Burdens of the Dead Page 23

  In the passage he saw the child again, and her…nursemaid? The woman seemed a little more than that; there was something about her that called to mind the gently-reared. Francisco looked at her face, trying to think where he’d seen her before. Ah. That was it. In much poorer clothes, and at a second-hand shop down in Cannaregio. With the fellow, Poulo, who had said that if he had any problems he should go to the Villa Parvitto. Odd…

  * * *

  It wasn’t a gondola waiting, but one of the Schiopettieri’s fast little skiffs with six oars to the side. And the men rowed as hard as they could. Plainly this wasn’t just that the Doge needed him for something, but that it was a disaster, and whatever the disaster was, it was urgent. Marco wanted to ask, but knew better than to do so. The rowers might well—by the way the Council of Ten and Petro worked—not have been told. Rumor could affect the safety of Venice and the value of trade, all too easily.

  They cut through the cold, greasy water and the drifting fog as fast as a shark; other boats cleared out of their way. Marco didn’t even have time to get chilled, they were moving so fast.

  They went to the side entry of the Palazzo Ducale, to the water-door. Marco was greeted by a waiting captain of the Swiss guard, and rushed upstairs to Petro’s chambers, his apprehension growing with every step. The palace was too quiet. He sensed hysteria under the quiet, waiting to break out at any time.

  The moment he got inside the door of the Doge’s bedchamber, Marco could see why he’d been called. Petro Dorma was as pale as his bed-linen.

  “Marco,” he said weakly. “Stop these idiots from bleeding me. My heart. Like my father…”

  His hand, when Marco took it to take his pulse, was cold and trembling slightly. The pulse was racing.

  Within Marco Valdosta, the Lion stirred. Was this an attack by magic? It had no feeling of that. Yet the Lion was aroused. “When did this start?” he asked

  “About twenty minutes back, M’Lord,” said the Swiss guard captain, pointing to one of the late Doge Foscari’s ornate time pieces.

  And that would have made it perhaps three quarters of an hour from lunch. The Lion was roused, and the Doge had been healthy before lunch. This was no ailing heart. Marco grabbed the silver bleeding bowl, opened his bag and hauled out a bottle. “You are going to drink this, and you are going to vomit.” He had read of symptoms like this in one of the Arab texts, and he was sure he was right.

  “What is it?” said Petro weakly, pushing it away. “I feel sick already and my mouth is full of saliva.”

  “Salt-water and mustard-water, together. Drink it now. You have been poisoned and we need to get it out of you while there is still time.”

  There was a gasp of horror from those there, but Petro let Marco help him to drink the mixture. And then he was sick as Marco held his head.

  Marco turned to the captain. “I need one Francisco of Genoa. He may be found at his chambers above the Sotoportego Marciano in San Polo. And tell him to bring his Ibn Sina. And keep this bowl. See no one touches it.”

  “Aben Sinner?” the captain puzzled out.

  “He’ll know. It’s a medical book. As fast as possible.” He gestured abruptly. “Go, man!” The captain ran for the water-door.

  Marco looked about at those filling the Doge’s chamber. With a man as important as Petro Dorma, not even illness was private. He was not surprised to see two of the Council of Ten there, sans masks. He knew full well who they were, even though officially he was not supposed to. “We will need to check, with speed, on the taster, and the cooks and anyone else who could have handled his food and drink.”

  Lord Calmi nodded. “How bad is it, Marco Valdosta?”

  Marco looked at the Doge, pale, lying back exhausted on his pillows. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think…get Patriarch Michael too.”

  “Am I dying?” asked Petro weakly.

  “I’m going to do my best to stop that from happening,” said Marco, taking his pulse. It was slightly improved, he thought.

  “Then why are you calling a priest?” He must be getting better. He sounded irritated.

  “Because you can always use a few prayers,” Marco told him. “And you are the Doge. He is the Patriarch of Venice. He needs to know what has happened to you, and if possible, how. You were poisoned despite all your precautions. That is not a good thing.”

  The Doge nodded weakly. “Do your best, Marco. I’m not really ready to die yet.”

  Marco did his best to look competent, confident, and reassuring, though he was not himself certain of any of the three. “I will, Petro Dorma.”

  “If we bleed him we could drain off the toxic humors,” said the physician whose bowl Marco had used, waving his cupping-tools.

  Toxic humors indeed! “OUT—NOW!” Marco roared. It was a true roar, and it was unmistakable. Someone threatened the peace of the Lion’s lagoon, and the Lion was in a mood to tear into something. The physicians fled. The Council stayed.

  Very soon after that Marco had to roar at the rest of the Council of Ten. “The Doge is still very much alive. I intend to keep him that way. Go and find out who did this.”

  “We have the cooks, baker, servitors, taster,” said Lord Calmi, not moving. “Schiopetteiri have gone to the fish-market, and to the vegetable sellers. But three people dined with him—I was one of them. We had some antipasto, bread, St. Peter’s fish, peas, and preserved artichokes, and a simple mascarpone cream. Nothing exotic. I am not ill and neither is anyone else. Are you sure, Marco Valdosta?”

  “Have your rat-catcher catch some rats,” said Francisco, who had entered with the Swiss guard captain. “Feed them on the vomitus—split as much as you can into components. Rats will eat anything. If any die—you will know it was poison. And if they don’t die, it wasn’t.”

  Lord Calmi blinked. “That makes sense…who are you?”

  “I called him to advise me on this poison,” said Marco. “As you’ve just said, Francisco speaks sense.”

  Francisco cleared his throat. “And, I am afraid, M’Lord, you’ll have to get at least two other Casa Vecchi to oversee the test. You see, those of you who ate with the Doge are suspects too.”

  Lord Calmi turned red, then white, then red again. “What? How dare…”

  “He’s quite right,” said Petro, his voice still weak, but his tone firm. “You must remove all suspicion, Niccolo my friend. And if you order it so, it does reduce it. Now please. Leave me in peace.” And finally the room cleared. Marcus turned to his tutor.

  “Francisco,” said Marco, “it looks like that ‘Vobulis’ I read of in that list of toxins in the Sina treatise. The racing and irregular heartbeat, the tremors, the excessive saliva. I don’t recall…is there an antidote? I made him vomit.”

  Francisco pulled at his lower lip. “Oleander. It could be, M’Lord. I’ve seen men poisoned with it before. Accidentally, but still. They died. No, there is no antidote, but getting it out of him was a good idea. With luck he hasn’t gotten a fatal dose. Well, luck and sending for you right away, instead of going with those quacks. And now we need to absorb any that is still there, if we can.”

  “You’re not bleeding me. I feel faint enough,” protested Petro.

  “I’ve never seen any good effects from bleeding,” said Francisco. “No, I would say that the best I could recommend would be to eat a handful of coarse crushed charcoal or burned bread. Al Fafis found it effective in countering certain poisons. It’s harmless at best and may help. Al Fafis experimented on slaves and condemned men. He used the rats too.”

  “Get me some charcoal,” said Marco. “I have a mortar and pestle in my bag.”

  “Make it burned bread,” said Petro. “It’s easier to swallow.”

  It was a long evening, and Marco watched anxiously as Petro’s heart rate raced and then slowed and then raced again. But it did show signs of moderating. And then Lord Calmi came back with the entire Council of Ten. “It was something in the fish, Marcom” he said grimly. “The rat which ate the f
ish has died and two of the other rats are dying as well. We have found the fish-merchant dead—murdered. Probably a falling out among thieves. We searched the fish-merchant’s premises and found far too much gold.”

  Marco frowned, puzzled. “Somehow they poisoned the fish—yet you ate the fish, and you are fine. Francisco says that unlike other poisons, you cannot build up a tolerance to this one. You all ate the same thing, but for some reason it only affected him.”

  Calmi peered at him, anxiously. “Will the Doge live, Marco? Rumor runs around Venice already.”

  Marco shrugged, helplessly. “We’ve done all we can. He’s somewhere between coma and sleep right now. And we don’t know. He may recover.”

  “I’m awake,” said a frail voice. “And I can tell you how they did it. I always eat the bit of meat between the gill and that little fin. It tasted a bit odd today. No one else had that piece, because my guests were courteous enough to let me have it.”

  Marco hurried to the bedside. Dorma looked a little better. Still pale, weak, but no longer cold, and his heartbeat seemed stronger. “Your Grace! Are you feeling better?”

  Dorma made a face. “No. But I no longer have my mouth flooded with saliva. Now please leave me in peace. Go and find out who paid the fish-merchant.”

  ***

  The Black Brain of Vilna had no magical entry into Venice. But the news of the success of the poisoning carried to Milan, to Duke Fillipo Maria, and thence to Vilna. Fillipo Maria was delighted. The Grand Duke of Lithuania merely pleased. Word would reach the Venetian fleet eventually, and that would have a demoralizing effect.

  * * *

  The news came slightly sooner to Carlo Sforza—and he was a great deal closer to Venice than Milan. Well. This would probably mean war, and Enrico Dell’este and his son were not in Venice to defend it.

  He began preparations.

  * * *

  It was late, but the Casa Montescue had been in a foment with Marco being called to the Doge. Poulo would be pleased to know that. He might reward her. The craving overrode every other thought in her head. She hugged Alessia…with that brief flood of terrible torment that memories of her own babe…and what had happened and what she’d done, warring in her breast. But soon. Soon she would have some more. More with the happiness and hearts-ease it brought.

  Marissa made her way to Cannaregio, past the now deserted hulk of the Casa Dandelo. She did not look at it, but she still knew it was there.

  Chapter 31

  Constantinople

  Constantinople, great Constantinople, the golden city, crowned in the evening light, the immense dome of the Hagia Sophia almost glowing, surrounded by walls and towers. It looked as if it would stop the sea itself, let alone the forces that the expedition had at its disposal.

  “It’s the weakest it has been for centuries,” said Enrico Dell’este, obviously reading Benito’s thoughts, as they stood at the brow of the hill on the Island of Antigoni, one of the so-called Princes’ Islands, barely a league from the city. The islands had been a soft and easy target, and gave them a relatively secure place to store materiel and allow troops to rest and regroup. They’d barely been defended. “There are perhaps fifty thousand souls inside the walls, whereas once there would have been half a million.”

  Benito shook his head. “That’s still a lot more force than we can bring to bear—nor can we afford to leave it behind us.”

  The Old Fox nodded agreement. “Not with two leagues of the Bosphorus to make targets of us on our return.”

  “And we really need somewhere to lay up for the worst of the winter.” To some extent the islands’ little harbors would do. But that would leave the fleet scattered and less able to defend itself. And, besides, they needed the momentum. Right now, every man in the fleet, from Admiral Borana to the lowest oarsman on a Venetian galliot, was boiling with anger. The fleet had split to launch as near simultaneous attacks on the islands as possible. It was likely some fisherman or merchant vessel would get wind of the fleet and run to Constantinople, but the city had probably been alerted to the loss of Callipolis anyway.

  Admiral Borana had been assigned the capture of Plati—on the grounds that it had a church manned by the order of St. Pelion, from Genoa, on it. It was also very small and had, as a place of exile, no more than a handful of residents.

  Only when they arrived to capture it, they discovered that it didn’t have a “few.” It had a lot. In chains. Emperor Alexis had decided to purge his capital of possible trouble, and had rounded up all the Latins his troops could find. Those that had not been killed had been confined on Plati, to be sold.

  “We were lucky I suppose,” said one grim Venetian merchant. “My family, all but my eldest son, went with the Eastern Fleet. But the bastards killed my boy. I don’t know how I will explain this to my Liza. But it was just as well we got so many out. Some people did escape the city as the troops rounded us up, but they killed any man that so much as looked as if he might resist and raped women in the street. Those of us left alive were herded onto cattle boats and brought here against the summer slave-trade. And we got off lightly compared to the Genovese. They weren’t as frightened when things started to get bad, they relied on their treaty, and there were more of them, and more of their families stayed. The Jews were treated even worse. Alexis had them tortured to find hidden monies. He was neck deep in debt to their bankers. Of course the bankers had mostly left.”

  The enslaved Latins wanted Greek blood, and the head of Alexis on a pike, and the sooner the better. The problem now was not so much getting the fleet to proceed onto Constantinople, as stopping a precipitous and unplanned attack. That took all Benito’s influence, skill and Enrico Dell’este’s flat veto of any headlong rush.

  * * *

  “Tomorrow afternoon, we sail in formation, keeping almost a mile away from the walls,” Benito announced. “The bombards will be charged now by the specialists we’ve brought along. They will fire sequentially, not all at once. And don’t even think about any crazy ideas like putting anything else into them. Don’t even think about it. You’ll kill yourselves and you’ll sink your ships. At the signal from the flagship, the vessels will turn and repeat the maneuver.”

  “We want those Greek bastards’ blood! And we’re willing to die to get it.” said one of the enslaved and now freed Genovese, waving a sword around with grave danger to his cheering comrades.

  Enrico Dell’este stared at them coldly until the cheering subsided. “You all know who I am. Let me explain this clearly: We’re here not to die, but to see that they do the dying. You won’t be pleasing your families or your state by spilling Greek blood only to have yours spilled immediately afterwards. Revenge is only satisfying when you survive to enjoy it. I do not make sails, or row galleys. I would not do those as well as the men who are fitted to those tasks and experienced at them. But I win wars against the odds. And the odds are against us. Do you want to win or die?”

  “Win, Old Fox,” said one of the sailors, daring to use the duke’s nick-name.

  “Then you will do as you are instructed to do. Now, prepare yourselves. Benito—” There was a cheer from the Venetians, and a good few of the rest. His reputation and following had spread, it seemed. When the cheering died down, Dell’este continued:. “Benito and I go to talk to the cavalry in the horse-transports, and to the marines.”

  “More dare-devilry I bet,” said one of the big Venetian bo’suns, grinning. “Well, mates, I’ll personally clout the head off the shoulders of any man who spoils the young Fox’s tricks.”

  “He’s not just a fox,” said another. “He’s a good half lion that one! But I am with Barto. To work, lads. We do precisely what the schemers want us to do. They’ll have us fight soon enough, if I know them. And I served on Corfu with the young Valdosta. I could tell you a tale or two.”

  “You already have,” said a third man, but there was no more talk of storming the walls.

  The cavalry, such as they were, and the marines were goin
g to make two landings, one to the southwest of the city walls and the other on the northern side of the Golden Horn. That was across the harbor from the City, beyond the citadel of Pera, or Galatea as it was sometimes called. The great chain that prevented vessels entering the shelter of the Golden Horn was spanned from the Galatea tower to the tower at St. Dimitrios in the City.

  Both landings would hopefully establish a beachhead. Both would attract a response from the defenders of the city—but with luck more attention would focus on the bombardment from the sea.

  Up on the hill-top of Antigoni, a large bonfire burned. They could see that in the city and wonder. They could see it in Galatea too.

  * * *

  Antimo Bartelozzi could see it as well.

  Antimo had returned to city of Constantinople, against a tide of fleeing refugees. The Greek countryside was not a very hospitable place either for Latins—Venetians, Pisans, and Genovese and others from across Italy and further afield, fleeing the city. But there was a chance outside the city, if you had money and luck, of getting away. For those who stayed, it appeared that the emperor Alexis had other ideas.

  On the positive side, Antimo was now in the guise of Dimitris Maskaritios, and spoke Greek like a trader from northern Thrace. Coming into the city attracted far less predatory attention than fleeing it, right now.

  Anyway, he did not plan to stay long. Just long enough to verify certain things—and long enough to see if he could find a woman with long dark tresses of soft curls, and slightly reddened eyes. And her two dogs.

  Antimo Bartelozzi was good at ferreting things out. He was also afraid for her, when he saw how social order was breaking down in the city. Rape of foreign women was now proclaimed a public service by some of the louder thugs.

  He was, by force of necessity a good artist. The picture of her face was recognizable. But asking questions in the area he’d seen her in…no-one did recognize her, except a couple of drunks.

  One shuddered. “Her an’ her dogs. I seen them, yeah. Early morning. Not the kind of face you forget.”