“What’s that from?”
“ Hermes Trismegistus.” Gathering up his book and the candle, he hobbled towards the fireplace.
“And what does it mean?” I demanded, contorting myself to bandage my calf in the dark without bending my knee.
“It means that the procurator was murdered and I know who did it and how.”
The old scoundrel refused to say more. I should not have made fun of his contempt for Hermes. He was allowed to insult the book; I wasn’t. He did not ask me to report on my afternoon, which was a bad sign. I went to my room to freshen up.
When I came out, I was accosted by the terrible twosome. They exchanged conspiratorial glances.
“You had a good day, I hear.”
“Our lips are sealed,” Corrado said.
“We are sworn to secrecy,” Christoforo explained.
Pause. Christoforo said, “Alfeo? How much do you need to…How much do the, er…”
“Next door…If a man wants…”
“Not old…”
They were both bright red by this time. I sighed. “That depends.”
“Depends on what?” they asked together.
“On how fussy you are. And whether you want the French pox or not. Let me talk with a friend of mine and I’ll advise you.”
They agreed to that with relief. I went in search of Giorgio and found him alone, or almost so, for he was in his bedroom, bent over double so Matteo could hold his fingers in a walking lesson. Matteo would not repeat what we discussed, because he spoke no better than he walked.
“You should have taken my bet,” I said. “The Maestro had a brainstorm.”
He looked at me in alarm. “How much?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t, because they might have retained some of the expense money as well as their wages. “They obviously think they have enough to buy serious trouble. If you like, I can arrange it so they won’t come to real harm.”
No father enjoys hearing that his authority is being flouted. Giorgio turned bright red. He began with, “I’ll whip their backsides raw,” progressed through, “I give them ample pocket money!” and finished with, “We need that money to buy their clothes!” and talk of hellfire. I countered with French pox and similar arguments. In the end his fatherly pride won out. He agreed that this was Venice, after all, and he had been not much older than them when, and some of their brothers…He sighed and told me to take care of it, as long as I swore not to tell Mama.
The Maestro was still in the red velvet chair, reading. He ignored me completely, so I knew he was planning something I was not going to like, and I had a strong hunch what it would be. I wrote a note to Alessa, asking that the two bearers be given quality treatment and promising I would be good for the balance of the fee, if any. I sealed it and took it out to them.
Corrado turned pale and Christoforo bright red.
“Now?” Corrado said. “Right now?”
“You’d rather wait until they’re busy and want you to hurry?”
Grabbing my letter, Corrado vanished down the stairs with his brother in hot pursuit. This was Venice.
They missed a magnificent supper. Mama’s Lombardy quail with baby calamari is always divine, and that night she excelled herself.
The Maestro brought Hermes with him and propped it up on the table. He paid far more attention to the book than he did to his food, grumbling angrily over every page and ignoring me. I was happy enough to savor the meal and dream of the wonderful gift I would buy for Violetta when I had sold the Euripides manuscript. Rubies, I decided.
The moment I wiped my plate with a last crust and leaned back, sighing contentedly, the Maestro slammed his book shut.
“Bring a glass of water with you.”
My fears were confirmed. “I’ll carry Hermes,” I said. He had enough trouble managing his staff.
He hurried off back to the atelier like a little black ant and went straight to the crystal ball on its stand, whipping away the cover. Then he adjusted himself on his chair, laid his staff on the floor beside him, and rubbed his hands expectantly. He enjoys a soothsaying as much as I detest it.
I laid the Hermes on the desk and the glass of water beside the crystal. “This really isn’t necessary,” I complained. “I can tell you everything you want to know without this.”
“What color are the drapes in Attorney Imer’s office?”
“I don’t think there are any drapes. Why-”
“But you don’t know!” he said triumphantly. “Next time I ask, you will tell me exactly. You will tell me whatever I want to know. There’s too much light. Bank the fire. And lock the door so we won’t be disturbed.”
I laid fresh logs over the embers. I locked the door and extinguished all the lights except one candle. I cannot put myself into a trance deep enough to see the future in the crystal, as the Maestro can. That is clairvoyance. Soothsaying is speaking truth, and for that he puts me into the trance. It gives me perfect recall, so that I can recount conversations verbatim and describe everything I have seen. What I hate is that I remember nothing of what he asks or what I tell him. I lose an hour of my life, and for all I know he pries into all sorts of personal details that do not concern him.
“I thought you said you had solved the mystery?” I was moving as slowly as I dared.
“I have. I knew the answer last night, but I need evidence that will convince the Ten. Tomorrow you will take a letter to the Lion’s Mouth announcing that I have the solution. Come and sit down!”
I sat opposite him. He moved the candle so the crystal glowed with fire for me. I stared into the sun, burning gold in the utter dark of space.
“You have had a hard day. You are tired. You are sleepy.”
That was true, I was.
“Recite the twelve gates to alchemy, according to the learned Ripley.”
“Calcination, solution, separation, conjunction, putrefaction, congelation, cibation, sublimation, fermentation, exaltation, multiplication, and projection.”
“And backwards?”
“Projection, multiplication…exaltation…”
I was gone.
18
G iorgio rowed me to the Molo before dawn. Fog lay on the city like wet cement, muffling even the halfhearted slap of ripples. As we tied up, the Marangona bell boomed out to sound the start of the working day. It sounded right overhead, but I could barely even see my own feet in the murk, let alone the bell tower. I climbed out onto the Piazzetta, accelerated by a neck-cracking heave from Bruno, behind me. He had no idea why I needed him along, but he found this fumbling around in the dark great fun. In a moment he was up beside me. Because I had left my sword in the gondola and had not asked him to bring his flatiron, he had no worries.
I did. “I hope I won’t be long,” I told Giorgio.
“I can wait,” he said. “It’s what I do best.”
“You make babies best.”
“Mama does that. It’s nothing to do with me.”
I beckoned to my giant and set off along the loggia they call the broglia. This is the part of the Piazzetta where noblemen meet and do their plotting before the Great Council meets. It is where votes are bought and sold, deals made, offices traded. It is where every young noble must wait anxiously on his first appearance until he is beckoned in to be introduced and suitably bribed to deliver his vote. I had never seriously considered ever being one of them, but if I had Senator Tirali-who by then would be former Ambassador Tirali-as my patron, then anything would be possible.
There had been a change of plan. Until the soothsaying the Maestro had intended to have me deliver a letter to the Lion’s Mouth, but in my trance I had told him of the doge’s command to report to Raffaino Sciara, so that was what I was going to do. My problem would be finding him. Circospetto, like Missier Grande, keeps no regular hours. He attends the Senate and the Council of Ten, which meet in the afternoons and evenings respectively. He had come to the Ca’ Barbolano in the middle of the night. It seemed very unlikely he would be available at dawn. Even he must sleep sometimes, so I would probably have to make an appointment to see him and return later.