tell my wife the good news.” Zuanbattista departed.

“Of course I will come with you tomorrow,” Giro announced.

“That would be inadvisable,” I countered. “Suppose, for instance, that the malefactors recognized you before Grazia arrived?”

Cold winds of suspicion blew while the lawyer considered this objection. I wished he would sit down and not loom over me. I pressed on.

“I have brought this letter of agreement. If I do not bring your sister home safely within three days, or at least supply proof of her whereabouts, your parents owe the Maestro nothing.” Just in case he might think that we had been in on the plot from the beginning, I added, “Your sister will explain what happened and who abducted her.”

I had a momentary nightmare of a spiteful and unwilling rescuee declaiming, And after Zeno had done his worst, Maestro Nostradamus carried me down the ladder on his shoulder… For now, though, the Sanudos had to trust us or dismiss us. Giro knew that and had nothing left to lose, for the terms were more than fair, even if the price was not. I passed over the two copies of the contract, emblazoned with the Maestro’s seal and a signature more beautiful and imposing than any he could have done himself.

“And you will be able to identify the man with her?”

Man, not men, I noticed. A man Giro already knew, I strongly suspected. Had Grazia done something utterly appalling like running off with a tiler or a gardener? The family’s reputation would be ruined for evermore.

“I do not expect to,” I said. Did he think I hobnobbed with members of the kidnappers’ guild? “My efforts will be entirely directed to rescuing your sister. I have also brought this letter for your father to sign, giving me authority to bring her here, because I do not wish to be arrested in place of the genuine kidnappers.”

His father swept back into the room, a vastly more dynamic presence than his colorless son. “My wife is much relieved and sends her thanks. Your master inquired about a likeness.” He indicated the wall behind me.

I rose and inspected the family portrait, but it told me nothing useful. Zuanbattista, Eva, and even Giro looked much as they still did. Grazia was only a wide-eyed child, as her father had said, impossible to imagine as a temptress inspiring a lover to insanity. It was an insipid piece of work, and a more skilled artist would have concealed Grazia’s excess of nose better.

I would much rather have spent half an hour examining the Madonna and Child next to it, which I thought might be a genuine Jacopo Palma Vecchio. The model had certainly been Palma’s daughter, Violante, but as I dragged my eyes away from it, on the adjoining wall I spotted both a face and a style I knew.

“Andrea Michelli!” I exclaimed. “Commonly known as Vicentino?”

“Indeed, you are correct, sier Alfeo.” Zuanbattista sounded impressed, as he should be.

I could do even better. “I have never seen a wedding portrait by him, messer, but surely the bridegroom is Nicolo Morosini?”

“You knew Nicolo?” This time his surprise meant I was too young.

Time rolled back, and again I was looking at Nicolo, exactly as he had been that first morning of my apprenticeship, epic nose and all-that was where Grazia’s curse had come from. At his side a glorious beautiful, succulent young bride. I tore my eyes away.

“I saw him once, clarissimo. It was six years ago, only weeks before his sad death.”

“The book was cursed!” This unexpected croak from Aunt Fortunata made me jump-she was still not dead? Nicolo died of a rotting finger, and popular superstition at the time attributed that to a paper cut he had received when handling a forbidden book, one of the titles on the Index.

“So it is said, madonna,” I replied.

I caught sier Zuanbattista studying me. Assuming that he was wondering whether I believed such twaddle, I looked noncommittal. Before either of us could comment, the hardheaded family lawyer brought us back to cold reality.

“I think you may safely sign both these documents, Father. I admire the penmanship. Who is the Maestro’s scrivener?”

I bowed.

Giro bowed back. As his father headed to a desk in the corner, he added, “Is there anything else?”

“The garden. I should like to see how the abductors gained access to the house.” I also wanted to search Grazia’s bedroom for signs of forced locks or love letters under the mattress, but I knew I would never be allowed in there. The grounds I might manage.

“Why?” Giro snapped, in his first sign of human emotion. “What has that to do with Nostradamus and his crystal ball?”

“Nothing,” I said as blandly as I could, “but it might limit the damage to my skin tomorrow. I hope I can find footprints to tell me how many men I may find myself up against. Will I need to enlist companions? And the ladder,” I continued before he could interrupt. “I assume that they brought the ladder with them? It normally takes two men to carry a ladder long enough to reach a Venetian bedroom. Unless your sister slept on the ground floor?”

He frowned at my jibe, for only servants and the very poor live in sea level dampness. “I have already looked. The grass is dry after the heat. There are no footprints.”

“I will show sier Alfeo the garden,” Zuanbattista said as he brought back the letters, shaking sand off his signature. “Go and reassure your mother.”

Giro and I bowed our farewells. I expressed gracious wishes for future good fortune to Fortunata, who did not react in the slightest, and was escorted out by Zuanbattista. He escorted me down to the androne, for Ca’ Sanudo evidently lacked an exterior staircase, a feature of most Venetian courtyards. It did have a well in the center, for courtyards overlie cisterns, lined with clay and filled with sand to filter rainwater, although nowadays everyone except the poor drinks imported water from the Brenta River. The Sanudo yard was a garden, small but well planned. A century ago, it might have grown vegetables and held chickens, but now it was given over to flowers and fruit trees. The adjoining houses overlooked it on either side, the far end was closed off by a wall with a gate, and I could hear voices going by along the calle beyond.

The ladder had been laid against the house wall. It looked brand new and was short enough that one man could carry it, although the Signori di Notte would certainly stop and question anyone lugging a ladder around the city by night. It was also short enough to fit in a standard-sized gondola.

“The watersteps three houses along in that direction, messer,” I said, “they can be reached from the gate?”

He nodded.

“And your daughter’s window?”

The ducal counselor pointed to a window at the mezzanine level, under the twin balconies. The ladder would probably reach that far, but the casement was protected by an iron grille. Madonna Eva had testified that her son had climbed through it, and her husband not only knew that, he knew I knew that. Clearly the ladder was useless for gaining entry to the house itself.

I carried it to the far end and confirmed that it was a good fit for the garden wall. There were marks in the flower bed to show that someone had entered that way, bringing the ladder over with him. Only one man, so far as I could tell, with feet larger than mine. The intruder had carried the ladder to the house so he could climb up and tap on the window. Grazia had gone down, either to let him in or join him in the yard, and they had left by the front door or the gate. In the morning Giro had certainly not entered by the window, so either his sister had not locked her bedroom door behind her or her mother had possessed a duplicate key. I returned with my burden and laid it where I had found it. Then I inspected the door.

“If the bolts were properly closed for the night, clarissimo,” I said, dusting off my hands, “then either the villains had help within your household, or your daughter may have been deceived into admitting them.”

“Young girls without knowledge of the world may be very gullible,” Sanudo admitted.

And some noble mothers are not above telling lies to tidy up a story.

Zuanbattista seemed to be studying the fruit trees. I waited, guessing that something important might be coming.

“It is strange to come home after three years abroad and find the child you once knew has become a young woman you do not.”

“Without doubt it must be so, clarissimo.”

“There are few names older and more honored in Venice than Zeno.”

“I am aware of my burden.”

Still he counted caterpillars. “I should hate to think that the son of the Marco Zeno who displayed such heroism at Lepanto had sunk to peddling nostrums to the gullible or fleecing distraught mothers.”

“It would be unthinkable!” I snapped.

Now he did turn his gaze on me, the eyes of a man of overarching power. “You really believe you can find my daughter tomorrow, Alfeo Zeno?”

“By my ancestors I do, messer!”

“Then may our Lord and His Holy Mother be with you. And if you achieve nothing else, I beg you to tell Grazia that we love her and wish her to be happy.”

Did madonna Fortunata think that way? Or madonna Eva? But sier Zuanbattista rose abruptly in my estimation. He might have wished to choose his son-in-law, but apparently he was not one of those moneygrubbing noblemen who condemn daughters to life imprisonment in convents just to preserve the family fortune for their brothers.

“I shall tell her if it takes my dying breath, messer,” I promised.