Sword of Shame

ACT TWO

Venice, 1262

I stare across over the moonlit water at the two little humps of islands that house the churches of S Cristoforo and S Michele. These are my primary targets, where I can rest and plan my escape properly. The tide is low in the lagoon, but it will soon come rushing back-I will have to hurry. I slide down on to the muddy, weed-skirted margins, and squelch my way out to the water’s edge, where I begin wading. Halfway across, I turn for one more look at La Serenissima. Venice is now no more than a long, low line of dark buildings stretching far to my left and right. I wonder if this will be my last view of my home. I refuse to contemplate the thought for too long, not least because leaving Venice for good also means leaving sweet and sexy Caterina. And that I do not want.

The sword is strapped across my back, safe in its sheath from the depredations of the salt water. I prod ahead of myself with a long staff, feeling my way through the mud. Eventually, waist-deep in water, I can’t see where I am putting my feet. Only the staff tells me if the next step is safe or not, that I am not stepping into a hole, or into soft, clinging mud. I am sweating despite the cold water, and suddenly the sword slips, lodging awkwardly under my left arm. I stumble, and panic for a moment, recalling this very thing happening in a dream. I lose my grip on the staff, and plunge into an abyss. The cold, muddy waters of the lagoon close over my mouth, choking me. I go down under the surface, the mud churning up as I thrash around. I can taste the fetid water as it invades my mouth-the cloying taste of rotting flesh and cemetery earth. I try to call out for Caterina but the mud in my mouth prevents me from doing so, muffling my cries for help. Then my blindly groping hand finds the staff again. It has jammed upright, and I manage to right myself.

I pause for a while to regain my breath, spitting out salt water and stinking filth. It has been a close call. The softest mud patches can suck a fully-grown man down and down until he simply disappears off the face of God’s Earth. Angry at the sword for once again putting me in mortal danger, I rip the binding free that holds it to my body, and feel its considerable weight in the grip of my right hand. This goddamn sword has been the source of all my troubles, including an accusation of murder. Now is the time to be rid of it, and then maybe my luck will change for the better. I steady myself, and yank on the hilt. The sword comes out slickly smooth from its sheath, and I heft it in the night air. The moon reflects coldly on its polished surface, only slightly scarred by my own misuse at the very tip. The light causes the inscription to seem to sparkle mockingly in my eyes. I don’t need to read it-the legend is as firmly engraved on my heart as it is on that perfect blade.

‘Qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore.’

I growl at such a pious sentiment. What harm does a little lying do to the soul? And as for honour-give me profit any day. I swing the blade in a glittering arc, and stand for a moment with the sword held up to the moon by my outstretched arm. If I swing it once more and let go, it will sail away to disappear for good in the mud of the lagoon. Out of harm’s way. Thinking back to how the sword came into my possession, I nevertheless begin the arching swing…

The Year of Our Lord Twelve Hundred and Sixty Two started out as a good one for yours truly, Nicolo Zuliani. Everything I touched turned to gold. It culminated with a colleganza I set up at the beginning of the year. That’s a sort of short-term, high-risk, high-return business venture that appeals to us Venetians. At the time, I was essentially potless, after spending all my previous trading profits. So I was ready to take the risk-with other people’s money-on a big gamble. My reputation was good, even if some thought I was a chancer. To many, that was a good thing to be. So, I soon convinced a bunch of silversmiths who traded along the Merceria that I had already leased a 250 ton galley, with which I would transport cotton from Syria for the South German cloth trade. I even offered to show them over the ship in question-the Provvidenza. All they needed to do was supply the funds for the cotton, and I would guarantee them a nice little profit for their investment. I didn’t mention the little difficulties of high seas, savage rocky shores, and pirates. Well, you don’t want to put off investors when you’ve tapped into their greed, do you? They were on the hook, so I just needed to reel them in. Once I had secured the funds from them for the cotton, all I had to do was find the wherewithal to lease the Provvidenza.

Naturally, I had lied to them. I didn’t have any share in the ship when I showed it to them. But I had watched the routines of the captain and his crew for four days, until I was certain they all went for lunch around the middle of the day. A lunch sufficiently liquid to ensure they did not return for at least three hours. I even greased the way, as it were, by slipping one of the crew a few coins by way of thanking him for showing me privately over the ship the previous day. You have to speculate to accumulate, and if things turned out the way I hoped, those few coins would be all I would put into the trading enterprise.

The gaggle of silversmiths arrived at the quay close by San Zaccaria Church promptly at noon as requested. I could see them already sniffing profit in the air. Unless it was the smell of the load of fish that was being unshipped next to the Provvidenza that teased their nostrils. Whatever it was, I greeted them like some Eastern potentate, eager to show off his magnificent palace.

‘Greetings, Master Saraceni, Master Luprio…’ I shook each man’s hand in turn, careful to recall their names properly. I wanted them to feel like we were a bunch of intimate friends embarking on some adventure together. Confidence is what it’s all about, after all. The problem was the little, squinty-eyed man who always seemed to bring up the rear. Why could I never remember his name? I squeezed his hand, and stared back genially at his wall-eyed, suspicious stare as I racked my brain. Then of a sudden it came, like a cold shower sweeping across the piazza. ‘And last but not least, welcome Master Sebenico.’

He merely grunted, and slid his cold palm out of mine, which had begun to sweat. I knew I would have to watch Maestro Sebenico. From his name, I would guess he was descended from some Dalmatian pirate, and was probably as slippery as an eel. For now, I addressed the assembled throng, extolling the virtues of the galley on whose deck we stood.

‘Look at the suppleness of those sheets.’ I waved my hand up to the sails, and the spider’s web of ropes that ran up to the mast. I wasn’t sure which were sheets, but I did recall some of the spiel of the sailor whose lunch I had funded. I employed it as best I could. ‘And those cleats are the sturdiest I have ever seen.’ Fortunately, my attentive audience were sufficiently overawed not to question my nautical know-how, and contented themselves with looking sage, and nodding their heads. Even Master Sebenico seemed not to wish to betray his ignorance. Maybe he thought his pirate ancestors would turn in their watery graves if he did. ‘Let’s go for’ard, and examine the hold.’

And before you ask, yes, I did go in the right direction.

That had all been days ago, and as soon as I had got their money in the bag, I had worked on the Widow Vercelli, and Old Man di Betto to supply the funding for the galley. The widow was easily flattered by my flirtatious approaches, though she was old enough to be my granny, and ugly enough to be my pet dog. But a kiss on the hand and she was a cert. As was Pietro di Betto. The old man yearned for the good old days, when he had sailed in trading galleys himself. But now he was too sick to travel, and a little addled in the mind. In truth, I almost didn’t take his money, out of sympathy for his affliction. But he insisted, didn’t he? And I could not refuse him this last little pleasure in his life, could I? Besides, I wasn’t cheating him, or any of them, out of their money. All being well, we would all profit from the enterprise. It’s just that I was skating on thin ice, as it was usual for the merchant to put up one third of the funds. I was risking none. The trouble was, even after the widow and the simpleton coughed up, I was still short by a few thousand. So I decided to confide in Caterina.

After a particularly exhausting night of pleasure, she seemed pensive, almost impatient with my attempts at light-heartedness. Normally Caterina Dolfin looked flushed and healthy after a tumble in my bed, but this morning she was pale and wan-sickly even. I tried to laugh it off.

‘What’s the matter? Can’t you take the pace any more? Maybe you should ease up on the wine, my dear Caterina.’

She always tried to match me goblet for goblet, but I was too practised at drinking to be beaten by a mere woman. Even if that woman was Caterina Dolfin, scion of one of the case vecchie-the aristocracy of Venice. If her father had known she was romping with a mere Zuliani, a merchant and a penniless one at that, he would have had me whipped out of La Serenissima at best. At worst, murdered in a dark alley and my body dumped in the lagoon. Still, I could not resist the excitement and allure of our assignations. Caterina Dolfin was a beauty, dark-haired and brown-eyed, with a rare figure that shone through the heavy folds of her richly embroidered bliaut over-gown. So, once again I had lured her secretly into my bed, and come the morning, I was caressing her voluptuous naked breasts, as I taunted her about her drinking. But this particular dawn she appeared to have something else on her mind, and she responded distractedly.

‘Oh, leave over, Nicolo.’

This made me suddenly wary. She only used my full given name, instead of calling me Nick, when she was annoyed. I tried on my simpering look as she carried on.

‘You should buy something more palatable than that cheap Rhenish you are so fond of when I dine with you. Maybe that’s what disagreed with me. Unless it was the fish. God knows what they feed on in the lagoon.’

I guffawed. ‘I don’t need to be God to know what is washed from the Serene Republic’s sewers and on to the feeding grounds where the lazier fishermen ply their trade.’

Caterina’s eyes narrowed, and she held a petite hand to her mouth at the thought. She began to look even greener than before, her eyes almost pleading. I wondered again if she was expecting me to propose marriage, and I almost did at that point. But though I longed for Caterina, I thought of my own parents’ stormy marriage. So I just couldn’t bring myself to encompass such a commitment right then, and the moment was lost. Instead, I sounded her out on my small embarrassment with colleganza funds. She snorted in disdain.

‘If you think I can lay my hands on any of my father’s money, you must be mad. He didn’t get rich by ignoring the pennies.’ She rolled over on to her stomach, presenting her arched back and rounded, bare buttocks to my adoring gaze. ‘You should try Pasquale, he’s mad enough to risk money on you.’

I tore my eyes from her divine arse. ‘Pasquale? Fish-face Valier?’

In truth, I had not considered Valier-he of the bulging eyes, and receding chin-but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. Pasquale liked to mix with the same drinking crowd I did. And although you couldn’t say we were friends, we had exchanged a few drolleries over some good wine. Moreover, like Caterina, he was also of the case vecchie, which meant he was loaded. And gullible enough to be taken in by my flattery. I would woo him like I had the Widow Vercelli. Just as long as he didn’t hope to end up in my bed like the widow had. Hoped that is-my bed I reserve solely for the beautiful Cat. With that thought bringing me back to the present, I ran my fingers down her sensuously curved spine, and over her remarkable arse. And then further on.

If I had been able to foresee the future, I would not have left the question of marriage so unfinished. But then, I had no idea that time was running out for me. That I would only see her one more time, as murder came between us. Back then, I had reckoned there was all the time in the world to settle down. And for the time being, I was content to enjoy myself like any man should. I didn’t really want to admit to myself that I was avoiding marriage because I feared ruining it all like my father had done. That was a thought I could not entertain, even while sober.

‘Did you hear that there is talk of an election? And Doge Renier Zeno still firmly ensconced with no intention of resigning.’

Pasquale Valier was outraged that any such idea should be contemplated. He drank deep of the good Gascon wine I had supplied him with, spending some more of my precious few coins in a desperate attempt to raise the few thousand I still needed for my colleganza. His fishy eyes bulged even further at the thought of tradition being so usurped. These old families hung on desperately to the ways that had served them well. Myself, I thought the ducal election was rigged from the start in favour of the old families. Since when had a Zuliani had a chance to get voted in? Still, I needed to keep Valier sweet, if I was to tap into his money supply.

‘Outrageous,’ I murmured.

I had been more than a little surprised that he had accepted my invitation so easily. My lodgings were not the most salubrious of accommodation, being close to canal level, and consequently damp and rather smelly. Maybe it was the fact that they backed on to the fabulous Ca’ da Mosta, and that I used the palace to describe how to reach my own more humble abode. The Ca’ looked out majestically on to the Grand Canal. My quarters squinted blearily on to no more than a dingy alley of mud that you wouldn’t dignify with the word canal. I prayed the interior would convey more a sense of modest simplicity to Valier than the reality. That of shabby poverty.

I had no need to worry. Once in his cups, Valier was blithely ignorant of the damp walls, and down-at-heel furniture. All I had to do was to keep refilling his tankard. And listen to him banging on about politics, which interested me little except when it affected business. Since last year, when the Greeks had retaken Constantinople, Venice’s influence in that region had been blighted by our old enemy, Genoa. The doge’s old title of Lord of a Quarter and Half a Quarter of the Roman Empire had suddenly become increasingly hollow-sounding. It had been won sixty years ago, when Doge Dandolo-the old, blind wheeler-dealer himself-had conned the leaders of the Fourth Crusade into conquering Constantinople instead of aiming straight for Outremer. They had owed the Republic a lot of money, and could do little else, mind you. With a puppet installed on the throne in Byzantium, Dandolo had picked up vast chunks of the newly made Latin Empire, and that lordly title. But now it was gone again, and apparently some blamed the present doge for the inconvenience. Including the erstwhile governor of Constantinople, Domenico Lazzari. Valier continued to blether on about it.

‘A properly elected doge is for life, or until he decides to step down himself. How can anyone suggest he should be forced out?’ He poured another potful of good Gascon red down his throat, and clutched my shoulder. ‘What do you think, Nicolo, old chap? You’re an honest fellow. What do you think we should do?’

Sweating a little at the thought he might run through my slender supply of wine before I had parted him from his money, I stared sombrely into his bleary eyes. I found myself using his own drawly accent back at him.

‘It’s an outrage, Pasquale, old chum. That’s what it is. It makes a fellow want to make his money and run before the whole fabric of society falls apart.’

He nodded eagerly, then a puzzled look slowly crept over his blotchy face.

‘Make his money…and run?’

I could see on his drink-sodden face the sly look of one who had been hooked. I fed him the line before reeling him in.

‘It so happens I have a proposition to put to you. It can’t fail…’

Later that night, a strange thing happened. I had just got rid of Pasquale Valier by the street door, when I heard a furtive tapping from the other side of the house. It took a moment for me to realize there was someone at the water door. I too had imbibed a fair amount of the good Gascon, though surreptitiously I had cut it with cheap Rhenish to make it go further. Even so, I was a little unsteady on my feet, and nearly fell in the muddy canal when I opened the door a splinter to see who was calling so late at night. I had half a thought it was sweet Cat come to romp the night away. My heart yearned for that, but my thick head and tired mind almost prayed it was not.

As I reeled on the step down into the turbid waters at my door, a firm, but slender hand took my arm. Whoever it was steadied me, almost at the expense of his own stability, as he was standing in a small boat that rocked under him. But he righted himself and me, and gave a low bow. It was difficult to see his face, as he was muffled in a hooded cloak, that was draped across most of his features. All I saw was a pair of brown eyes staring at me with creases at their corners that betokened a smile beneath the folds of the drapery.

‘What do you want, good sir?’

I spoke a little merrily, my tone of voice still in Valier mode, plummy and drawled.

The man refrained from speaking, but his eyes sparkled even more. He drew a long bundle from under the cloak, and with difficulty, as though it was too weighty for him, held it out to me in both hands. Noticing in passing that the hands were gloved, I took the burden from him. In truth, the parcel was heavy, but not so heavy that a fully-grown man could not have handled it. I assumed the deliverer of my gift was perhaps elderly or ill as to find it so difficult to lift. I thanked him for his services, but still got no reply. He simply nodded his head, and turned away, lifting his punt pole into place. I watched for a while until the mysterious figure disappeared into the mists, then hefted his gift in my hand. It had a weightiness to it that promised value, and I eagerly unwrapped the cloth that bound it up.

What was first revealed at one end was a thick, plain disc of steel, and below it a lime wood handle wrapped about with wire. It was a sword, and an old one at that. The cross had been fashioned to look like dogs’ heads, but the blade itself was encased in a plain wooden sheath. From its length, I guessed the blade to be around thirty inches long. I pulled the blade a little way out the sheath to reveal a small shield stamped on the lower end. It bore the name ‘de la Pomeroy’ etched in silver, but it meant nothing to me. As the last of the binding slid off, a piece of parchment fell to the floor. I stooped to pick it up. The writing was in a neat hand.

‘My bold entrepreneur-I don’t want your venture to fall at the first hurdle. Take this old weapon, and sell it for whatever you can get. My family had it from some Crusader called Ranulf de Cerne, who passed through many years ago. It was left in payment of a debt. But take care, the sword comes with a legend-things happen to its owner, it seems. So sell it swiftly, and return safely.’

The message was finished off with no signature, but a strange scrawl that I could not at first decipher. Then I turned the parchment sideways, and the scrawl resolved itself into a neat little feline shape with a curly tail. It had to be a message from my own Cat-Caterina Dolfin-I was convinced of it. So much so, that I even fancied I heard her laughter carrying over the waters of the canal outside my door. I slid the blade from its sheath, and looked on the inscription for the first time. All talk of honour and soul did not concern me, however. What I was convinced of, was that I would not sell this sword for anything. Especially as I had already got the funds I needed for my colleganza from Pasquale Valier.

One month later, I was standing on the quayside of the Giudecca Canal with the sword at my waist, money in my purse, and a bushy, red beard on my chin. It had grown while I was roughing it on the journey to and from Syria, and now I fancied it added to my appeal with the women. With my fine head of red hair, tanned features and green eyes, I knew I couldn’t fail. The Provvidenza lay proudly at its moorings before me, a little more battered, its mainsail somewhat more ragged. But nothing that some money and the tough, thick pitch of the ship-builders in the Arsenal complex couldn’t cure. I had already sold the cotton on to a fair-haired German trader called Bradason, and all I needed to do was pay my investors their margin. Which would leave a tidy sum for me. I was longing to see Cat, but decided I should replace my stained and tattered clothes first. Like Provvidenza, I needed a good overhaul, and it would do no harm to take my costs out of the colleganza’s profits. They were big enough to absorb it.

I found a good tailor in the Merceria, and bought an undertunic of red, and a sclavine of blue. Finally I belted the sword round my waist. Caterina Dolfin would not be able to resist me, and I swaggered off along the Spaderia-suitably enough the street of sword-makers-then made for the Rialto crossing. Passing the Rio dei Bareteri, I noticed a workshop with headgear displayed, and was taken by a sugar-loaf cap in green that I reckoned would sit well on my flowing red locks. I bought it, and turning the brim up, I set it at a jaunty angle on my head. Palazzo Dolfin was on the other side of the Grand Canal, and I made for the bridge of boats called the Quartarolo that spanned it at the Rialto. Before I could reach it and pay the toll, however, I was stopped by a braying cry.

‘Zuliani! Is that you? I was told you were back.’

I groaned. It was Pasquale Valier, and he would be wanting the return on his investment. I had hoped it would hang at my waist just a little longer, before I had to disburse it. It felt good to have a heavy purse, even if most of the money belonged to others. I need not have worried, though. Valier seemed more concerned about having a good time than getting his dues.

‘I was on my way to meet Jacopo and a few others to celebrate my good fortune. What a stroke of luck to bump into you, Zuliani. You must join us.’

He had to be talking about Jacopo Selvo, who though a scion of one of the old families, was an entertaining drinking companion. I had caroused away many a night in his company. I reckoned my ardour for Caterina could be postponed a little while. Especially if it gave me the opportunity to boast about my exploits over a drink or two to a few young aristos with more money than sense. We started out at some low dive on the northern quay close to the Arsenal, meeting up with two other friends of Valier, Vitale Orseolo, and Marino Michiel. The tavern was more often frequented by tarry ship-builders, than members of the case vecchie. But Valier reckoned they would break open the best Apulian wine, if they saw the weight of my purse. He was right-the wine tasted good, and it flowed freely at the sight of my money. We ended up carousing the night away, defying the curfew bell, and lightening my purse more than somewhat.

From there I think we went straight to the Ca’ d’Orseolo, though my brain was too befuddled to be sure, where young Vitale Orseolo cracked a cask of Malvasia. I hadn’t forgotten sweet Caterina, I promise you. But Pasquale and Jacopo kept leading me astray with more wine. With dawn approaching, and a tankard of sweet Malvasia in my unsteady hand, I tried to break up the party.

‘I must go to Palazzo Dolfin now. I promised Caterina I would shower her with riches on my return.’

Jacopo Selvo giggled, and hung his arm over my shoulder. He slopped red wine over my new mantle, staining it, but it didn’t seem to matter. Then he snorted the odour of ripe Apulian into my face.

‘Later, Zuliani, later. You know, a woman gets riper the longer you keep her hanging on. Leave her till later. In fact, you would do well to leave her hanging like a ripe pheasant for a few days. Then she will really be ready to…you know…to…’

He made a fist over his groin, jerking it up and down, and guffawed in my face. I should have stuck my fist in his florid chops for being so coarse about Cat, but for some reason what he said amused me. I giggled, and grabbed the wine bottle, pouring it straight down my throat.

‘Have a care, Jacopo Selvo. You speak of the woman I love.’

I hauled the shiny sword from the sheath at my waist, waving it in the air in mock combat. I nearly sliced Orseolo’s head off by accident, and he dropped to the ground in a dead faint. The others crowded around, admiring the blade as it sparkled in the candlelight. Valier was the most impressed, his eyes feasting on the perfection.

‘That is a mighty blade, Zuliani. And an old one. It must have been drowned in blood in its time. How did you come by it?’

I feigned indifference to its quality.

‘This old thing. I had it from…an admirer.’

I leaned on the sword like some old Crusader, but spoiled the effect by falling over in a heap. The blade nicked my arm, and added another stain to my new clothes. It was not long after that the three others fell into a drunken stupor, leaving only Valier and myself to finish the Malvasia. We slumped side by side on Orseolo’s couch, and I reluctantly began to count out Valier’s share of my loot. His eyes glittered, while at the same time he bemoaned the hard times that made it so difficult to make money.

‘And since you left on your trip, Zuliani, Domenico Lazzari has returned redoubling his complaints about Doge Zeno. He has moaned so much that the doge has been persuaded to stand down. They say that Girolamo Fanesi has thrown his hat into the ring, and expects to win. I mean to say, really! He’s not even a proper Venetian. And all because of this Byzantine fiasco.’

I was a little slow on the uptake.

‘What Byzantine…? Oh, the loss of Constantinople, and the title of Lord of Half-a-quart and a Quart-and-a-half of Roman wine…’

Pasquale sniggered at the old joke, and bashed my arm with his puny fist.

‘Be serious for a moment, Nicolo. You know, I was thinking that if you could sort of influence who was in the Group of Forty-One, you could virtually guarantee who the next doge was. And prevent Fanesi winning.’

Now, you should know that the method of electing a new doge is involved in the extreme. By a series of lots, the Maggior Consiglio-the Great Council-vote for four of their number. This four from the great and good then nominate forty-one of the council members, each of whom requires at least three nominations, and not more than one from each family. Oh, and don’t forget that to get on the Great Council itself in the first place, you have to be nominated by two representatives from each of the six sestieri, or districts, that make up Venice. So, to get to vote a doge into office, you have to…well, I don’t want to bore you. Let’s just say it’s complicated. Just take it from me that the system goes on and on. For several rounds. Until forty-one names are thus randomly selected. And it is they who elect the doge. So I don’t know why I agreed with Valier.

‘I suppose so. Yes and, if you could influence the vote so that a particular name came up, you could make an awful lot of money into the bargain.’

This was my contribution to the drunken exchange. I cared not, and still don’t, which member of the Venetian case vecchie-the old aristocracy-was elected doge. My family has been around for as long as any of them. It has even been said that one of our ancestors helped drive the pali-the wooden piles-into the sandbanks on top of which the city was built three hundred and fifty years ago. But the Zulianis always made their money by dint of their own labour, and that was enough to keep us out of the inner circle. No, I didn’t care if a Tiepolo, a Morosini, or a Zeno won the election. I just liked the idea of making a killing on the result for one Zuliani. Me.

‘But there is no way of influencing such a complex system,’ moaned Valier. ‘And I now have a purse bursting with coins to wager.’

Valier was old aristocracy himself, which is why, along with his colleganza profits, he had so much money to waste. And why he hadn’t the brains to see an opportunity when it leaped at him. The aristocracy are all inbred, after all.

I grinned. ‘There is a way, I am sure of it. Even if it comes with a little bribery.’

Valier’s little, pointy rat-face looked blank at first-but then it always did. Finally, his features squashed up in what I think was supposed to resemble shock.

‘It won’t work! You wouldn’t dare!’

I spat in my fist, and held out a steady hand for him to clasp, and seal the wager. See, I wasn’t half as drunk as poor Pasquale Valier was. In fact, I had seen the opportunity to get all that colleganza profit back from him as soon as he had started talking. Besides, I liked a challenge, and the drink had made me reckless.

‘Give me that pile of coins that’s burning a hole in your purse, and I’ll show you what’s possible.’

‘OK. But it’s my money against that beautiful sword.’

I almost didn’t do the deal when he said that. The sword was from Cat, after all. But being a Zuliani, I only hesitated for a second. We shook on it.

I woke to the booming of the Marangona bell in the Campanile. It calls the tradesmen to work, and tolls the curfew in the evening. Just now, it resonated round my tender skull, which throbbed at every clang. I squeezed open my eyes on a scene of devastation. A pile of empty vessels gave witness to the scale of the binge that Valier and I had indulged in, along with Selvo, Michiel and Orseolo. Those last three were still lying in a tangled heap at one end of the long tapestried room on the upper floor of the Ca’ d’Orseolo. They were dead to the world. I got up and staggered round the room. I noticed one particularly fine drape had a long cut right through Salome bearing the head of John the Baptist on a tray. I thought now at least honours were even, and the maid had had her head separated from her body too, if only in a woven image. I fingered the extensive slash, and remembered something about waving my fine sword above my head, and threatening the life of anyone who stood between me and Caterina Dolfin. Quite obviously, Salome had done so. I nervously twitched the tapestry together, but it was no use. When I let go, the damaged portion gaped open once again.

Still somewhat disorientated, I went about looking for Pasquale Valier. Had I not made some wager with him in the early hours? My befuddled brain pondered the problem as I brushed down my clothes. My tunic was creased, and smelled of stale sweat. And my mantle had a muddy boot mark on it to add to the wine and blood stains. I searched for my new sugar-loaf cap, and found it gripped in Jacopo Selvo’s hand. He had obviously been using it to wipe the stains off the floor where he had vomited. I sniffed it, then crammed it on my head anyway, flipping up the brim. It didn’t seem quite as jaunty as it had yesterday.

Valier was nowhere to be seen, and neither was my sword, I realized. I panicked. How could I meet Caterina without her gift at my waist? I scrabbled under the long dining table, searching for it, and then under the couch where Valier and I had made our pact. And then I remembered our wager. I was to rig the doge’s election so that Fanesi failed, and one particular name would come up. Any name, so long as we could bet on it. At the time, I had been so confident I could do it. Now, in the cold light of day, I hadn’t the faintest idea how I would arrange such a thing. And I still couldn’t find my sword.

Palazzo Dolfin was one of the newer buildings along the Grand Canal. It’s grand arcade was of red altinelle bricks edged in hard white Istrian stone. The same white stone had been used for the flight of steps down to the water. The whole affair was reflected gloriously in the canal as I approached, until the image broke up with the chop of my ferry boat’s prow. I pulled nervously at my wine-stained clothes, and tried to set the cap squarely on my head to give the impression of a prosperous and serious suitor. My money purse still hung at my waist, though it had been seriously depleted since yesterday. The ferryman bumped his boat against the lower steps, and I passed him a small coin as I stepped on to their pristine whiteness. As he poled away, I noticed for the first time that the palace’s doors were closed. Frowning, I hammered on the forbidding surface to be met only with silence. This was not how my suit for Caterina’s hand was intended to be. I knocked again, noting how the sound echoed hollowly behind the door.

Then suddenly a shutter screeched open above my head somewhere, and a coarse, female voice called out in a low Venetian dialect.

‘Watcha want?’

I walked back down the sparkling white steps, and craned my neck upwards. From one of the upper levels of the palace, a fat, red face poked out. The woman repeated her abrupt demand, and I was hard put to contain my temper.

‘I want to speak to the master of the house, woman. Now come down and let me in.’

I was sounding more like Pasquale Valier every day. The servant woman, for her part, mocked my snooty tones.

‘Ooh, yer do, do yer. Well yer can’t. They’ve all gorn to Padua on account of the fever.’

The fever? Was Caterina ill, then?

‘What I mean is, to avoid the fever. Don’t know when they’ll be back.’

With that, she withdrew her head, and abruptly slammed the shutter. I had not heard of a fever being rampant, but then many scares ran through the city. We Venetians did live on swampy mud-flats, after all. With Caterina away for an unspecified time, I would have to be patient in my suit. In fact, I felt some relief at not having to face Cat’s father straight away. Maybe marriage was not in my destiny. Besides, her absence would certainly give me some time to work out this voting scam. I didn’t have much time, as the election was only a few weeks away. I waved for a passing ferry boat to stop, and immediately began thinking about how to ensure one particular name was selected.

In the end it proved stupefyingly simple. I don’t know why I didn’t see it straight away, but I didn’t. I must have been moon-struck for love of Cat. So I wasted days locked away in my musty, dark quarters. I huddled in one corner, seated at a scarred table with parchment and quill. The waters of the lagoon rose-as they do from time to time-and seeped across my floor. I watched the lapping approach of the fetid waters, noting only that this time they did not quite engulf the tidal mark left by the previous aqua alta. I only left my room once to distribute the profits on my colleganza to all the investors. Some of them were not best pleased with the thin margin I gave them. But then I had had to pay off my own debts first, and I also seemed to have lost a considerable amount during that first day of carousing. The silversmith Sebenico was particularly tart, screwing his sharp nose up at the meagre coins I gave him.

‘What do you call this, Zuliani? I could have made more out of my investment if I had loaned it through the Jews on Spinalunga.’

I mumbled something about unforeseen overheads, and pirates off the Dalmatian coast, and hurried away. Thank goodness the Widow Vercelli, and Old Man di Betti were only too glad to see any sort of return on their money, and too dim to realize they could have had more. Back in my dank cell, I wrapped all my clothes around me, and pondered the little matter of the election fraud.

Getting on for a hundred years ago, the system had been changed from one where the Great Council nominated eleven electors, to a more foolproof method. It was decided to select four of the great and good, who would themselves choose forty names. I began to toy with the idea of bribing the four original nominees. That would be a damn sight cheaper than bribing forty. Oh, except it was now forty-one. Some genius had overlooked the fact that an even number of electors could bring about a tie. Which had happened about forty years ago, forcing the addition of one more elector. The forty-one commissioners operated in a sort of secret conclave, like cardinals electing a pope. Each would come up with a name on a slip of paper. Duplicate names were discarded, until a single slip for each nominee was created. These slips were placed in a vessel, and one name drawn out. A vote was then taken on that name, and if it got twenty-five votes, then that man was the next doge.

So my first idea was to suborn the four, who could then nominate forty-one people inclined to come up with the right name. But, thinking about it, I knew that wouldn’t work, and I certainly wouldn’t have bet my shirt on them coming up with the right name. No, there was too much chance of a slip-up. Similarly, bribing the forty-one would prove an impossible task. Even if I could get to them when they were locked away, some of those old families are incorruptible, believe it or not. No, I finally came to the conclusion that the trick had to be turned with the mechanics of the voting system. If I could ensure one particular slip of paper came out the voting urn, then I was nearly home and dry. Though this was a contradiction in terms in relation to my own domestic arrangements. The water of the lagoon had nearly reached my toes under the table. I lifted up my chilly feet, and plonked them on the bench opposite where I sat.

But then, to ensure one slip in particular came out, I had to ensure it went in to begin with. And I was back again to bribery. I felt I was in a maze that kept taking me back to the centre instead of out to the rim and freedom. With my brains nearly boiling, and my feet near freezing, I gave up. I needed to talk to someone, and longed for it to be Cat. But in lieu of my beautiful girl, I would have to make do with my old drinking companions. Grabbing my sugar-loaf hat, and cramming it on my head, I decided to make for the anonymous tavern close to the Arsenal, where the drinking session that had landed me with this problem had begun. I squelched through the damp streets as the rain began to fall, taking care not to fall into a canal. The high tides sometimes made it difficult to tell the difference between a watery rio, and a paved calle. And it was not rare for an unwary Venetian to blithely step into a canal thinking the water was merely a damp sheen on a paved surface. In the nameless tavern, I found only Marino Michiel, his pasty, round face made paler by the weather. I sat down beside him, and ordered the Apulian wine that we had been drinking the last time. When it came, even that seemed to have succumbed to the aqua alta. It had clearly been watered.

‘Where are the others?’ I enquired of the sullen Michiel. He waved his gloved hand in a vague gesture of uncertainty.

‘Don’t know for sure. All I do know is that Valier has gone to Padua.’

My ears pricked up at the mention of the place where my Cat languished.

‘Oh, is he fleeing the fever too?’

Michiel looked puzzled. ‘Fever? Is there talk of a fever? I have heard nothing.’

Alarm bells should have rung at that point, but I was too engrossed in my problem with slips of paper to take in what Michiel was saying. Instead I spoke of the up-coming election.

‘And its all done in secret with a few big names, as if we, the people, don’t have a say. Time was when an arengo was called-a meeting of all the people. Now it’s just a formality.’

I was forgetting Marino Michiel was old aristocracy, and to him the idea of consulting the people was tantamount to permitting mob rule. He protested that the system was fair.

‘But it’s all well controlled, so that one man can’t push a name through against the will of the others,’ he whined. ‘They are even trying a new system this time to ensure there’s no hanky-panky.’

My heart lurched, and nearly fought its way out of my throat. Did Michiel know what I was up to? I hoped Valier hadn’t let anything slip to his pals.

‘What’s that?’ I croaked.

‘Oh, when they have got the final set of slips in the voting urn, they are not going to have one of their own draw one out. Just in case they cheat. It seems they are going to pick a child at random from the street, and he-the ballotino-will draw the name.’

Perfect.

Two days later, I still couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear. At the time, I had even bought the bewildered Michiel a drink. He was quite unaware that he had given me the best news I could have expected. Only if I had been told of Caterina Dolfin’s immediate return to Venice would I have been more cheerful. Unfortunately, there was no news on that front. In fact, my tentative enquiries revealed nothing-the doings of the Dolfin clan had been shrouded in mystery. Some people repeated the servant’s story of them fleeing rumours of a plague, and yet others spoke of the death of a wealthy uncle in Verona. A few hinted darkly at a family shame that had caused the Dolfins’ retreat from Venice. I believed none of it, only worrying that perhaps Caterina was being kept from me. Or worse, that she herself had chosen to avoid me.

But all that was of passing concern. I had been buoyed up by the new twist to the selection process for the doge. It had played directly into my hands. Now my task involved nothing more complex than training some urchin-preferably one who was already adept at the art of picking purses-in a little sleight-of-hand. And I knew just who could put me on to such a delinquent.

I put the word about, but had to wait until night for my search to bear fruit. Master thieves did not like the full glare of daylight, and Alimpato was a master among masters. It was he who had taught me much of my card-sharping techniques. A skill that had stood me in good stead when I had been short of cash in my early youth. Young noblemen seemed eager to pour coins into my purse for the sake of a game of cards or dice. Of course, even those dimwits realized after a while that my luck held a little too long to be true, and finally I had temporarily retreated, resorting to a tour of the mainland for a while. There were dupes aplenty in Fusina, Dolo, and Stra. But I yearned for Venice, and when I reckoned my reputation was forgotten, I returned. To a life of honest trading-if that’s not a contradiction in terms. However, I still practised with my hands every day, and my manual dexterity was as good as it ever was. You never know when you might need to help Lady Luck along a little. Like now. I was proposing to pass on some of my skills to a young cut-purse, but needed a likely candidate.

Sitting in my damp room as darkness fell, I was impatient for Alimpato to put in an appearance. Time was running out for me. Then I heard a scratching at the door, and leapt towards it, flinging it open. At first, I thought there was no one there-that I had merely heard the sound of a rat gnawing at the rotting timbers. But then I realized there was a darker shadow inside the shadow of the archway opposite. I smiled, and stepped back into my room, leaving the outer door ajar. A few moments later, the shadow entered my dingy room, and sat across from me at my table.

‘Alimpato, you old devil!’

The man pulled the hood of his voluminous cloak back, revealing a cadaverous face beneath a tangled skein of thin, greying hair. Alimpato smiled, revealing a set of blackened, rotten teeth. He more resembled a crippled beggar than what he really was-a prince among thieves. I pushed a flagon of Rhenish across to him, and a cheap pewter goblet. No use putting temptation in his way. Despite our friendship, he would have buried a more valuable vessel inside his roomy cloak.

‘Nicolo Zuliani, as I live and breathe. Still earning your bread honestly?’

I never heard a man put so much invective into the word ‘honest’ as Alimpato. When he uttered it, the word was redolent of shame, stupidity, and absurdity. I laughed and shrugged my shoulders.

‘In so far as anyone can.’

‘Then why did you put out the word you wanted to see me?’

He filled his goblet, and swigged deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I noticed the fingers were just as supple and slender as they had been when last he had shown me how to switch a set of dice.

‘It is in the way of a little matter that I need to…influence, shall I say. I have a wager on it.’

He nodded, knowing that I would not tell him the details. And that I knew he would not even dream of asking. The less you knew in his world, the easier it was to avoid being implicated, if questioned. I prayed fervently that I would not be discovered, as I could then expect a short stay in the ducal prison, followed by a long death.

‘I need a good cut-purse, who can learn quickly how to palm and substitute…a small item.’

He nodded, and rose from the table, turning the goblet in his hand speculatively. He sighed, and put it down, then made for the door.

‘Wait!’ I called out after him. ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’

He turned in the open doorway, and stared at me.

‘Of course. Walk across the Piazza tomorrow morning on the first stroke of the Marangona bell. Have a heavy purse on your belt.’

He pulled the hood over his face, returning his features to the darkness, and disappeared into the night.

The following morning, still not sure what to expect, I stood in front of the Basilica of St Mark. I waited for the ninth hour, when the great Marangona bell in the Campanile tolled, and started to walk across the old pavement of herring-bone brick laid by Doge Sebastiano Ziani a hundred years ago. I promenaded along, alert for any action, walking towards the quay, where stood the two antique columns brought back from the East by an ancestor of Michiel’s. When I reached the columns, nothing had happened, and I felt very disappointed. Alimpato had let me down. Then an urchin appeared from round one of the pillars, a huge grin splitting his grubby face.

‘Missing something, mister?’

My hand instinctively dropped to my waist, as I realized the weight of my purse was no longer there. Instead there were just a couple of sliced-through cords. The urchin brought his right hand from behind his back, and waved my purse in the air. I didn’t move to retrieve it however, merely clapping my hands in appreciation of his feat. The lad, who looked no more than eight years old, bowed low, then hesitated.

‘Don’t you want it back, mister? Master Alimpato said you would.’

‘Keep it,’ I said generously. The purse strings were cut anyway. I would let the boy find out that the weightiness of the purse was due to several large nail heads at his own convenience. ‘But you can come with me.’

He looked rather unsure at first, not certain what my motives were. So I softened my tones, and suggested we go and find something to eat. By the look of the puny chest that showed through his tattered clothes, I could guess he was half starved. He joined me at my side, and we walked back across the square, like two gentlemen promenading.

‘My name’s…’

I stopped him with a finger to my lips.

‘No names. Just tell me where you come from.’

‘Malamocca.’

It was a small settlement on the finger of land that protected the lagoon from the Adriatic.

‘Then that shall be your name. Come, Malamocco, let’s fill our bellies.’

‘But what do I call you?’

I thought for a moment.

‘Barratieri will do.’

‘“Card-sharp”?’

I nodded.

It took an amazing amount of food to fill Malamocco’s scrawny belly. That first day I ended up paying for a feast which started with vegetables, then moved on to a lightly cooked dish of flounders, then a stew of wild boar, and to round it off some fresh fruit brought in from the mainland. And if I had not protested that my purse was empty, he would have begun again. His torpid nature after all that ensured we did not begin work till the following day. But then I found him an excellent study. Within hours, he was switching cards with a dexterity almost as good as mine. After three days of relentless effort, I could have put him out on the street, and guaranteed he would win every card or dice game he took part in. That part of the scam was ready. I only debated with myself if I needed to bribe the person in the group of forty-one charged with selecting the ballotino. The problem was I had no way of knowing in advance who that would be. I would have to find a foolproof way of ensuring Malamocco was the only possible choice when it came down to the moment. In the meantime, I was paying good money to keep my little sly-fingered investment fed and out of trouble.

The day before the voting process would begin, I was walking across the Piazza in front of the Basilica, when a familiar, braying voice called out my name. I stopped in my tracks, and turned to confront Pasquale Valier, newly returned, apparently, from Padua.

‘Valier. Where have you been? And where is my sword?’

‘Your sword? Oh, don’t worry, it’s safe enough. I have left it in your quarters.’ He grinned inanely. ‘I told you the night I left for Padua, why I borrowed it. Don’t you recall? I said I would improve it’s appearance for when I won it off you. But that is unimportant just now. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine.’

It was only then that I realized Valier was accompanied by a small, but wiry fellow some years older than both of us. Despite his small frame, and close-cropped hair, I would have said from the lines on his face that he was over forty. And, from the sour and down-turned shape of his mouth, had experienced disappointment in his life. His sclavine had an ornate, almost Eastern-style edging to it, though it now looked shabby, and ill-kept. I was intrigued, and took his proferred hand.

Valier was certainly awed by his presence, for he spoke in respectful tones. ‘This is Domenico Lazzari.’

I almost yelped in horror at the revelation, and dropped his hand like it was a hot altinelle brick. Don’t get me wrong. I did not disapprove of Lazzari, or what he had done. After all, he was one of the newly rich, just as I aspired to be. He had dragged himself up the ladder, and irritated the old aristocracy in the process. I admired that. But when he lost his coveted post of podesta-governor-of Constantinople, to be reduced to a mere bailo, he had suffered from a severe case of sour grapes. To so criticize the doge, as he did, took either guts or blind stupidity. And for me to be seen in his company the day before I rigged the election of the new doge was not good news.

Valier should have realized that. Here we all were, standing in the middle of the most public square in Venice, shaking hands and to all intents and purposes agreeing on the overthrow of Renier Zeno. I could be in deep trouble-as deep as that which Lazzari already floundered in. And Valier would not be excluded, as he had wagered on Zeno losing the election this time. What was he thinking of?

I pulled him roughly to one side, and whispered hoarsely. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? This man is poison at the moment. And besides, I thought you disapproved of him forcing the doge into an election.’

Valier pulled away irritably from my grip, while the object of my concern looked on in amusement. He waved away my reference to his former attitude to Lazzari. Clearly the man was now in Valier’s favour.

‘It’s OK. I’ve told him nothing about your…er…scheme. But he does know about our betting on a particular name coming out of the hat. He has money he wants to wager. On Fanesi winning. We can’t lose. Your reputation is on a high now-make use of it.’

He pushed me towards Lazzari, and like a fool, I could not resist the lure of money. So it was that I allowed myself to be seen accepting a very large and weighty purse from Domenico Lazzari. Then he and Valier went their separate ways, and I rushed home to see what Pasquale had done to my sword. It was only when he was gone that I remembered he had come back from Padua. He might have had some news of Caterina, and I might have been able to learn if I was still in favour or out. I would have to ask him when next we met. After I had won my bet.

The blade lay sheathed, and looking pretty much as when last I had seen it. Only this time it was lying on my scratched and humble table, not Orseolo’s ornately carved couch where Valier and I had made our wager. On the surface, there appeared to be no changes to it. The cross of the hilt was still shaped in the form of two dogs’ heads, mouths agape. The hilt itself still bore its leather casing, wrapped around with wire-all worn but none the worse for that. It felt comforting to grip the hilt knowing that many an experienced hand had sweated on it and shaped its lumps and bumps. Even the disc of the pommel was untrammelled. I would have killed Valier, if he had ruined its simple honesty. I closed my palm over the hilt. The sword almost felt as if it jumped into my hand, it was so easy to hold. I slid the blade out of its sheath, and at last saw Valier’s embellishment along the length of the polished blade. The inscription was in Latin, and in imitation of the original text inscribed on the other side.

qui est hilaris dator, hunc amat salvator. omnis avarus, nulli est carus.

‘Hmm. “The Saviour loves a cheerful giver; a miser’s dear to no one.” Very apt, Pasquale.’

I don’t know if he intended it as a joke on my way with money or not. But seeing as I was going to keep the sword after I won our wager, the joke was on him, and the quotation would serve as an ironic motto for me. Tomorrow was the day the vote would be taken, and I hurried off to make a deal with a certain stallholder I had seen close to the main square.

The next morning, in the church of San Gregorio, I found myself praying fervently for the success of the scheme. Or rather praying that it would not fail hopelessly. All my money, and that bagful of Valier’s, was riding on the election of a certain Pietro Orseolo. But already I felt something indefinable had gone wrong, and matters hung on a knife-edge. Valier had handed over his money at the end of our drinking session. But, a week on, I had discovered that he had hedged his bets by wagering even more on Zeno retaining his position. And Valier didn’t often pass up a sure thing.

It had gone well to start with. I had loitered round the main doors of St Marks where the representative of the Forty-One had gone to pray. Malamocco, suitably garbed in decent clothes-at my expense-hovered nearby, ostensibly playing some innocent game with sticks. The Piazza was unusually void of other children, chiefly because I had bribed a stallholder who vended sweetmeats made of honey, dates, raisins and liquorice to cry that he was giving away samples to whoever passed his stall. Once Malamocco had passed the word among his young contemporaries, the Piazza had emptied of any competitors for the attentions of the man who would soon emerge from the Basilica. His instructions were to stop the first boy he met, and take him to the Doge’s Palace.

When the man, whom I recognized as Vitale Michiel, father to Marino, came out into the sunlight, he squinted in the bright rays, and cast his eyes around. He might have been a little puzzled at the apparent absence of children. But no matter, Malamocco, right on cue, wandered artlessly past him. Fulfilling his instructions to the letter, Michiel hailed the child, and taking him by the shoulder, guided him in a fatherly manner towards the Palace. I breathed a sigh of relief-the first hurdle had been successfully crossed. Now it was all down to Malamocco’s dexterity, and my training.

I followed the pair at a distance, and watched them disappear into the fortress-like structure of the Doge’s Palace. Then I waited. And waited. When the Marangona struck twelve bells at noon, I began to sweat, fearing that something had gone wrong. After another hour had passed without a result, I was sure the scam had failed. For another hour I wandered Venice, until I found myself again at the church of San Gregorio. There, I sat in the cool interior praying. Under my breath, I cursed my ill luck, and the day I had talked myself into this conspiracy. I had a thousand questions. Why had Pasquale Valier passed up on the opportunity of a lifetime? Had he just hedged his bets, or was there a deeper side to his change of mind? I realized this latest act of mine was proving to be not that of a chancy rogue, but of a gullible simpleton. It had been plain boastfulness to even talk of rigging the future election for Venice’s doge. Why hadn’t I stuck to good, honest, sharp business deals. Look at me now-I was even resorting to prayer.

‘Lord, help me now. Only You know that I am doing it for the best of intentions. The case vecchie will never allow new blood into the ruling parties. And only You know how much Venice needs it. But if I am discovered, they will never forgive me for what I have done.’

Even as I spoke, I knew that God was unlikely to respond to the pleasing lies with which I usually beguiled my investors. So, when the response to my prayer came, it came not from God, but from a shadowy figure who had slipped into the ornate wooden pew behind me. From the odour of his bad breath, I knew it was the thief Alimpato. I half turned, but his hoarse voice stopped me.

‘No, don’t turn round. I don’t want to draw attention to us. Just tell me what you needed the boy for.’

‘As ballotino,’ I tried to explain in words of one syllable, not sure if the thief knew or cared much about politics. ‘Whoever is running the doge’s election, comes out of the Basilica, and selects the first boy in the street he comes across. And it’s that kid who pulls out a name from the voting jar. Into the jar the Forty-One have put a shortlist for doge. It was easy to guess the most likely names that would go on that list. So all I had to do was ensure one particular name from that shortlist was drawn. That name was the one I wagered all on. The boy had a slip of paper with that name on, and I taught him to palm the slip of paper, and appear to draw it from the jar. Easy.’

‘Hmmm. Not so easy, it would seem. Last I heard, the boy was being escorted to the prison, and the whole matter was being hushed up.’

I went cold, and a sick feeling spread in my guts. I felt afraid not only for myself, but mainly for poor Malamocco. No one ever emerged alive from the doge’s prison.

‘What happened?’

‘It’s difficult to tell. As I said, they are keeping the whole thing quiet. But someone must have ratted on you. I have heard that after the paper was drawn, they opened the jar, and still found the same number of slips inside.’

I marvelled at Alimpato’s intimate knowledge of the goings-on of a so-called secret meeting deep in the bowels of the Doge’s Palace. But maybe that is why he is as successful as he is. And I might have wished for some of his insider information myself. I begged him to tell me what had gone wrong. His next words were chilling.

‘Zuliani. You have been betrayed, and they know everything. But it is worse than that. Domenico Lazzari has been found murdered, and you are in the frame for it.’

Lazzari? What had I to do with his death, or his death with the rigged election? My brain could barely contain the flood of events.

‘They say Lazzari was part of the scam, Zuliani, and that you silenced him when the truth came out. Just to save your own skin.’ There was a rustling in the seat behind me, as if Alimpato was eager to put a very great distance between himself and me. And I couldn’t blame him. But first, he had a final warning. ‘It matters little now what has gone before. All is lost, and the Signori are on your trail. I suggest you get out while you still can. I know I am.’

So the flim-flam was blown apart like a powder barrel in the Arsenal shipyard, and the Signori di Notte, or ‘Gentlemen of the Night’, were hunting in broad daylight. I twisted round in my pew, but all I saw was the back of the cloaked shape of Alimpato disappearing down the central aisle, taking his own advice. I crossed myself in one last effort to get God on my side, and dashed out of the church into the bright sunlight of a clear Venetian afternoon. Hesitating for a moment in the church’s doorway, I considered my options.

My best hope of escape lay towards the marshy wastes to the north of the island republic. But I was trapped on the southern side of the Grand Canal, at the bottom of the reversed S-shaped loop of that wide, watery thoroughfare. The only foot crossing was the Rialto pontoon bridge in the middle of the loop. But that was too far away, and too risky to cross-the Signori di Notte police force would have men posted on it. Fortunately, there were also many random points at which the canal could be crossed. On ferry-boats.

I ran along the quay to the tip of the southern island, the Punta della Dogana. But even as I did so, I heard a cry from behind me.

‘Nicolo Zuliani-the game’s up.’

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the man who had called out was dark-browed, solemn and heavily bearded. It was Lorenzo Gradenigo. I knew him from childhood, and he had been a bully then. He strode towards me, as I searched for a way out. Almost upon me, he pointed at my dishevelled mantle with a stubby finger.

‘Look, the blood stain is still on you. Murderer.’

I remembered my drunken antics with the Dolfin sword, and how I had nicked myself. But this was not the time to protest that it was an old stain, and my own blood besides. I stuck my fist hard in Gradenigo’s face, and drew some fresh blood with which to stain my clothes. As he reeled back, clutching his squashed features, I dodged round him. Not far ahead, I saw the drab, dark uniforms of half a dozen Signori coming in pursuit, swords drawn and flashing in the sunlight.

‘The game’s not over yet,’ I muttered through gritted teeth, as I ran down the quay. There was no time to negotiate with any of the waiting boatmen. Their keen sense of a bargain would have ensured several minutes of debate before a price for crossing the canal could have been agreed on. And those were minutes I could not now spare. I was facing the imminent likelihood of capture and incarceration in the doge’s prison, from where I was unlikely ever to emerge. Except in a coffin.

Suddenly, I saw a large, flat barge being expertly steered out of the mouth of the Giudecca canal to my right.

‘Just in time, my friend.’

I put on a spurt as the boat wallowed past the end of the wooden quay along which I and my pursuers were running. Its prow pointed across the Bacino di San Marco towards the landing in front of the Doge’s Palace itself. Without pausing for thought, I sprinted to the end of the quay, and launched myself into space with a yell. ‘I hope you’re carrying something soft.’

I sailed through the air, and landed right in front of the startled boatman. It was indeed a soft landing. The barge was a rubbish carrier filled with the rotting remains of the leavings of rich men’s tables. And there were many rich men in Venice. I was sitting up to my waist in stinking vegetables and rotting fish bones.

Despite my predicament, I laughed uproariously at the frustration of my pursuers, who stood shaking their fists on the quayside. But even as I watched, Gradenigo split his crew into two groups. Some ran off along the quay in a desperate but doomed attempt to cut me off on foot, while the rest hurried down the steps to the water’s edge to hire a boat. I knew they would find someone ready to ferry them-every Venetian from the highest to the lowest has his price. Even for the hated Signori di Notte. But I had a start on them, and that was all I needed.

‘What’s to stop me just paddling in circles till they catch us up, maestro?’

The oarsman’s tone was wheedling and cunning, and the barge wallowed ominously. I saw that the boat containing my pursuers was already cutting through the waters of the basin at each stroke of the single oar, and sighed histrionically. I pulled my purse from my waist, and jingled the contents.

‘Name your price.’

The oarsman grinned, revealing a mouth devoid of anything but rotting stubs of teeth. I could smell his breath even above the stench of the offal on which I sprawled.

‘You must be desperate, not to bargain. Give me the lot.’

He held his hand out for my purse. Hesitating only for a moment, I dropped it into the grasping fist. In a flash it was stowed safely in the folds of the man’s filthy rags, and the refuse collector returned to plying his own oar with a will. As the landing at San Marco approached, I got ready to leap off, and disappear right under the doge’s nose into the narrow alleys beyond the Palace. Not least because my rescuer would be outraged to discover, when he opened the strings of my purse, that he had been caught out like Malamocco had by a few pennies and several rusty nail heads. After all, I had wagered all my money on the election.

The escape provided me with a moment of elation, and I dared to return briefly to my rooms in order to retrieve the sword. Especially as it looked as though I would need it now. I reckoned I could find some respite by lying low in my uncle’s palazzo for a while. Uncle Matteo was on the Dalmatian coast on business, so I would have the place to myself. The modest house backed on to the family church of San Zulian, and was as safe a place as I could find for the time being. But even as I drew breath, I knew I would have to go eventually. All the Zuliani family properties would be searched sooner or later. I began to wonder if exile wasn’t so bad an option, after all. The alternative-torture, and death in the doge’s dungeon-was unthinkable. The only problem was having to give up hopes of Caterina. It was for that reason alone that I went against my own better judgement.

I decided on trying to prove my innocence-at least of the murder of Domenico Lazzari. I thought that maybe, if I could achieve that, I could talk myself out of the accusation of vote-rigging. It was a long shot, but I had gambled on longer odds at dice and won. Though usually I gave blind chance a little helping hand in such circumstances. Now, as I couldn’t manufacture my own evidence, I would have to rely on uncovering the plain truth, uneasy as I found such a concept. Especially as my first action was to try and contact the thief Alimpato again. Despite my predicament, I laughed at the thought of my acting like a public prosecutor from the Council of Forty-one. The only problem was that I would have to operate in secret, and largely at night if I was not to get arrested myself, and brought before the Quarantia.

Fortunately, Venice is a doubly convoluted labyrinth, well designed for skulduggery and sneaking around in the dark. There is first the maze of streets, or calle, some of which cut under buildings. And interwoven with that is a second maze of canals, or rio. At various points you can step across from one to the other, bewildering anyone who is trying to follow you, especially if they are strangers, or only know their own district. I am perforce familiar with the whole of Venice and its underworld. Card-sharping often required hasty exits and obfuscated escape routes.

Like many houses in Venice, my uncle’s has a back door that opened into an alley barely as wide as a body. You never know when you might need to avoid your debtors. Now, even if the front of the house and the water entrance were under observation, no one would see me come and go. After dark, I slipped through this door, and down the narrow alley which also backed on to the church of San Zulian. With my sword belted to my waist, the passage was a tight fit. But it soon gave out on to a wider calle that ran down parallel to the Merceria towards a tiny rio. On the water at this junction bobbed a small flat boat with its pole jammed in the Venetian mud. It was my uncle’s boat. I jumped into it, and used the pole to manoeuvre it northwards towards a T-junction. There I turned east, and poled to an elbow where I followed the southern arm of the rio. As the boat snaked between the buildings on either side, the water plashed against their walls. But no one was made aware of my presence, as all the houses and workshops looked the other way out to the street. On the rio side, they were blind. I poled cautiously along, until I came across a building to my right which was heavily fortified. I was at the back of the Doge’s Palace, and incorporated in its lowest levels were the prison cells. My expectation was to find Malamocco languishing in one of these.

Despite his avowed intention to go to ground, Alimpato had not been too difficult to find. Especially when he knew I wanted to find out the location of the boy. It appeared Malamocco was still being held in the Doge’s Palace, while it was decided if a swift or a slow death was warranted in his case. I was grateful that the doge was still in a quandary over such a matter. It gave me time to effect a rescue. Alimpato suggested I was mad, when I had proposed it.

‘I knew you were a gambler. But not one to go against such long odds, Nick.’

Apart from Cat, Alimpato was the only person who used the English version of my name. The fact that previously only my mother had been the one to use it, and then only privately beyond my father’s earshot, tells you how precious it is to me. She was born in Salisbury in England, and said she never regretted marrying my father, despite the pain and suffering he caused her. Still, she is free of all that now, God rest her soul. I smiled sadly, and patted Alimpato on his skinny back.

‘Such long odds, and such a little reward.’ I sketched Malamocco’s height with my hand, barely raising my palm above my waist. ‘Such a small package, and yet such a big appetite.’

Alimpato laughed, knowing that I could do nothing else but take the risk. It was my fault that the boy’s short life would soon be ended otherwise. He would have expected nothing less of me. At least he gave me a fighting chance with a sort of plan.

‘I can speak to the gaoler-he is my cousin’s brother by marriage-and he will arrange for the boy to be in one of the rio-side cells. They are below water level, and are damp, stinking and full of rats, so are usually kept for the doge’s worst enemies. But for the boy it can be little worse than where he lived before his imprisonment. After that, it is down to you Nick.’

Which is why I was now slowly pulling myself and my boat along the stone walls of the doge’s prison, urgently calling into the barred windows that stood barely above water level.

‘Malamocco, are you there?’

At the first two windows, my call only elicited a rustling that may have been rats, or the shifting of the starved body of some long-incarcerated prisoner. At the third window I received a reply.

‘Who’s there?’ came the timorous reply. It was a boy’s voice, but one that from fear and hunger no longer sounded like that of the cocky Malamocco I had trained in sleight-of-hand.

‘It’s me-the card-sharp. I’m going to get you out.’

His eager face appeared at the bars, a little paler and a lot gaunter than when I had seen it last. But the gleam in his eyes told me the cockiness was not completely lost. I pushed my boat pole in the mud to secure the little barge in place, and drew my sword. The boy recoiled from the bars in horror.

‘Barratieri! What are you going to do? Cut me into little pieces so I can pass through the bars?’

‘Don’t be silly, or I will go away again.’

I pulled on a pair of stout leather gloves and held the sword in both hands by the sharp-edged blade, my right hand close to its tip. I apologized for the misuse I was going to make of such a fine weapon.

‘Forgive me, sword-maker, whoever you were, for mistreating your blade so,’

Then I began to dig at the crumbly stonework round one of the bars. The boat bobbed with my exertions, and because of that the effort proved more awkward and more difficult than I had hoped. But eventually the hole in the stone grew to a shallow groove, and then a deep furrow. Malamocco pushed at the bar, as I pulled, and with a groan that I feared may alert someone, it came free. The gap thus created was big enough for Malamocco to squeeze through. I just gave thanks that he had not put on more weight while eating at my expense. I sheathed the sword, swearing I would have the tip re-sharpened, and helped the boy down into the bottom of the flat barge. Where he lay shivering until we were back at my uncle’s house, and relative safety.

A few hours later, I was beginning to wish I had not rescued him. Once he had regained his spirits, he had only stopped talking long enough to stuff most of the contents of my uncle’s larder down his throat. Most of what he said was unlikely tales of his own bravado.

‘And do you know, Barratieri, I told them nothing. I insisted I did not know anyone called Lazzari, or Zuliani. As indeed I don’t, do I, Barratieri?’

At this point he either had his tongue firmly in his cheek, or he was still chewing on my uncle’s best smoked ham. I swiped at his tow-head, and he laughed. I knew his incarceration would have been terrifying, and allowed him his little show of braggadocio.

He babbled on. ‘Any more than you know a boy called Polo, eh? But what I did learn was the name of the man who denounced this Zuliani fellow to the Signori de Notte.’

My ears pricked up. If I was to start on the hunt for who killed Lazzari, I could best begin with the name of the person who had landed me in the shit. I half-expected the boy to say Pasquale Valier’s name. But he didn’t.

‘They thought I couldn’t hear. But once, when I was being questioned, I heard them whispering to each other. They spoke of a man called Sebenico.’

I could almost have stepped into Sebenico’s silversmithing workshop on the Merceria from my uncle’s front door. But that would have given him the opportunity to see me coming. So that night, I once again slipped out of the back door, and down to the boat moored on the local narrow rio. This time I steered the boat in the opposite direction to the previous night. This took me under the Merceria, and round the rear of some of the workshops and living quarters on that very street, including those of Sebenico. At one point a street crossed the water, near a sottoportego, or archway, running under the buildings. I quietly moored my boat at this subterranean passage, and stepped on to dry land. Above me and to the left side were the workshop and domestic quarters of Sebenico the silversmith. My denouncer. I still wasn’t sure if he himself was Lazzari’s killer. I knew only that Sebenico had been the most displeased with his return on the Syrian colleganza. Which must have been why he did what he did.

With so much valuable silver on his premises, I knew the doors would be stout and well-barred. But sometimes, the wood that formed the ceiling of a sottoportego was thin and rotten from damp. I climbed on to some barrels that had been discarded in the passage, and put my hand to the wooden beams above my head. Over me would be a corridor, or even a room in Sebenico’s apartments-I had no way of knowing. I listened for a while, but could hear nothing. It was a risk, but one worth taking.

Once more, I unsheathed my sword, and set it to another task for which it had not been designed. The creator of such a pure sword must now be turning in his grave at my abuse of his blade. I pushed the tip that I had scratched on the doge’s prison window arch in between two planks of wood, just where the length of timber ended, and twisted. I was fearful that the blade would snap with such abuse, but instead the wood creaked and one of the short lengths of timber gave way. Sliding the sword back in its sheath, I heaved upwards, pushing the plank out of the way. Sometimes I act without too much forethought, and this was one of those occasions. Having gained access to Sebenico’s home, I was not too certain as to my next move. I need not have worried.

No sooner had I pushed away the floorboard, than a startled face, illuminated by a tallow lamp, stared down at me. It was wall-eyed Sebenico himself, roused by my none-too-quiet breaking and entering. Well, I suppose it wasn’t really entering, because I didn’t get that far. All I did was grab the surprised silversmith by the loose folds of his nightgown, and pull him down head-first into the hole at his feet. Suspended virtually upside-down above my head, he was in no position to resist my swift and brutal interrogation.

‘Zuliani!’ he gasped, as his inverted features turned a bright shade of red. ‘I shall call the Signori, if you don’t release me immediately.’

‘I think you have done that already once before, Sebenico. As I am already on the run, I have nothing more to fear from that quarter. Squeal as much as you like, I shall be gone before they even know I have been here.’

I could hear his feet banging on the boards above my head, but my grasp was firm, and his struggles only served to make him more red-faced and dizzy.

‘So tell me, good sir, how you came to denounce me, and what you know about the death of Domenico Lazzari. Tell me now, or I might be tempted to draw my sword, and use your head for target practice.’

His mouth gaped in horror, and saliva dribbled from its corners, as he grappled with the realization I knew what he had done. I could almost see the fervid calculations going on in his head, as he calculated how much he had to divulge. I yanked again on his gown, and he squawked as his shoulders wedged firm in the jagged hole in his floor.

‘Ahhh! Let me go. Yes, yes, I denounced you for the murder of Lazzari. But that was not my idea. I merely wanted to find some misdemeanour to land you with. To make things hot for you, after you swindled us over the colleganza. We both did. But then he said we should stick you with a far more serious matter, and said as how you were already up to no good with Lazzari. So the Quarantia would believe it, if you were blamed for his death. He said as how it was likely you were responsible for it anyway, even if it could never be proved. So I would only be helping the truth along. I had heard nothing of Lazzari’s murder before he told me, I swear it.’

‘He, he? Who are you talking about?’

‘Old di Betto’s son, Lorenzo. It was his idea. All of it, I swear it was.’

I left Sebenico hanging upside-down in his own sottoportego, with the front of his nightgown stuffed in his mouth for good measure. It would not take him long to get free, but long enough for me to return to the barge, and pole myself into the night. But as I crossed under the Merceria, I heard the familiar cry of the Signori de Notte, baying in the darkness. Sebenico, it seemed, had been quicker than I had anticipated. I stopped the boat directly under the crude wooden bridge that spanned the rio, and crouched in the gloom. The sound of one man’s hurried footsteps echoed above my head, quickly joined by those of several others.

At first I thought that the Signori had merely converged on the bridge in their search for me. My heart pounded in my chest, and my fist tightened over the hilt of Caterina’s sword. Then I heard a strangely strangled cry, and a scuffling of feet. I kept as silent as I could for fear of discovery. The scuffle was oddly quiet, with only a grunt or two to suggest there was a fight for life going on above me at all. I had always imagined a fight to the death would have been more noisy, more dramatic. But when the end came, it came with nothing more than a curiously feeble gurgle.

As I was pressing with both my hands and shoulders on the underside of the bridge, in order to prevent my boat from drifting out from cover, my face was close to the edge of the timbers. Suddenly, a swarthy face appeared right before my eyes, but upside down like Sebenico’s had been. I gulped, thinking I had been discovered. But even as I looked back at him, the man’s eyes were emptying of life. Streams of blood poured from his nose and mouth and over his forehead. It mingled with his long, black curly hair, and dripped down on to the water’s surface, spreading out in pink circles. He gurgled once, and was dead. As his head swung lifelessly backwards and forwards, his face was so close that I could make out an old scar on his lower jaw, and a gold ring in his ear. Then it disappeared once more back above the bridge’s lip. The Signori were removing the evidence.

I listened for their footsteps fading into the distance, before I risked a glance over the edge of the bridge. All I could make out was a gang of men, dragging what appeared to be a large sack behind them. Even that vision soon converged with the shadows and the silence. It was as if nothing had happened, as if I had dreamed it. But I was sure I had made out the bulky shape of Lorenzo Gradenigo in their midst. My hands were trembling as I poled the boat back to its moorings, realizing the stranger’s fate could well have been my own, if I had been caught by Gradenigo.

However, it was another Lorenzo-Old Man di Betto’s son-who I needed to track down the next time that darkness allowed me to roam abroad. But first I had to get through the day, cooped up with a restless Malamocco for company.

‘Barratieri. Show us the dovetail shuffle again.’

I sighed, and took the boy through some of my classic card-sharp moves, starting with the dealer grip, and moving on to the dovetail shuffle-where you can keep track of a single card, as it’s no shuffle at all-and the classic force. Malamocco tried it himself, and laughed at his own dexterity. He was good, almost better than I was, and I mentally noted not to play any gambling games with him in the future. If either of us had a future, that is.

‘Who did you say the silversmith ratted on?’

I was getting into a gloomy trough of despondency again, so the boy’s question served to sharpen my wits somewhat.

‘I didn’t. His name is di Betto. Lorenzo di Betto. I conned some money out of his father, and though he got it back with interest, it was not half of what the son had expected. I suppose this is his way of getting his own back on me. Landing me in the sh…’

‘Lorenzo di Betto?’ The boy was now excited, and scattered the cards over the table.

‘Hey, that’s no way to fool your mark! Never show him the deck broken up. He might see the trick.’

‘What? Oh that doesn’t matter, now. That name-it’s the name of the witness. The one who said he saw Lazzari being killed. I should have told you before.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Master Alimpato came round last night, while you were out. He told me he had got his hands on the witness statement taken by the Quarantia. Read it and all.’

Now why did that not surprise me. I reckon Alimpato has a better spy system than the doge himself. So, he was able to read the doge’s private correspondence. I railed at Malamocco’s inability to pass on a simple message.

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘Because when you got back you went straight for the bottle,’ he grumbled sulkily. ‘And then you told me you didn’t want to be interrupted.’

He was right. I had been scared by the sight of what the Signori de Notte could do when they were let loose. But if Malamocco was going to be a sidekick of mine, he needed to know when to ignore an order.

‘So did Alimpato say what was in the papers?’

‘He said this di Betto bloke swears he could not be sure of the identity of the man who killed Lazzari, as it was dark. But he says he had red hair. And he described the sword in great detail. It was an old sword, he said, with a distinctive cross-dogs’ heads that looked as though they were baying. And it had some sort of inscription on the blade. He swore that he could see that as the blade was swung high in the moonlight. Before it did for Lazzari.’

I could see Malamocco’s eyes landing on my sheathed sword that lay at the other end of the table, taking in the down-turned dogs’ heads with their mouths wide open. Like mad dogs baying at the moon. He looked back at me with admiration in his eyes.

‘Did you really do it? Cor, I bet a sword like that would take a man’s head off. Was there lots of blood?’

I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and shook him.

‘Get it into your thick head, boy. I didn’t do it. I didn’t harm a hair on Domenico Lazzari’s head.’

Mentioning hair made me think again of the stranger who I had seen give up his life last night. The blood running down his oily hair, and dripping into the canal. His life’s blood washing away into the lagoon. And I wondered exactly how Lazzari had met his end. Maybe di Betto had seen him die, maybe not. Either way it looked like I needed to find him. Malamocco straightened his rumpled clothes, which were still the respectable ones I had clothed him in when he played the innocent ballotino.

‘OK. OK. Keep your hair on.’ He began to gather in the scattered cards. ‘I just wanted to know what it’s like. To kill a man.’

‘It’s evil, and it makes you feel sick. Even in war. So let’s hope you never have to do it.’ I tried to lighten the mood. ‘Far better to take them for all they’ve got, and leave them alive to pluck another time. Come on, show me you can do the dovetail shuffle properly.’

Later, I left Malamocco practising, and made for Old Man di Betto’s house. I had a rendezvous with his son, who it seems had persuaded Sebenico to denounce me, and had claimed to have witnessed the murder. My route involved crossing the Grand Canal, and as I didn’t want to risk being seen crossing by boat after curfew, I decided to venture out in the late afternoon on foot. I was in disguise however, having long ago laid my hands on the brown garb of a Franciscan friar. It had come in useful to escape irate gamblers out for my blood on more than one occasion. I had chosen it rather than the black of the Dominicans because it suited my complexion better. Besides, the Dominicans were building their church out in the marshy expanse on the eastern side of Venice. Not a very salubrious neighbourhood, and I had thought it unpropitious at the time. That choice helped me now, as the Franciscans’ pile of Frari was close to where the di Bettos lived. So it would be natural for a Franciscan to be making for that neck of the woods.

Crossing the floating bridge at the Rialto was a bit chancy, but as luck would have it, some merchant was arguing the toss about the toll he should be paying to cross. As he was being stiffed by the guardian of the bridge, I pulled my hood down and hurried across, making the sign of the cross for good measure. He even let me cross without charge, probably aiming to get double out of the unfortunate merchant. On the other side, I avoided the main streets, and detoured through some vegetable gardens, and a nasty muddy campo where several pigs were rooting for fodder. Not all was beauty and elegant architecture in Venice, even now.

Finally, after wiping the pig-shit off my boots on a couple of wooden piles jutting out from the side of a rio, I made it to where Old Man di Betto’s house stood. It was opposite the church of San Pantalon, inside which there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity. It was already dusk, and the light of scores of candles cast a yellow glow on to the beaten earth of the small square before the church doors. More strangely, the street door to di Betto’s house stood wide open. Venice isn’t such a safe place that you can leave your doors open, and expect your property to still be in place when you return. The unusual circumstances made me instantly cautious, and I just poked my head round the door. A female servant stood weeping at the foot of a spiral staircase. I pulled back, but she had spotted me already.

‘Oh, father. Have you come for the funeral ceremony? It’s in San Pantalon across the way. Your presence will be such a comfort to the master. Though he hardly knows what’s going on, actually…’

I laid my hand on the woman’s shoulder in what I hoped was a fatherly gesture, and expressed my sorrow at old di Betto’s death. Silently, I cursed my ill-luck. With the old man’s death so recent, it would make my inquisition of his son all the more difficult. The servant prattled on about the tragedy.

‘Yes, father, it is so cruel when a son precedes his parent to Heaven.’

‘A son…?’

‘Yes, father. Who would have thought little Lorenzo would die so soon?’

I quickly made the sign of the cross over the servant woman, and hurried across the street, and into the interior of San Pantalon. The groups of candles cast deep shadows in the arcades and recesses of the church, throwing the little huddle of people sitting below the altar into stark contrast. Before them, on trestles, lay a coffin, its interior open to view. I felt an urge to run across the tiled floor to see who was inside, but restrained myself enough to keep my pace down to an urgent trot. But soon I gathered pace, and a few heads were lifted in surprise, as I finally passed the mourners at a gallop to come to an abrupt stop at the coffin. I grasped the sides, and peered in at the sightless face that lay within.

‘Damnation.’

It wasn’t the old man. It was the son, Lorenzo di Betto. The man who had accused me of murder. It was the worst of all situations for me. His witness statement couldn’t be retracted now, and I had missed my chance to get the truth out of him.

‘Father? Why did you say he was damned?’

It was the quavering voice of Old Man di Betto. The poor bastard was confused at the best of times, so now was not the time to cast doubt on the integrity of his only son. I dipped my head down so he would not recognize me, and kept my voice low and spoke with a heavy Paduan accent.

‘I was damning the man who did this to your son. He was murdered, I presume?’

A heavy-set man with thinning white hair separated himself from the group, and grasping my arm, took me to one side. Lorenzo’s father remained standing by the coffin, his mouth hanging open. Saliva dripped down the front of his mantle, and incomprehension stood in his eyes.

The heavy-set man spoke. ‘I am Carlo di Betto, Lorenzo’s uncle. Come, it would be better if my older brother does not hear us.’

We walked side by side back down the nave of the church. In contrast to my arrival, the pace was now stately and solemn. After all, I had nowhere to go now. Carlo di Betto took a deep breath, and then explained what had happened, insofar as anyone could fathom.

‘It seems Lorenzo received a message two days ago that caused him a great deal of agitation. But he would tell no one what the content of it was. Nor can we now find the message anywhere. It must, however, have requested a rendezvous, because at some point that evening, Lorenzo left the house alone. We can only assume he didn’t ever come back, because his bed lay untouched the following morning. Then around midday yesterday, his body was brought to my brother’s door on a pallet. He had been strangled, and stabbed with a dagger. Whoever did this to him surely wanted to be sure he was dead.’

‘And does anyone know who did it?’

The man laughed bitterly. ‘That is obvious. If Lorenzo had not happened to witness the murder of Domenico Lazzari, he would still be alive today. And if my brother had not wasted his money on a stupid colleganza, Lorenzo might still be with us. No, father, it is obvious as the nose on your face who did it.’

I instinctively buried my face further in the folds of my hood, guessing what was coming next.

‘The man who killed my nephew was the man who swindled Lorenzo’s father. The same man who connived with, and then fell out with, Lazzari and murdered him. Nicolo Zuliani.’

Di Betto turned back to go inside the church, leaving me standing on the steps leading back down into the square. The door to di Betto’s house still yawned blankly open, and I could sense only darkness and sorrow inside. I felt the same emptiness in my heart. My final lead had been snuffed out like a votive candle.

At a loss as to what to do next, I hovered by the church doors, keeping to the shadows in case someone recognized me. It was lucky I did, because who should emerge from San Pantalon but a very familiar figure. Fish-faced Pasquale Valier. I couldn’t imagine that he was acquainted with Lorenzo di Betto, or anyone else in that family of merchants, so I was instantly curious as to why he was there. And it may have been the moonlight, shining down cold and silvery on the scene, but I could swear his face looked very pale and washed-out. There was also something furtive about his movements. Though I could hardly comment, lurking secretively as I was in the shadow of the church’s portico in the garb of a Franciscan.

As he scuttled past me, he muttered a plea for benediction. I bowed low to be sure he didn’t recognize me, and made the sign of the cross. I watched him cross the square, and go over the rio, before realizing he was going in the wrong direction for his father’s palazzo. On the spur of the moment, I decided to follow him. I had no other plan up my capacious Franciscan sleeve.

As we both passed the building site that was the Frari, he looked anxiously over his shoulder. So I turned left towards the steps of the half-finished building, and through the archway. Pausing for a few moments, I then abruptly turned back on myself. I peered round a rough-hewn column just in time to see Valier make for the imposing street doors of one of the fine palazzos whose water frontages lined the Grand Canal. Deciding my disguise was a hindrance now, I discarded the robe on a pile of stones, but still hung back in the shadows. I tried to figure out on whose door he was knocking, and it was quite a shock when I realized.

More used to seeing the palazzo from the canal side, it was only when the door was opened, and I heard a familiar broad accent, that I saw he was gaining admittance to Palazzo Dolfin. A million questions buzzed around my fevered brain. Had Caterina and her family returned unbeknownst to me? Had they ever been away? If neither, what business would Valier have with the lone servant left behind to look after the house?

I stood on the other side of the small square, and watched the passage of the servant and Valier as they ascended the staircase inside the palazzo. The shutters were still closed but, being old and worn, the candlelight spilled through each set of slats as they passed. The light finally stopped outside an upper room where the shutters stood open, though the room was in darkness. The servant’s light now illuminated a figure that had been standing looking out of the window. The silhouette resembled the shape of a woman, but one with a belly big with child. This had me puzzled for a moment, for I knew of no member of the Dolfin family who might be about to give birth. Then the figure turned her face towards the candlelight, and the people who had just entered her room. It was Caterina’s face. As I stood watching in confusion, she took a step towards Valier, and embraced him.

I had been tossing and turning in my bed for hours, when the next thing I knew Caterina Dolfin was leaning over me, stroking my brow.

‘Caterina! How did you get here?’

She didn’t reply, and I saw it was a changed Caterina. Her finely chiselled features were now slack and heavy, her cheeks distended, her hair hung down in lank ropes, and worst of all, as she rose from me, I could see that she was as distended as a ripe melon. Huge with child. I moaned and called out her name, reaching for her.

‘Caterina!’

But when I touched her grotesque belly, I could feel it pulsating underneath my palm. Her lips parted in a black-toothed grin then, with the coarsest of leers, she lifted her skirts. Her legs parted, and out from her belly marched a column of little replicas of Pasquale Valier, each with a little knife in its hand. They scrambled up my prostrate form as I tried to rise, killing me with pin-pricks. My leaden limbs would not respond to my commands, and I was unable to swat them off. They climbed over my face, and I couldn’t breathe. I was being smothered by an army of Valiers issuing from Caterina’s loins. I tried to call out but my frozen vocal cords refused to come out with more than a high-pitched squeal. It was a merciful release when death and darkness came.

I woke up to find myself fleeing from something unknown. But the faster I tried to run, the slower I went. I was wading through the mud of the great lagoon. And the clinging silt sucked at my legs making each step an inhuman effort. I was sinking deeper and deeper into mud as the sound of my pursuers rang out across the open expanse. Voices carried easily in the way they do at sea, the hunters sounding closer than they really were. I struggled, and yanked my legs out of the sucking mud, staggering on at last. I didn’t dare look back in case the Signori really were as close as they sounded. Then, when I did finally chance a look over my shoulder, I stumbled, and measured my length in the mud and rising waters. I floundered, and some unseen impediment-an ancient log, or fisherman’s rope-pinched my leg and held me fast.

I woke up. Tangled in something heavy and clinging. I panicked, called out, and tried to pull free. My thrashing only made my entanglement the worse, and soon I was exhausted, flopping weakly like some beached flatfish on the shore. Only I was not on the shore, but drowning in the middle of a muddy lagoon with the waters rising. My movements were getting slower and slower as some unspeakable pursuer gained ground with every step. Until finally I could feel hot, devilish breath on my neck. I didn’t dare look back, for I knew if I did, the demon would grasp me. I heard his voice.

‘Barratieri! It’s me, Malamocco. Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.’

I struggled to wake up, and realized I was wrapped in a hopeless tangle of bed-linen. The boy was sitting on my back, breathing down my neck, and trying to waken me.

‘Get off me, you little monster,’ I growled. ‘And go and get me some wine to drink. My mouth is like a Saracen’s armpit.’

‘No wonder. You drank as if the end of the world had come last night. I doubt there is any wine left in your uncle’s cellar.’

I held my head, which felt as though someone had exploded that new gunpowder stuff inside it.

‘It has. The end of the world, that is. My world anyway.’

I recalled the affectionate way that Caterina-the bitch-had stepped into Pasquale Valier’s embrace. It showed the child she bore was certainly his. Which meant she had been whoring with him while she had been with me. And I could now see what had happened to get me into the fix I was in. I had been right royally set up.

My thinking went this way. The murderer had been identified by the unique sword he had used. Who had given me that sword? Caterina Dolfin. Who knew I had that sword? Only Caterina and my drinking companions on that fateful night of the wager, amongst whom was Pasquale Valier. Who got me mixed up in the vote-rigging scam? Pasquale Valier. Who introduced me to Domenico Lazzari in the most public place possible? Pasquale Valier again. Who was rutting with Fish-face Valier? Caterina Dolfin. That was the fact that hurt most. Don’t get me wrong-I couldn’t have cared less if she was whoring with Valier; what hurt was that I had been outwitted and out-scammed by a woman. What’s that? You don’t believe me? At the time I didn’t care.

Defeated, I took the pitcher Malamocco offered me, and drank deeply before realizing what he had given me.

‘Yeeeugh. It’s water. Are you trying to poison me?’

The boy grinned as I spat it out. ‘No. Just trying to sober you up. Besides it’s the best rainwater collected off the roof. Fresh as…fresh as…’

‘Fresh as your sweaty crotch, you urchin. You would do better to use this…’ I threw the pitcher, and the rest of its contents, at Malamocco. ‘…to wash yourself in.’

He dodged, and the pitcher shattered on the stone floor, splashing water over his bare feet. He yelled in horror, and sat down on the floor, wiping his feet on the shabby sleeve of the mantle I had provided for him. But he had made his point. I had wasted precious time in getting drunk last night, and sleeping most of today away also. What I should have been getting on with was finding Valier. And if I couldn’t have the truth from him, I would at least have vengeance.

The trouble was, Pasquale Valier was nowhere to be found. Close to curfew, and in the shadows of dusk, I had sneaked around most of his usual haunts. Where I couldn’t show my face for fear of being identified, I sent Malamocco to enquire on my behalf. No one had seen Valier for almost three days. His brief excursion to Lorenzo di Betto’s funeral must have been the only occasion he had shown his face in public in all that time. Although I had been putting it off, I knew I would eventually have to try at the Palazzo Dolfin.

Having dragged my feet as long as I could, I finally stood in the same doorway from where I had seen Caterina in Valier’s embrace. This time, the window she had been looking out of was firmly shuttered, and the house showed even fewer signs of life than before. I sensed Malamocco fidgeting at my side, but still I couldn’t stir myself. Finally he spoke.

‘Shall I knock?’

‘No, boy. There is no point-there’s no one there I want to talk to.’

We slipped away into the darkness, and went where I should have gone to start with-Valier’s family home. If he was hiding anywhere, it had to be behind the back of his father. The problem was, how was I going to flush him out? The squat palazzo had the appearance of a fortified castle, quite unlike the red-brick elegance of the Palazzo Dolfin. It stood on the corner of the Grand Canal and one of the rios running off it. Thus on two sides it was virtually moated, and the water entrance looked as forbidding as the gateway to the Arsenal. It was only the fact that lights burned behind the shutters of the upper windows that confirmed for me that someone was in residence.

Malamocco sighed. ‘Jeez. Something’s really spooked this Valier, eh?’

‘Spooked? What sort of talk is that?’

Malamocco snorted, and carefully explained what it meant in the gutter language he shared with his fellow beggars and thieves. It was almost like a foreign tongue. I liked the sound of it, and decided I would have to learn some of it too.

‘Yes, he has been…spooked. So we must winkle him out somehow.’

‘Leave it to me, boss. Wait here.’

So saying, the boy disappeared round the corner of the building at top speed. Curious, I didn’t wait, but followed. When I turned the corner, he was nowhere to be seen. Until I felt something pattering down on my head from above. I looked up, and there was the rear end of Malamocco wriggling into an open upper window that I had hardly noticed on our reconnoitre of the place. I wanted to shout after him to take care, but I didn’t want to rouse the occupants of the house to his presence either.

Malamocco, on the other hand, obviously did. I was suddenly aware of a crash of furniture and a great cry of indignation, followed by the thump of running feet. Two pairs, one lighter-footed than the other. The front door burst open, and the small figure of Malamocco appeared, a purse clutched in his hand. He was hotly pursued by a red-faced Pasquale Valier whose purse he had clearly lifted right from under his nose. As the boy shot past me, I whipped my sword from its sheath, and used it to trip the unwary Valier. He sprawled at my feet, staring fearfully at the tip of the sword blade poking at his gut.

His cries were piteous as he grovelled in the dust, near pissing himself. ‘Oh, no. Please. Don’t kill me, don’t kill me.’

Then he looked up, and saw who it was wielding the sword. ‘Zuliani! What are you doing here?’

He cringed down on the beaten earth. If I hadn’t been so angry and jealous, I would have felt sorry for him. Something, or someone, had scared him stiff. As Malamocco would say, he was well and truly spooked. I pulled him up by his arm, and pushed him inside before he could protest any more. Malamocco followed me in, slamming the door behind him. He smirked, and dropped the purse into the astonished Valier’s palm.

‘Don’t think I couldn’t lift it without you knowing, pal. Ask Barratieri here. I done it to him.’

‘Barra…? Card-sharp?’

‘Never mind that, Pasquale. I’m not here to murder you, much as everyone seems to think otherwise.’ I slid the sword back in its sheath. ‘Just to talk.’

If anything, Valier looked even sicker at the idea of talking to me than he had at the imminence of death. An elderly servant scuttled into the hallway from the rear of the house, enquiring if his master was all right.

‘Yes, yes, Pietro. Make yourself useful, and bring some wine.’

The servant hurried away, returning with a pitcher full of good red Malvasia. He poured two goblets, studiously avoiding Malamocco’s outstretched hand. Valier seemed to be recovering his equanimity a little, but when he lifted the goblet of wine to his lips, I could see that his hand still trembled. Even though I felt like skewering him on the end of my sword, I wanted to know why he had done what he had done to get me accused of murder. And to find out if he knew who was actually guilty of the deed. He was my last chance of proving my innocence. The trouble was, Valier was less scared of me than someone else, it seemed.

When I asked why he had set me up, he shook all over, setting the goblet of wine down on the table before he spilled it. ‘Don’t ask, Nicolo. Please don’t get me involved. I just did what I was asked.’

‘And what was that? Who asked you?’

‘They approached me through my father. He would do anything to stay in with those in power. He asked me to find someone a bit…well, dodgy…and wager that he couldn’t rig the election for doge. I thought of you immediately.’

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or outraged, but told him to go on.

‘That’s all, really. Well, I was to introduce you to Lazzari also. That was part of it. I just thought they wanted to embroil Lazzari in a disreputable deal that would spoil his reputation. I didn’t know he would end up dead.’

His eyes widened, staring at the sword that hung at my waist still. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘You know I didn’t.’

He frowned, and that puzzled me. If he and Caterina had set me up by giving me the sword that was then identified as the murder weapon, why was he asking me if I was the murderer? Surely he knew I wasn’t.

‘You and Caterina set me up. Who was it really killed Lazzari?’

‘Caterina? The Dolfin girl? Have you not spoken to her? She sent for me yesterday to find out where you were. Though why she should want to ask me, I have no idea. Anyway, I said I couldn’t help, as you had gone to ground after the murder. Probably had already fled Venice.’ He frowned. ‘What has she got to do with the fix? I don’t follow. And as for who killed Lazzari, I think it was the same man killed di Betto.’

As he spoke, Valier went ghostly pale, and stared over his shoulder, as though scared someone might be eavesdropping. He leaned forward, and clutched at the sleeve of my mantle.

‘Forget I said that, Zuliani, and get away. Just go.’

I grabbed his wrist, and twisted it hard. ‘Why should I? Who killed di Betto? Did you witness it? You did, didn’t you?’

Valier jerked away from me, and vomited the wine in a thin, red spurt over the floor. He groaned, and wiped his mouth.

‘Yes, yes. OK, I wanted to be sure it was you killed Lazzari. Idle curiosity, really. Besides, the murder weapon would have been mine, if you had lost the wager. It would have been really something to have owned the sword that killed Domenico Lazzari. I wanted di Betto to tell me what he had seen. So I went to St Pantalon, and observed the family in prayer. When one of the congregation pointed out Lorenzo di Betto to me, I knew I had seen him before. At the swordsmith’s who engraved the inscription on your blade. He had been there when I picked up the sword. As I observed him in the church, he was passed a message. It seemed to agitate him, and he ran from the church. I followed him out of…’

‘Idle curiosity,’ I proferred, and he nodded.

‘God, I wish I hadn’t.’

Valier paused, wiped his mouth again, and reached for his wine goblet. Malamocco filled it for him, and he drank deeply. ‘If only I hadn’t seen what I did, I wouldn’t be scared to set foot outside the door.’

It seems that Valier followed Lorenzo di Betto into the gathering dusk of a Venetian evening. Mist was beginning to roll in from the lagoon, seeking its way like sensuously pliable fingers down the maze of canals. Di Betto’s route was circuitous, but eventually came out at a dead end on the southern side of the Grand Canal opposite the Chiesa degli Scalzi. Here Valier thought he would be defeated in his pursuit of di Betto, for a ferryman holding a lantern stood waiting in a small boat. Di Betto got aboard, and was ferried across the broad waters of the canal. On the far bank, a tall, swarthy man appeared out of the shadow of the church. He strode forward, and despite di Betto appearing to be reluctant to step ashore, the man grabbed his arm and pulled him up on to the bank. Valier watched by the light of the lantern as the person di Betto was meeting apparently punched him in the chest. It was only when he pulled his fist back that Valier realized the man had stabbed him.

The ferryman turned his head, ignoring di Betto’s cries of alarm, and poled rapidly away into the mist. So it was that Valier stood helplessly on the wrong bank as Lorenzo di Betto, already bleeding to death, had a cord pulled tight around his throat to finish him off. He could only watch as the life ebbed out of the unfortunate di Betto. Foolishly, Valier then cried out, and the assassin looked up, peering coldly across the stretch of water.

‘My life was only saved by the fact the ferryman had left,’ muttered Valier, a shudder running through his entire body. He reached for the goblet again. I was beginning to feel very uneasy.

‘You say you saw di Betto’s attacker clearly by the light of the ferryman’s lantern. Describe him for me.’

Valier stared into the far distance as he spoke, conjuring up the terrifying features again. ‘He had long, black curly hair, and dark skin like a Dalmatian pirate. I think there was some mark on his face, near his jaw. Like a scar or something. And he had a gold ring in his ear. I saw it sparkle in the light from the lamp.’

I sighed deeply. ‘I don’t think you need to worry about encountering your assassin friend again. As long as he told no one about you seeing him kill di Betto-and I think his pride in his work probably meant he didn’t-you are off the hook. He is no longer alive to hound you down.’

I explained to the wide-eyed Valier how I had been trapped under a bridge when the man he described had been murdered by a band of men I knew were the Signori de Notte. I left Valier to drown in his goblet, weak with relief that his life had been given back to him. But I was not so lucky. This was not sounding good to me. And I slunk back through the maze of streets, the fingers of mist curling round my soul, chilling it to the marrow. Malamocco followed in silence, and I think he had come to the same conclusion that I had.

It had been a set-up just as I had surmised. But it wasn’t Valier and Caterina who had engineered it. And poor Lorenzo di Betto had been no more than a pawn that had been sacrificed in a much murkier power play. He had been persuaded, maybe with the lure of preferment for his family, to bear false witness against me. And then silenced by the same assassin who had no doubt killed Domenico Lazzari in the first place. Next, the assassin himself had been despatched to close the loop. Except there was still a loose end-apart from myself-and that was Lorenzo Gradenigo.

It was an easy matter to draw out Gradenigo-all I had to do was send a message anonymously disclosing my whereabouts. Malamocco said I was mad, and maybe I was. But I had to know why this disaster had happened to me just when things had been looking up. So I sent the message, and prepared myself to face the Signori di Notte. I persuaded Malamocco that he had no place in this final confrontation, sending him away with a purse fuller than he might have ever hoped to steal. I have to admit I was a little disappointed when he didn’t put up a fight. But I had also given him a document I wanted him to deliver to the offices of the Quarantia judges, stressing its urgency and importance.

After he had left, I had the house to myself for a while, and felt strangely calm. I put on my best clothes, bought with the proceeds of my colleganza, and only a little stained. Then set the sugar-loaf hat jauntily on my head, with the brim turned up. The Dolfin sword was comfortingly heavy at my waist. It may have got me into all this trouble, but I trusted it still to do its job.

When the hammering came at my uncle’s door, I took my position at the top of the stairs, and called down. ‘The door is unbarred, Gradenigo.’

The big, burly figure of the chief of the Signori barrelled through the door, slamming each leaf back against the wall. He looked up, and his red lips curled into a sneer amidst the thick bush of his dense, black beard. I was pleased to see that his nose was still misaligned after our last encounter.

‘Well, well. I might have known you would be prepared for me, Zuliani. Are you going to come peaceably?’

‘And die with a dagger in my back like the Dalmatian assassin?’

Gradenigo’s piggy eyes screwed up even smaller than usual, as he assessed how much I knew of his business. I decided to play a few cards.

‘Yes, I know all about him, and about di Betto too. How he perjured himself to put the fix in on me. And died for it afterwards. Was my rigging of the election so important that these men had to die?’

Gradenigo had been sidling towards the bottom of the staircase, as I held my ground. However my last statement stopped him in his tracks. His lips curled again, and a deep rumble emanated from the depths of his chest. Disconcertingly, he was laughing.

‘Do you really think you are that important, Zuliani? Don’t kid yourself. You were just a tool, easily used up and discarded. You were there to enmesh Lazzari in a scandal, and so explain away his murder. Neither you, nor di Betto, nor the assassin mattered one jot.’

My heart sank. It was what I had feared all along. And while I might have flattered myself by imagining all the intrigue was aimed at my demise, deep down I had guessed it was all about Domenico Lazzari. He had made enemies in high places. Particularly with the man who fancied himself as the next doge-Girolamo Fanesi. So the intrigue all came back to Fanesi, and I had no chance of proving my innocence against such a high-level conspiracy. And that was why I had sent Malamocco to the judges with a document faked to make it look like it had been Fanesi who had bribed me to get his name pulled out of the electoral jar courtesy of the tricksy Malamocco. He would deny it of course, but mud sticks-especially Venetian mud-and he would never be doge now. It was the best revenge I could expect out of a hopeless situation.

Gradenigo was beginning to ascend the stairs, and I finally backed off, having got him to confirm what I had guessed. I was about to sneak down the secret rear stairs, when a slender hand grabbed my arm, and pulled me into my uncle’s bed-chamber. At first I thought it was Caterina, and wondered how she had got there. And how I was going to get her out of this fix. But then I saw it was the boy, Malamocco.

‘You idiot! What are you doing here?’

‘Saving your hide, Barratieri.’ Hearing the sound of heavy boots coming up the marble staircase, Malamocco slipped the wooden bolt across the bedroom door, and leaned against it. I grabbed his shoulders, and shook him.

‘You didn’t think I was planning to die nobly and unnecessarily, do you? Where’s the profit in that? I had my escape route all worked out, and you’ve gone and spoiled it, you brat. Now what am I going to do?’

His face went pale as a nun’s wimple, as his eyes roamed the trap he had created for us both. ‘You could jump out the window into the canal.’

I leaped over to the window, and looked out.

‘Are you mad? It’s more mud than water.’

‘Then it’ll be a soft landing. Especially if you land headfirst. Anyway, I had to come back.’

‘Eh? Why?’

‘Because the lady told me to.’

‘What lady?’

‘The one who’s been trying to speak to you, and was waiting in the calle when I left here.’

‘Caterina?’

‘That’s her. She says…’ he hesitated, obviously embarrassed by the sentimental nature of the message he had been asked to deliver, ‘she says she will wait for you, and will look after your child.’

The truth hit me like a mailed fist in my stomach. I groaned at my stupidity, at my crass lack of sensitivity, at my suspicious nature, and finally at my bad luck.

‘I think we should…’

Before I could reply, the door burst partway inwards, straining the wooden bar and throwing Malamocco to the floor. The metal end of a pike had been thrust through the gap. Had it wounded the boy? Was that blood on his mantle? Impetuously, I drew my blade, and without thinking, lunged towards the gap between the double doors.

‘Boss! No!’

Malamocco’s cry was in vain as I blindly thrust my sword through the gap. There was a cry of pain from the other side, and the pike end was withdrawn. The gap closed, almost holding my sword fast between the leaves of the door. I yanked it back, the blade smeared with blood.

‘Let’s go,’ yelled an uninjured Malamocco.

I pushed the boy on to the window sill, and he dropped into the darkness of the canal below. I clambered up myself, and looked down. It was a long way, and I am scared of heights. I heard the door bursting open behind me. I jumped.

‘Oooooooooo…’

The landing was uncomfortable but soft. Malamocco’s urgent gestures drew me towards the opposite bank. I told him I was OK, and that he should save himself now. That we would do better to split up. Reluctantly, he took my advice, and slunk off into the dark and back to his own world. I heard the angry voices of the men on the balcony. One, that I recognized as the bearded Gradenigo, gave a cry of frustration that chilled me to the heart.

‘Murdering bastard. You killed him. You won’t escape.’

I waded along the canal until I was out of sight, dragging my boots out of the sticky mud with ever more exhausted steps. After a while I saw a tiny quay that allowed me to clamber out of the icy waters, and continue my escape on dry land. I was surprised at my own exhaustion, and could barely drag myself over the wooden pilings on to the stone quay. I knew exactly where I was-east of the Grand Canal, and south of SS Apostoli church, and just a few hundred yards from the quay on the north side of Venice that looked towards the scattering of islands around Murano and freedom.

I trudged along the narrow alleys, leaving a trail of murky footprints behind me. I had eluded those chasing me, and my tracks now didn’t matter. The day had not turned out as I had expected, but at least I had stuck it to Fanesi, and escaped with my life. One day I would come back for the sweet, foxy Caterina Dolfin. I should now say, the matronly Caterina, and our child. It was best I was not around as he grew up. After all, I was not only a conspirator against the state, but now a murderer for real, it seemed. What had Ranulf de Cerne’s sword made me do?

The sword’s weight is carrying it in a perfect arc. I am ready to release it. Then I have second thoughts. A sword is just a weapon, so how can I blame this one for what has happened to me? Some like to imbue a blade with a personality-consider even that its maker’s own life is somehow hammered and moulded into it. Or that its owners have shaped its destiny by virtue of the way their own lives have played out. But take it from me, it’s just a lump of metal without a life of its own. And yet a very pretty lump of metal with an intrinsic value to the right person.

Standing waist-deep in water, and covered in the stinking mud of Venice’s lagoon, I should not have been able to see the positive side of things. But I am a Venetian, after all. Well, half Venetian and half stubborn Englishman. A combination that guarantees I see the possibilities of every situation. Here I am-destitute, half-drowned and being hunted for murder-throwing my only asset into the sea. Well, that is if you don’t count my considerable talent at making money. But then, only money makes money, and I realize I can sell the sword for a goodly sum. There are plenty of Crusaders and Templars passing through this region on the way to Castle Pilgrim to fight Baybars and his Mameluk army. Most of them have more money than common sense, and I can market the sword as a ‘veteran’ of the Fourth Crusade. Why throw away money?

The weight of the blade is still carrying it to the apex of its arc, as these feverish thoughts run through my brain. I strive to prevent the silver-wired hilt from slipping through my fingers. But my hands are numbed by the cold waters of the lagoon, and it slides free. I yell in frustration as the big disc of the pommel skids over my palm, and I try to clamp down on it with my other hand. I almost have it, but finally, it slips through, and the sword sails free. But, thank God, I have slowed its momentum, and I watch it land with a splash only a few yards ahead of me. I flounder through the turbid waters, plunging my hands blindly into them, and begin to grovel in the bubbling, stinking mud…

HISTORICAL NOTE

Historians will know that no such election took place in 1262, and that Renier Zeno was doge until 1268. But then no one in authority would have liked it known that the voting system could be so easily suborned, and no record of such an abortive election would have been kept. Suffice it to say that the voting system was made extraordinarily complex in 1268, though the system of choosing a child randomly to act as ballotino was used.