Excerpt
The Man with Sapphire Eyes
Larry Mellman © 2023
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Donato Venturi
I’m safe as long as I’m rowing. No enemy has ever successfully breached the mercurial lagoon surrounding Venice on all sides. For three glorious miles I row free, my stroke easy and automatic. I spent my youth on the lagoon until, at fourteen years and nine months of age, I was randomly selected ballot boy against my will and inclination. Taken from my mother, from my friends, from my home, and installed in the palace with the doge as my boss, my rowing time turned into riding and Latin lessons. I still ache at times for an oar in my hands and a breeze riffling my long black hair.
Midway between the Doge’s Palace and Marghera, one of our ports on terrafirma, with the sun in my eyes and the scent of the lagoon in my nose, I savor a moment of sweet peace before embarking on my new mission. Our neighbor and enemy, Lord Francesco Carrara of Padua, regularly burns our farms and plunders our mainland towns. Our amorphous shoreline teems with crooks, assassins, and spies. I don’t wear a sword because I wouldn’t know how to use one, but my crossbow is at hand, and my dagger hangs at my waist with a special kiss of poison along its razor-sharp edge. I’m rowing to meet a man I’ve never seen in a place I have never been. Serenissimo assured me I needn’t worry, that I would know him straight off, and I trust any man stamped with the doge’s imprimatur. He rides from Treviso fortress, ours, to meet me at the inn by the tower of Marghera at Vespers.
I tether my boat in the shadow of the three-story brick watchtower, the lower course of obvious Roman origin. The Romans never ventured onto the marshy islands of the lagoon, confining themselves to solid ground. I stash my crossbow and quiver in my boat, expecting no danger at the inn, only a new friend.
Fishermen’s huts clustered at the base of the tower enclose a crude square deserted in the late afternoon. The tower looms overhead, a rook on a chessboard spreading from Carrara Castle in Padua to St. Mark’s Square. At the back of the square, outside the inn, three men—desperados, mercenaries, or thugs—watch me approach with an unhealthy interest. None of them looks likely to be Donato Venturi. I place my hand on my dagger to show them I mean business. The doge’s ring glints on my finger. Those who respect the power of the doge see the ring as a talisman; those who don’t see only a large chunk of gold. One more step and I clearly pick out the splayed red carts, the carros of the Carrara, on their blood- and mud-spattered tunics.
“Aw, ain’t he pretty?”
“You heard about those Venetian butt boys. Better than women, they say.”
As I unsheathe my dagger, three longswords lunge at me, their wielders laughing at the notion that a dagger could protect me from them. I stumble backward, catch myself, stand as tall as possible, and hold up the doge’s ring. “Arms down in the name of His Exalted Serenity, the Doge of Venice.”
“Exalted Fucking Asshole, that one. Old Contarini got no weenie.”
I raise my dagger, knowing something they don’t know. They snigger and slash, making their steel blades sing. I cannot possibly nick all three with my blade before they cut my hands off, so I retreat. One of them slip-slides into my space, swinging. The point of his blade slices my doublet, stinging my skin. I swipe with my dagger, desperate to break his skin and deliver the poison kiss, but he flips his sword, grips the blade with his gauntlets, and swings it, braining me with the pommel. I fly backward to general laughter, rolling away as the disrespectful thugs advance to skewer me for the fun of it.
They don’t notice until their heads turn, following mine, and by then it’s too late. A whirlwind of dust whips toward the square delivering an armed soldier on a lathered white destrier showering foam. He swoops in and circles the Paduans, freeing me to sheathe my dagger and scramble to the boat for my crossbow, but before I can, he disarms all three in a shower of blood. He doesn’t kill them, but he may as well have.
He jumps off his destrier, which stands still as a statue behind him, grips my hand in his gauntlet, and yanks me to my feet.
“Are you hurt?”
“Only my pride.”
“What did they want?”
“We never got that far.”
As the wounded Paduans crawl away, he laughs heartily, slaps me on the back, and says, “Well met, Niccolò Saltano. I am Donato Venturi.”
He lifts off his helmet and shakes his head, smacking his right ear with the butt of his palm. I lack words to describe his sudden impact. Even his shadow has tangible presence. But more astonishing are his brown skin and blue eyes. His beauty shatters every canon of classical aesthetics and redefines them. His square face is made up of rounded planes showcasing Arab eyes, a Venetian nose, and plush lips wreathed in moustaches and goatee. No matter how fierce his brows or severe the crop of his black curls, his smile strikes me speechless. He covers my blush and stammer with easy conversation. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Serenissimo. He brags about you like the son he never had.”
“I wouldn’t take his word on me. His fondness inclines to dotage.”
“And also from General Giustinian, who credits you with our smashing victory at Trieste.”
“And yet I know nothing of you but your name.”
“Accompany me inside,” he says, “and we can remedy that.”
We cross the square to the inn, and he opens the heavy door with one finger, linking his arm in mine to escort me inside.
Men can be attractive in many ways, but Donato Venturi is sui generis. Serenissimo neglected to tell me about the color of his skin, like a larch oar oiled by countless palms and buffed to a rich and complex brown, or that a Roman artist crafting an African Hercules might have sculpted him in mahogany. He exudes confidence in an unselfconscious way. Astolfo, lord of Castle Moccò, my previous lodestar for manly beauty, stood well over six feet tall with red-gold curls cascading down his back—a fallen angel or radiant demon. Donato, no taller than I but immensely broader—a bull to my deer—registers as monumental.
Inside the low windowless inn where daylight never penetrates, stubby candles gutter and smoke. The innkeeper stands aside, and we seek a corner far from prying ears. Donato raises two fingers to the innkeeper and blinds him with a smile, suggesting that they know each other. He brings two glasses, a flagon of wine, and a plate of gristly pork scraps. We say nothing until he retreats, and then I raise my glass.
“Greetings and gratitude.”
Donato skates over my gratitude. “I rarely encounter a Paduan whose bite is as fierce as his bark. Three of them amount to half an Austrian brute, as you well know.”
“No need to be modest, Donato. Serenissimo advised me that you’re the greatest swordsman in Venice.”
He raises his glass. “To the hero of Trieste from Venice’s premier swordsman. I’m honored to finally meet you.”
“Although Serenissimo holds you in the highest regard, he told me nothing about you.”
“I am captain of cavalry at Treviso under General Giustinian. Before that, I was an arsenal guard. I apprenticed at the arsenal at the age of eight. They worked me like a dog and treated me worse, but as bad as it got, it was never worse than home.”
“How is that?”
“I see our beloved doge has truly told you nothing.”
“Not even the color of your skin.”
“Aha. Appearances to the contrary, I am a Venetian noble, born in 1343 and raised at Palazzo Venturi until I ran away.”
“Ten years my senior. I turn eighteen on the seventeenth of April.”
“My father is Jacopo Venturi, of the ancient and venerable house of Venturi, now the dregs of the nobility, although we are all supposedly equal. Living in the Doge’s Palace must have taught you all about that. My family was so poor that our rooms were dark for want of candles, and we often didn’t eat, but my father never failed to cast his vote in the Great Council.”
“What about your mother?”
“She died when I was eight. She was a princess of Mali, kidnapped by a slave trader and sold to my father because, like all Venetian nobles, he wanted to marry a princess. He couldn’t afford a European, so he bought an African. He paraded her in silks on Sundays and feasts and treated her like a slave the rest of the time. She was beautiful and loving and kind and did not deserve such a fate. As soon as we burned her corpse, I began planning my escape, and I told no one at the arsenal I bear a noble name. They assumed I was an escaped slave or some such, but after the great plague killed half our men, beggars couldn’t be choosers. I worked harder and longer than anyone else until I caught the eye of Orsino Bellarosa, a lord of the arsenal, who liked what he saw. He took me under his wing, directed my training, and advanced me into the arsenal guard at the age of fifteen.”
“I know Orsino Bellarosa. He is a brave Venetian, deeply loyal to the doge.”
“Like all the arsenal guard. Many years ago, Orsino introduced me to his old friend Andrea Contarini, before he was elected doge, and ever since, our Serenissimo has kept a close but distant eye on me.”
“You’ve known him longer than I have.”
“But not in the same way. You see him every day and know his thoughts. Since the election, I see him rarely. But enough about me. What orders do you bring?”
Once again, Donato’s eyes linger on mine, concealing something urgent, never wavering until I am forced to blink and turn to business to cover my blush.
“First, a small caveat,” I say. “I remember everything perfectly and can recite it to you forward and backward, which I will spare you.”
“You are a gentleman and a scholar.”
I take a breath and summon Serenissimo’s presence. “The Turks have crossed the Maritsa River into Serbia, and no one doubts they’re headed for Hungary. The Genoese are killing one another so wantonly that they had to beg Lord Visconti of Milan to keep a lid on them, a mistake they will regret to the end of their days. Lord Carrara of Padua is waging an undeclared war on our towns and farms on terrafirma, a war he can’t declare until King Louis of Hungary sends the troops he promised. All of this is well known to you.”
Donato busts out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes, “but your impersonation is perfect in tone and gesture. He may as well be here. Forgive me. Go on.”
“I asked Serenissimo how likely King Louis of Hungary is to aid Padua. He said it would be mad for Louis to send troops to Carrara with the Turk advancing on him, but Louis listens only to God, and there’s no telling what He might say. The question is—how far will King Louis go to own the Adriatic, given that he can’t build ships, doesn’t have a navy, and has neither oarsmen, sailors, nor admirals? More importantly, does he understand that Venice cannot and will not lose to him again, at any cost? We will never submit to a Hungarian yoke, and Louis hates losing as much as he hates us. If he suspects he can’t win, he will overturn the board and go home. We need to know what is most likely. Thus, I am sending you to his royal palace at Visegrád.”
Donato chuckles. “You meaning you or me?”
“Both. I asked him, ‘Wouldn’t you be better served using trained spies?’ And he replied, ‘What sort of idiot would trust a paid spy? I know I can trust you. Look and listen. Read the signs without being obvious. I want details. Get as close as you can but not so close as to endanger yourself. Talk to our people there. Find Giacomo da Murano and use my name. He is an old friend who has grown rich selling glass to Louis’s court. Heed what he says and listen to the common folk. Ask direct questions whenever you can get away with it from anyone whose word rings true.’
“I told him I wasn’t convinced I was the right man for the job, and he said, ‘That’s why I’m sending Donato Venturi with you.’
“I asked, ‘Who is Donato Venturi, and why have I never heard of him before?’ Serenissimo said it was because we live in two different worlds, the palace and the arsenal. One is a place of selfish struggles for wealth and advantage; the other is a place of selfless labor for the good of the Republic, where skill and character outweigh wealth and pedigree. He said I couldn’t ask for a better companion on this mission than Donato Venturi.”
“High praise from our beloved Serenissimo,” Donato says. “We are both honored by his confidence.”
“Yes, we are.”
“And your memory is remarkable.”
“I never wished for it; it’s how I am. No matter what I do, I can’t forget.”
“That must be torture for sure. There’s much I’m glad to forget.”
“Serenissimo relies on the accuracy of my memory. He says I am a diary no one else can read.”
“Do you know how much so-called wise men charge for memory training in Rialto? Anyone who wants to manage a convoy or enter a joint venture or run an abacus or cheat at cards pays through the nose to learn what you do effortlessly. Serenissimo understands the value of a good asset.”
“I never considered myself an asset.”
“Ah, you most definitely are, or you wouldn’t be here with me.”
“What makes you an asset?”
“Does loyalty count?”
“Loyalty’s not a skill. It’s a quality of soul.”
“Then it must be my charm.” He reaches for a candle, holds it near my face, and stares still more deeply into my eyes. “Your eyes are bluer than mine.”
For an instant, he seems as lost in my eyes as I am in his, which I doubt possible.
“I have my father’s eyes,” I say. “Who donated your sapphires?”
“My mother. You also have the same slight overbite as your father. On him, it’s menacing, but on you, it’s…something else.”
“Did you know my father?”
“Know him? No. But I saw him in action, on Crete, during the rebellion he led. Serenissimo confided that Marcantonio Gradenigo is your father. What a maniac, living for mayhem. If he didn’t have a battle, he’d incite a bloody brawl.”
“Do you know he’s not dead and walks the streets disguised as a monk? He calls himself Brother Bernardo of the Hermits?”
“I hear the same rumors as everyone else.”
“It’s not a rumor.”
“We’ll save that for later. I must return to Treviso tonight. When do we leave for Hungary?”
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