La Serenissima

Author’s note and postscript

2008-11-28T11:52:00.001-08:00

If you have read this far, then I am frankly gratified and more than a little amazed. Thank you for your persistence in reading what is a very scrappy first effort at writing a novel.

I signed up for Nanowrimo as a personal challenge and it has rather taken over my life for the previous month. After the opening chapters I really started to struggle to get my fingers on the keyboard and get the words down on virtual paper. I kept a series of spreadsheets to calculate my daily word count and all sorts of statistical averages to let me know exactly how far behind schedule I was. I started to despair of finishing as I watched my writer buddies clocking up their word counts like metronomes. Some time around the thirty thousand word mark, I caught up and things started to flow. Characters started to do unexpected things, events took me by surprise and, against all expectations, I started to enjoy myself hugely.

The inspiration for this novel came from a couple of sources, and the first may surprise you. Many years ago I played the game Tomb Raider II on what was, at the time, a blazingly fast 486/33 pc with a four megabytes of RAM. The level that particularly stuck in my mind was set in Venice with a series of challenges for our pixelated heroine involving climbing over roof tops, diving into canals, exploring crumbling buildings, jumping through the middle of a covered bridge in a speed boat and duking it out with black clad assassins on stage and behind the scenes of a grand opera house. This, not surprisingly, was the genesis of the early scene with Donatella breaking into the house by crossing the canal on a rope.

The other inspiration came from excellent series about the founding and history of Venice by the historian Francesco da Mosta. It really is a city with a unique story that spans many hundreds of years from its founding in the unpromising swampy islands of the lagoon by disparate tribes of fishermen banding together for protection, through its glorious ascendance as one of the great powers of Europe to its slow (but highly pleasurable) decline and eventual capture by Napoleon

I started with little more than a vague image of mist drifting down the canals of Venice at some unspecified point in history that would allow for a generous helping of intrigue and sword play. I wrote the opening three chapters – the plot against Venice, the old man dying in the monastery cell and Donatella crossing the canal in the dead of night – with no idea of what might happen next. I hadn’t done any research to speak of or plotted any sort of direction for the story, or indeed had any idea for any eventual ending. The character of Alonso came out of the blue, as did his subsequent actions and escape from the monastery. The idea that Donatella might be breaking into her own family’s house was another surprise development. The best bit of serendipity though was the date that I had chosen for the story – late in the year 1605.

On further investigation, I found out that a number of significant events took place around this time. The story of the two priests Canon Saraceni of Vicenza and Abbé Brandolin of Nervesa is a true one. They were indeed accused of a number of serious crimes including murder and rapine (although not, I am sorry to say, bumming each other). They were convicted and imprisoned by the secretive Council of Ten and imprisoned in the infamous Piombi lead roofed cells in a high corner of the Doge’s Palace, very much the Guantanamo bay of its day.

The Venetians made a point of thumbing their collective noses at the Pope in a number of different ways including passing laws restricting the church from acquiring property through donations as part of wills and bequests. Eventually they pushed the church too far and when the zealous pontiff Pope Paul V was elected something had to give. The Pope issued a decree excommunicating the entire city of Venice, which the Venetians cheerfully ignored and it seems entirely possible that a war would have ensued if diplomatic efforts by various foreign ambassadors hadn’t resolved the issue two years later.

Something else caught my eye as well, to whit the death of the much loved Doge Marino Grimani and the election of Leonardo Donato in that same year. All of the detail of the fabulously convoluted election process is true. Venice truly was unique in having – in effect – a democratic monarchy, elected by a combination of lottery and voting. Perhaps the process ensured that Doge’s were selected for their innate luck in some sort of evolutionary way?

When the Doge was elected, his powers were restricted by law in numerous ways – he could not read letters from other heads of states unless in the presence of others, he could not own property in a foreign land and of course, any attempt to pass on the position to an heir was strictly forbidden. Indeed, when a Doge died a commission would be set up to investigate any possible malfeasance by the late ruler and his family could be liable to pay back any ill gotten gains.

It is also true that Marin Falier, the fifty fifth Doge, tried to stage a coup to declare himself a Prince. Some accounts say that he may well have been senile and unaware of the consequences of his actions, or that he was motivated by an antipathy for the aristocracy. As punishment he was beheaded and his memory damned forever – damnatio memoriae in the Latin phrase. Even his portrait in the the council hall in the palazzo was ordered to be covered with a black cloth for all time, and so it remains to this day.

Other episodes from Venetian history are well worth investigating as well, if you are interested in such things, particularly the story of the acquisition of the bones of Saint Mark. It shows something of the Venetian mind set, that in order to have a suitably high ranking patron saint for the city(to replace the obscure Saint Theodore of Amasea) a group of adventurers set out for Alexandria in 828 to steal the bones of Saint Mark that were reputed to be held there. They concealed the bones inside a casket filled with pork so that the Muslim guards could not investigate the contents. About two hundred years later the bones went missing again, but conveniently a 'miraculous arm' appeared from a pillar and pointed out some bones in the foundations of the basilica that was being built at the time. Hence we now have the basilica and square dedicated to Saint Mark. You've got to hand it to the Venetians for chutzpah, if nothing else.

Italy has been, for most of its history, a loose federation of warring city states, and the Vatican was no different. It was rare for cities to maintain anything more than a token standing army, for fear of the commanders staging a coup. Instead, the practice was to employ mercenary armies, the so called 'condottieri', to fight their wars as required. The Black Company of the story is of course based on the famous White Company of the 14th century commanded by the Englishman Sir John Hawkwood, who was in turn the inspiration for Sir John Fletcher.

Fletcher was initially intended to be a minor character, and perhaps a bit of Falstaffian comic relief, but his role grew in the telling until he was a rather heroic figure. I feel a little bit guilty for killing him off, but perhaps I'll change that in the rewrite if I revisit this story at some future date.

Similarly Bompanzini was another comic character, and again a Falstaffian wine bibber, but he turned into rather a slimy and corpulent villain. If anyone deserved to meet a sticky end it was him, but alas he is still out there somewhere.

I know that the story is rather rushed in places, and incoherent elsewhere, but it is after all a first draft and a first attempt at anything remotely like this. Anybody who has followed my blog will know that my preferred literary form is the haiku with its spare seventeen syllable form, so writing extra words in is a rather alien experience for me, to say the least. The structure is a bit ropy too, but I think that there are some good ideas in there somewhere. I particularly like the bits about the Carnival and I think the image of the villainous Carmelo in the sinister costume of the plague doctor with the hooked beak bird mask is a strong one.

To any Italian readers, or anybody that knows Venice and its environs, I can only apologise for any errors of geography or description. I have effectively written a historical novel by looking things up on Wikipedia as I went along, but that's Nanowrimo for you, I suppose.

To conclude, I will say that my ambition is to visit Venice one day, hopefully in the near future and do some proper research on the locations and history of the place. I really would like to do the ideas that I have had here justice.

Until that time, long live the most serene republic of La Serenissima!

Neil Hopkins, November 2008

Chapter Forty Two

2008-11-28T11:50:00.000-08:00

Alonso cradled the dying Fletcher in his arms as he lay on the ground.

“Bloody stupid way to die”, said Fletcher weakly, “Always thought that I’d die in bed, an old man”

“You saved the ghetto”, said Alonso, and it was true, for the mob had started to disperse by ones and twos, shocked at the actuality of the bloody violence they had just seen. They were also angry with themselves at having being so easily talked into contemplating mob action against their neighbours by the weasel words of the priests and the clerics. It was as if somebody had held up a mirror to them and they had seen the animals that they had so nearly become for a brief moment.

They didn’t like what they had seen. They would not be fooled so easily again.

o o o o o

In the burning palace, the last few revellers who had been in the Doge’s apartment escaped following the route that Donatella had found. Silvio and his father shepherded them up through the Inquisitor’s chamber and then out on to the lead roof of the piombi where a rope allowed them to climb down on to the roof of the bridge of sighs below, and safety.

Those who had escaped through the courtyard did not stand idly by to watch the fire. Bucket chains were organised to fetch water from the adjacent flooded piazza San Marco to douse the flames, and slowly but surely the blaze was brought under control.

The fire would still smoulder for days to come, but the structure of the palace was still sound. There had been other fires of this magnitude during the long history of the building and it had survived them before. The real damage was in the loss of paintings, artworks and decorations of almost inestimable worth.

o o o o o

As the weak winter sun rose across the Venetian lagoon, the commander of the papal army watched a thin column of smoke rise into the sky. The palace had burned, but word had reached him that the Doge still lived. He had heard nothing from Carmelo and had to presume him dead. He surveyed his depleted forces, still demoralized after the devastating explosion during their assault on the breached wall, and lacking the support of their mercenary battalions, and he made a decision.

The army would withdraw beyond the river boundaries that marked the extent of the Vatican territory, and if the Pope wished to press the campaign against Venice he could come and lead the charge in person, rather than ordering it from the safety of his gilded throne.

He gave the orders to his subordinates to prepare to march away, and the war against the most serene republic of Venice was at an end.

o o o o o

The bell was sounded to signal the start of morning trading at the Rialto.

The atmosphere in the room was one of uncertainty and lack of confidence, with nobody quite sure how to react to the events of recent days. Nobody seemed to be willing to trade with the usual enthusiasm for commerce normally seen in that place.
Antonio di Rossini strode across the floor, his head held high, and climbed the dais to make a general announcement.

“My name is Antonio di Rossini and I speak as a representative of the Rossini Trading Company. I have two announcements to make. Firstly I am retiring and stepping down as chairman of the company and I will be replaced by my son Silvio who will take on all of my responsibilities. Secondly, I wish to confirm that today we have placed the sum of ten million Ducats on deposit with the bank, and that these monies will be available for investment and speculation at favourable rates as of this moment. Long live the Republic!”

There was a moment of surprise, followed by a resounding cavalcade of cheers and applause as the news sunk in, quickly replaced by a buzz of excitement as trading commenced again with a vengeance.

The traders of Venice were doing what they did best – making money.

o o o o o

Silvio di Rossini watched his father climb down from the dais and went over to his side to shake his hand.

“Father”, he said simply.

“The company is yours now, my boy, and it’s well positioned to trade effectively for many years to come. I will give you one piece of advice from my own experience though, If a deal seems too good to be true, then it almost certainly is.”

“I shall bear that in mind” replied Silvio with a grin. “For one thing we will be opening an office inside the ghetto. There are a lot of very talented people there that we can employ, I’m sure. Furthermore, Captain Parese has some very promising suggestions for new markets to explore, and I have given him carte blanche to travel and trade as he sees fit. We have heard from some of Portuguese partners about possible trading contacts with the Japanese, for example.”

“Well, it’s your responsibility. I promise that I shall not interfere, and I now intend to fulfil my proper duties as a lean and slippered pantaloon, sit back in my easy chair, and enjoy my dotage to the full,”

“And I shall return to my office, and draw up draft contracts and trading agreements, and prepare us for one hundred years of prosperity”

Both father and son were happy with their new roles, and they embraced as the mantle of power passed from one generation to the next.

o o o o o

In his room at the di Rossini house Alonso sat a desk and composed a letter to Antonio.

“Signor”, he began, “I am writing to thank you once again for your generosity and hospitality, but I wish to tell you that I intend to return to family in Padua and commence my studies at the University there. I intend to make up for lost time and learn as much as I can about history and philosophy, for I believe that only by understanding the past can we hope to make sense of the events of the present. I remain, your obedient servant ... “

He signed the letter with a flourish, and folded and addressed the single sheet of paper, leaving it propped on the desk.

He patted his pocket and felt the reassuring weight of John Fletcher’s silver flask
within. He would take it to an engraver and see that the roll of honour was finally completed as Fletcher’s name would take its place next to the names of his fallen comrades of old.

Alonso packed the clothes and other essentials that he had been given, and counted the money that he had been given by Antonio. It was more than sufficient for him to pay his way through university for the next few years.

He was ready to embrace the life of an academic and critical thinker, in the true spirit of the renaissance.

o o o o o

In her room in the ghetto, Rachel di Jehuda picked up her father’s text books and started to read. He hadn’t ever been aware of quite how much knowledge she had gleaned over the years as she had nursed his patients under his guidance. Her father’s brutal murder had left her with a steely determination to study the arts of medicine.

Rachel di Jehuda would one day become a physician in her own right.

o o o o o

On the deck of La Serenissima, Captain Benito Parese surveyed the repair work that was already under way. Gangs of carpenters were busy removing the shattered mast and making preparations to replace it with a new one. Other teams were making good the damage to the hull and caulking seams that had been opened by the combination of the storm and the cannon fire.

He saw a familiar looking figure walking along the jetty and waved to her

“Donatella! Welcome aboard!” he yelled

“Thank you.”, she replied with a smile. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked.

“Of course, milady. You know that you can trust me with your life.”

“Good. When La Serenissima sails again, I intend to be on board. I have a desire to see the world, and the far east in particular. My father is content to retire and my brother will busy himself with ledgers and contracts, and I am happy for them both, but I want more than that. If they hear of what I plan, then they will try to stop me, so please don’t let them know.”

“I promise that your secret is safe with me. Anyway, your brother gave me free reign to carry any cargo that I saw fit to deal in, so perhaps that includes you as well?” said Benito.

“You should be a lawyer, not a sea captain!” replied Donatella with a wolfish grin. “Now, be sure to give me ample notice of when you plan to depart and I will be on board, depend on it!”

She looked out over the waters of the lagoon, to the open seas of the Adriatic beyond and knew that her future lay out there somewhere, in the land of the rising sun.

o o o o o

The Doge toured the areas of his palace that were safe to enter and surveyed the ruin that lay around him.

He ordered a clerk to produce an inventory of all that had been lost to the flames and vowed to replace it and supplement it twice over. Art would be commissioned from all over Europe and far beyond, and the patronage of Venice would be legendary.

The palazzo would rise like a phoenix as a symbol of the wealth and power of Venice, the most serene republic – La Serenissima resplendent!

Chapter Forty One

2008-11-28T11:49:00.000-08:00

Within the palace the fire was taking hold with furious speed.

The crowds of revellers from the lower levels were able to make their way safely out through the main courtyard, but the stair case leading to the Doge's apartment was now an inferno. The narrow space was acting as a chimney, drawing flames and smoke upwards and feeding them with air.

The fire consumed everything within its path. Priceless and irreplaceable paintings by Tintoretto burned, statues toppled, furnishings and fabrics vanished in an instant. Rare books, maps and globes, and treasures from the furthest corners of the Venetian trading empire were similarly destroyed.

In the apartment upstairs the smoke was rapidly becoming choking. Donatella grabbed her brother's arm and spoke into his ear.

"We have to get these people to safety. We can't go down, so you have to lead them up to the roof and then find a way down from there. I'm going to go ahead, after the plague doctor. I think that he is the key to this situation"

Silvio took charge of the frightened revellers, getting them to duck under the thickening smoke to where the air was slightly clearer and took care to close the doors to the stairs leading down. That should buy them a little extra time before the fire could break through.

Donatella went ahead through the crowd, via a series of rooms that led into the inquisitor's chamber where the council of ten would deliberate on their secret trials of those who had transgressed against the republic. This was the only route up to the lead roofed piombi cells above, where the prisoners would be taken to serve out their terms.

Donatella’s suspicions were proven correct when she saw the figure that she had been seeking – the man in the black costume of the plague doctor. He was standing by a tapestry depicting the harbour, and he had a tinderbox and oil. He was clearly attempting to start a second fire here, so that the people attempting to escape from the fire below would be trapped here and surely perish.

Donatella shouted and the man gave a start, dropping his bottle of oil which shattered at his feet soaking his robe. He turned to face Donatella, and his eerie bird mask with its spectacled eyes looked directly at her.

“It’s you! Why do you thwart me at every turn, thou thorn in my side?”. He abandoned his attempt to set a fire and made a break for the stairs leading up and Donatella gave chase after him. They ascended another flight of stairs until they were at roof level and Donatella saw that the man had prepared his escape route in advance, with a ladder leading up from the space outside the cells to a hole giving access out on to the lead roof. He was just disappearing through the hole when Donatella reached the foot of the ladder

As Donatella climbed, the man tried to shove the ladder away with a vicious kick. Donatella reacted quickly and caught the sole of shoe and pushed up with all of her strength sending him sprawling backwards on to the roof. This gave her the chance to follow him out into the night air. The man climbed to his feet and they confronted each other.

The man gave a brief, humourless laugh and reached up to remove his mask. Underneath was the aquiline face of Father Vittorio Carmelo.

“Father Carmelo?” said Donatella, not really surprised at what she was seeing.

“Yes, and I would have gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for your meddlesome interference, child!” he said, and laughed again. He continued.

“So, I suppose that you think that you’ve won? Do you have any idea of just how much trouble you have caused me? I have waited for this opportunity for years, until God chose a pope who would be sympathetic to my cause and my ambitions. A word in the right ear, a bribe in the right pocket, and Venice would have been mine for the taking. The people would have begged for me to ascend to the throne and wear the Corno Ducale. And I would have humbly accepted, and then banished far away all pretence at so called, self styled democracy” He spat the last word with venom.

Donatella asked just one question with one single word.

“Why?”

“What does it matter? Power, influence and money, of course, but more important than those Europe would be freed from the Jewish taint in a cleansing fire, and from the ashes a new Holy Roman Empire would arise to rule the world, as is its manifest destiny.”

He coughed as a swirl of smoke rose up from below and blew into his face.

“It will happen one day. Our order will watch and wait until the time is right and then we will strike again, I promise you.”

He laughed again, a laugh of doomed madness, and took his tinder box from within his robe, and struck a spark.

“Time to die”, he said as his oil soaked robe caught afire, and then he screamed like a banshee as the flames consumed him. He ran for the edge of the roof and jumped, falling like Lucifer banished from heaven, a fiery meteor that plunged into the canal far below.

Father Carmelo was no more.

Chapter Forty

2008-11-28T11:47:00.000-08:00

Sir John Fletcher had a nose for trouble.

As soon as he had stepped off the barge and set foot on the streets of Venice he knew instinctively that something was amiss. The atmosphere was one of hostility and incipient violence, and he didn't like it, not one bit. He dismissed most of his men, telling them to find a tavern and stay out of mischief, and decided that if something was wrong he wanted to be at the heart of it.

He wandered the streets, following the sound of the crowd and heard a commotion some way ahead of him. A fight of some sort was in progress, or to be more precise, on a closer look he saw that a large crowd was gathered round a group of five or six men who were attacking a prone figure on the ground with a wicked looking selection of cudgels and sticks.

Time to even the odds a little, he thought, drawing himself up to his full height and taking a deep breath.

"Think this is a fair fight, do you?" he shouted in his best parade ground sergeant major bellow.

The attackers stopped their assault and turned to face him, and the crowd pressed in at the prospect of more entertaining violence.

"What's it got to with you, you interfering fool?" replied the tallest man, the nominal leader of the gang, it seemed.

"I don't like to see anybody kicking a man when he's down, and if you don't stop of your own accord I'll bloody well make you", at the last he dropped his voice to a growl.

"This man ", the attacker gestured at the wretch laying prostrate on the ground, "is a filthy Jew out on the streets after dark. Everyone knows that the Jews are to blame for the war and the panic at the Rialto! Isn't that right, boys?"

His appeal to the crowd provoked a few cheers in response, but most appeared a bit uneasy at the turn of events and stayed silent.

"We're teaching this piece of vermin a lesson, and we'll teach it to you as well", the man sneered and waved his cudgel.

"I was handing out lessons in how to take a beating while you were still wrapped in swaddling clothes", replied Fletcher, and he rushed the nearest thug with a shoulder charge that he dropped into the man's midriff at the last moment, knocking the wind out of him and sending him sprawling on the ground struggling for breath. One down, four to go. He picked up the man's stick - a useful looking five foot length of ash pole, which he casually tucked behind his back to keep it out of view.

"Who's next?" asked Fletcher.

The attackers seemed momentarily nonplussed, and then one of them made a move, making a wild swing with his cudgel at Fletcher's body, aiming to crack him in the ribs. Fletcher stepped neatly back on his right foot and brought his stick up and over his own head and delivered a smart thrust into the man's face breaking his nose in the process. The man yelped and clutched his face, blood spraying from between his fingers. That was two.

The next two attackers were smarter and worked as a team. One of the pair approached Fletcher, swinging his club in a lazy figure of eight while his partner edged around the Fletcher's blind side. The attacker to the front suddenly attacked with an over head swing attempting to cave Fletcher's skull in, but Fletcher blocked the strike with his stick held high in both of his hands. He then dropped and planted his boot in the man's stomach, allowing the man's own momentum to carry him up and over, cannoning into the other thug sneaking up up from behind. Four down, and less than a minute had passed.

The last attacker drew a knife and eschewing all preamble or bravado launched himself at Fletcher to stab him in the heart. Fletcher planted the stick, like a pole arm set against a charging horse, and caught the knife wielder in the chest, stopping him dead. That was all of them, but he had to move before anybody in the crowd picked up the courage to intervene.

He knelt to the man on the ground and offered him a hand. He whispered urgently to him.

“Can you stand, my friend? Good. We need to walk away from here - right now. Don’t run, and whatever else you do, don’t look back. Now, come on - let’s get out here.”

They commenced walking at a stiff pace, some in the crowd jeering at them as they left, but the five thugs sprawled on the ground in various states of injury and conciousness had obviously been enough to dissuade anybody else from interfering.

Fletcher introduced himself to his new companion - “Sir John Fletcher at your service sir!” and the man he had rescued from a beating replied simply that his name was Isaac.

“I assume that you need to return to the ghetto, Isaac, before we run into any more troublemakers?”

“Yes, I was just about my business this night when I was attacked. It is well before the hour of the curfew, but that didn't matter to the crowd. I don't think that it was all of them, but there were certain people provoking and encouraging the others”

Isaac led Fletcher through a succession of back alleys to avoid the main streets, and they headed to the North West of Venice until they reached the gate by the bridge over the Canale di Cannaregio. The gate was usually manned by a rota of guards drawn from the city's Christian community, paid for by the inhabitants of the ghetto but tonight the guard posts were empty.

“I don't like this, not one little bit” said Fletcher, feeling an ominous sense of foreboding in his stomach. His mood was considerably improved as he recognised a friendly face standing in the centre of the ghetto's central campo, an open space surrounded by tall buildings each with multiple stories piled higgle de piggledy one on top of the other, some with synagogues at the very peak.

“Fletcher!” shouted Alonso, genuinely pleased to see his friend.

“I wish we could meet under more peaceful circumstances, my friend” replied Fletcher, “but I fear that an attack is on the way. The guards are missing and the gates are wide open. We need to organise a defence, and quickly!”

They ran to the open gateway, gathering a handful of men on the way. A mob was already gathering on the far side of the bridge, some armed with cudgels and swords, or rocks and other missiles to throw, others with flaming torches, and their mood was an ugly one.

“If they cross the bridge and get into the ghetto, there’ll be a bloody massacre” said Fletcher urgently, “We have to hold them here until cooler heads prevail”

“How do we do that?” asked Alonso, worry etched into his face

“Just watch me” replied Fletcher, and he strode into the middle of the bridge, head held high. He looked at the members of the mob with a steady gaze, challenging them. If they wanted to cross the bridge they would have to get past him first. He reflected that his stand here was a microcosm of the siege of Mestre that he had fought so recently, only now he did not have cannon fire and black powder traps to fall back on.

The mob seemed to hesitate, with no one person willing to make the first move. Alonso noticed a black clad figure, lurking in the background of the crowd. He was talking in conspiratorial tones to a group who detached themselves from the main body to challenge Fletcher. One of them threw a rock which hit Fletcher on the side of his helmet, making him stagger backwards a pace. They prepared to rush him, and then Fletcher spoke again.

“So it’s come to this has it? An armed mob picking on the weak and helpless. Why, for goodness sake? These people are your neighbours and your friends. You are happy to work with them, trade with them and for them to be your physician when you are ill. The real enemy is outside the walls” - he gestured in the direction of Mestre - “and inside too, whispering in your ears and trying to drive a wedge between people who should be on the same side.”

The mood of the crowd seemed to change abruptly, and they shrank back, leaving the figure in black standing in the open. The man looked about desperately, as if were a centipede found under a rock, looking for another dark place to scuttle away too. He realised that there was no escape and came forward on to the bridge himself.

“You fools!” he shouted “Can’t you see the canker that is infecting your city from within? It matters little, for even now your palace is burning and your precious Doge will soon be dead! This city will belong to the church, and we will scour it clean!”

He was within reach of Fletcher now and he reached into his black robe, pulling out a short but wickedly sharp blade, catching Fletcher off guard.

“So die all heretics!” he screamed, plunging the knife deep into Fletcher’s chest before turning the blade on himself, cutting his own throat in a spray of crimson blood.

Alonso could only look on in horror, as John Fletcher sank to ground, mortally wounded, and beyond him from the direction of the Doge’s palace, smoke and flame seared the night sky.

Chapter Thirty Nine

2008-11-25T12:15:00.002-08:00

The masked ball at the Doge’s palazzo marked the beginning of carnival, and this year was particularly symbolic of the determination of Venice to resist its enemies by refusing to be cowed.

"Surely the Doge will be guarded", Alonso pointed out, "How can anyone hope to get near him to do him any harm?"

"The attempt will come from somebody that he knows and trusts because they are member of the council. It will almost certainly be somebody from our list of names" said Silvio

"So how do we prevent it then?" asked Donatella

"I don't know." admitted Silvio, "All we can do is to act the patient agent. We must watch for our enemy to make his move and then respond. I like it even less than you, but it is all we can do. We will attend the ball and be ready to act".

As members of the nobility the family di Rossini were all automatically invited to the ball, but Alonso posed a problem. Rachel suggested that he return to the ghetto in case of trouble there.

"We know that something is being planned but we don't know what yet. We need to be on our guard, and any help is more than welcome" she said

"I'm just glad to be of some use" replied Alonso.

"Well, that's settled then." said Antonio, with an air of finality, "We will attend the ball as a family, and try to prevent an atrocity"

o o o o o

A costume ball required costumes, and of course the family had their favourites from the many traditional choices on offer.

Silvio was to dress as Harlequin, in a diamond patterned jacket and trousers with a demonic black half mask covering his face and a fur trimmed white felt cap. Donatella adopted her favourite disguise of Columbine the servant girl, with the patterns on the dress matching her brother's costume and a coquettish gold mask carried on a stick. Antonio was, naturally enough, Pantaloon - the wealthy and hard nosed merchant with his a red jacket, short belted breeches with a wooden sword, a black cloak over his shoulders lined with red on the inside and black Turkish slippers with the ends curled up. He stroked the goatee beard on his mask in the manner of a businessman appraising a deal and spoke to his children.

"Let us be about our business", he said, and they set off into the cold winter's night.

o o o o o

Alonso and Rachel walked through the Campo Santo Stefano, enjoying the carnival atmosphere despite the serious nature of the business that they had just been discussing. A carpet of grass had been laid across the square, and elegantly dressed and masked revellers were promenading there to display their costumes to best effect for the admiration of the crowd.

Wine was being quaffed in generous quantities and some people were already approaching a state of rambunctious inebriation. As the couple made their way through the streets toward the ghetto the carnival gaiety seemed to give way to something darker and more sinister. Both Alonso and Rachel had simple wooden masks borrowed from the di Rossinis, and the crowd assumed that both were Jewish people returning to their homes before the midnight curfew.

Some of the people they passed shouted insults and jeered at them, others spat and threw fruit, and still others, local toughs and yahoos, jostled them. Alonso resisted the urge to fight back, and they made it to the bridge across the canal that would lead them back to the ghetto.

"It's turning nasty out there", Alonso noted.

"Somebody is whipping the crowd up. I recognised some of the troublemakers there, and when they have a group of people who are drunk and looking for trouble it is not difficult to provoke them into acting on their base impulses. We had best prepare for the worst.”

o o o o o

The Palazzo Ducale di Venezia, the Doge's palace, was alive with colour and life. Each of the rooms hosted dancing and music in the grandest possible setting amidst the gilded ceilings, the awe inspiring paintings and sculptures and the sumptuous architecture.

The costumes sported by the revellers were as intricate and ornate as the setting that they were being worn in, particularly the ornate masks, gilded and covered with jewels. As well as examples of the Harlequin, Columbine and Pantaloon costumes that the Rossinis were sporting, there were Brighellas and Gnagas, Bernardons and The Mattacino, Turks, fishermen, weeping Jews, demons and satyrs and a myriad others. All of them intermingled, true identities concealed by the facade of carnival.

The Rossinis made their way through the inner courtyard and climbed the giant stairway where the statutes of Mars and Neptune had been draped with decorations to show that even the Gods themselves were not above the mockery of carnival. Moving through the crowd formed an elaborate social dance with intricate rules of its own. It would be rude to push through in a hurry, so they had to flit from one group to the next, exchanging pleasantries and then slipping from one orbit to the next like wandering planets amongst the stars.

Their ultimate goal was to climb the fabled golden staircase to the party in the Doge's apartment. This was were the Doge himself was to be found, and they spotted him dressed in the multicoloured striped tunic embellished with golden buttons, a feathered hat and of course the enormous sword of The Captain, another famous trope of the carnival tradition. He was not wearing a mask, one of very few not to be so adorned.

Antonio di Rossini went to speak to the Doge directly, whilst Silvio and Donatella mingled with the larger crowd nearby, being watchful for anything that caught their eye.

“This is a hopeless task”, complained Silvio, “Unless we see somebody actually pull a dagger, what can we do?”

“Patience brother”, replied Donatella, “Watch and wait”

In the inner orbit of nobles, dignitaries and guards around the Doge, Antonio di Rossini waited patiently and then finally, at last, caught the eye of the Doge.

“My lord, a brief word, if it pleases you?” he said, bowing politely

“Of course, di Rossini. I had been given to understand that you were absent from Venice. You are well I trust?”

“Yes my lord, I am well now. However, in recent days I have been held prisoner by the very same forces currently arrayed against our fair republic. They are plotting against you personally, as I believe my son has already warned you. I urge you to be on your guard at all times”

“Believe me, I will be watchful. I am pledged to defend this city and this republic to my very last breath, but I do not intend to draw that breath for many years to come.”

“Thank you, my lord. Our family is, forever, at your service”, said Antonio, bowing again and retiring from the crowd.

o o o o o

Through patient listening to the buzz of flirting and general conversation, Donatella had identified most of the people in the immediate vicinity within a fairly short space of time, and believed that most of those she recognised were to be trusted. However, one figure in particular troubled her – a person dressed in the black robes and the strange bird like bespectacled mask of the plague doctor. The plague was one of the few forces of nature ever to truly threaten all of Venice, afflicting as it did rich and poor alike with a fearful rate of mortality and no known cure or treatment. She shuddered at the thought.

The plague doctor did not seem to be talking to anybody in particular, and if anything was acting in the same watchful manner as Donatella and Silvio themselves. She resolved to approach the figure to see if she could talk to them when they seemed to vanish through the melee of the crowd like a wraith at midnight. She was still trying to see where the figure had gone when a commotion was heard at the other side of the room. A note of alarm spread through the room and then a cry rang out from one voice, quickly taken up by others.

“Fire! Fire!”

The Doge's palace was ablaze and starting to fill with smoke. Fear gripped the crowd with an icy hand, and Donatella knew that if action was not taken quickly then not just the Doge, but hundreds upon hundreds of people would die in a terrible inferno.

Chapter Thirty Eight

2008-11-25T12:15:00.001-08:00

The walls of Mestre were a lonely place to stand.

Fletcher was looking out over the serried ranks of the papal forces whose guns had not yet started their bombardment for the day. He could see smoke from numerous cook fires dotted around the battlefield and men making preparations for the day’s fighting - honing weapons, cleaning armour or just sitting in quiet prayer and contemplation. Something was different though, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had changed. Was it just his new perspective looking out from the city walls as a defender, rather than when he had been on the opposing side?

“Why aren’t the bastards attacking?” he asked himself rhetorically, not expecting an answer.

“Perhaps they are afraid of your reputation, Fletcher?” replied a voice behind him.

Fletcher had been joined at his vantage point by Caption Lucio Patrese of the Venetian city guard, the nominal commander of all of the forces besieged within the city walls.

“More likely they are waiting for something, but what though? They were happy enough to throw me and my men into the breach yesterday, so why not follow it up with another attack?”, Fletcher asked.

“Look out over the camps again, Fletcher. Can you not see anything different from yesterday?”

Fletcher looked again, and was struck by what he didn’t see rather than what he did see. The mercenary units that had been attached to the Papal Army had marched during the night and now were no longer to be seen on the battlefield. Fully two thirds of the forces facing Mestre had disappeared overnight.

“Obviously your little stunt yesterday had an effect.” Said Patrese. “Perhaps they were renegotiating their contracts to ask for more money if the Papal commanders were going to put them in the front rank?”

“Either that or they haven’t been paid at all” replied Fletcher, with a chuckle. “I hear that the Pope may be finding himself unexpectedly short of gold today”

Lucio Patrese laughed as well. In the midst of war and horror, any release of the tension was more than welcome. The moment was short lived, however.

Dispatch riders were busy delivering messages through the enemy camp, and ranks of men were beginning to form up.

“They’ll be on their way soon enough”, said Fletcher and the guns of the Papal army erupted with fire, beginning their bombardment for the day. Even with their substantially reduced numbers the Papal army was more than capable of over running Mestre and the handful of defenders left within.

o o o o o

The attack did not begin until well after the middle of the day.

The sun was dipping toward the western horizon casting long shadows from the advancing attackers, and the late afternoon winter light was dazzling the eyes of those on the walls. The Papal army had waited until this time so that they could march out of the sun and make it difficult for the defenders to discern their movements and manoeuvres.

Patrese spoke to the defenders of the breach.

“They will come in waves. Hold your fire until they are well within range and make every shot count. Each crossbow man will have at least one other man behind him loading a bow and passing it forward so you can keep up the maximum rate of fire. Arbusqiers will do the same. Remember to aim low - a shot to the belly or the legs will stop somebody more effectively that a shot that bounces off a breastplate or helmet. When they get within the walls we have two cannons loaded with canister shot that will hit them from both sides. After that we will be fighting hand to hand."

He looked along the line of men waiting and spoke again.

"At some point, they will get sufficient numbers into the breach to force us back. At that point you will retreat and use the boats to get across the lagoon to Venice and into the city. We can't hold them back forever, but like the Spartans at Thermopylae we can make them pay a bloody price. When I give the order to leave, head for the boats and don't look back."

He raised his sword high into the air and raised his voice to its highest pitch.

"Now, get to your posts and make those bastards pay in blood for every inch of ground they take!"

o o o o o

The first wave of attackers marched out of the setting sun and into the breach.

The Venetian defenders lining the walls to either side of the ragged hole in the city's defences kept up a withering cross fire of cross bow bolts and lead shot, and the attackers started to falter. The next wave followed them closely, and sergeants armed with pikes pushed the stragglers forward until the were inside the breach itself.

From his position inside the wall Fletcher could see the fear etched into the faces of the soldiers who were now lined up in the sights of a gunner waiting by the side of his cannon.

"Dear god, that would have been me" thought Fletcher as the gunner touched a burning match to the touch hole of the cannon and a blast of canister shot ripped through the attackers in the breach. The canister shot was simply a collection of lead balls inside a tin container which ripped apart as it left the muzzle of the cannon. The hail of metal spread out in a lethal cone shape as it flew through the air. The effect was like a monstrous shot gun or blunderbuss and it turned the poor wretches caught in its blast into bloody, unrecognisable ruin in an instant.

The next wave appeared and the second cannon fired, repeating the horror and filling the air with choking powder smoke.

Fletcher knew that is was now time for his men to join the fight.

Another wave of attackers appeared through the smoke through the mouth of the breach and into the space immediately inside the wall. Fletcher drew his heavy sword and led the charge, abandoning any attempt at finesse and chopping wildly from left to right, clearing a path through the ranks of men in front of him. The rest of the Black Company were no less savage and the sheer fury of their counter attack drove the papal soldiers back from whence they had came. This was war at its most primal, bloody and brutal.

There was a brief lull and they quickly regrouped and reformed their position, waiting for the next assault. Patrese, was atop the wall and could see a large column of men marching towards the breach. They had calculated that the sacrifice of the first men through the breach would have spent the efforts of the defending forces and broken their will. Patrese now knew what he had to do, and he shouted a general order.

"There are too many of them coming. Retreat! Flee for the boats! I order you - go now!"

Fletcher's men looked at him for confirmation, and he nodded assent. He knew with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach exactly what Patrese was planning, but there was nothing that he could do to dissuade him from his chosen course of action.

"Do as the man says, boys. Lively now, before the Papal army gets up the nerve to chance the breach again!"

They didn't need any more encouragement, and made their way quickly, but in a calm and orderly fashion to the boats and boarded a pair of barges that were standing ready. They manned the oars and pushed off into the waters of the lagoon.

Fletcher looked back into the city and heard an eerie silence that seemed to stretch for an age. He imagined the soldiers of the Papal army climbing the rubble slope into the mouth of the breach and finding it empty of defenders, save for a single man. Their moment of triumph would be short lived.

Fletcher saw - felt - an explosion that ripped through what was left of the city wall, eviscerating the heart of the Papal army. His ears rang with a high pitched tone and it sounded as if he were listening to the world from a long way under the surface of the water. Patrese had stayed behind to fire the gunpowder mine concealed within the city wall, and he had timed it to perfection. His sacrifice had not been in vain.

Fragments of smoking stone rained down on to the sea and the men in the barges, and a large cloud of black smoke rose into the air above the ruined city. The silence that followed the explosion was swiftly filled by the screams of the wounded and dying, and then the spitting crackly of the fires that took hold in the wooden houses nearest to the wall.

"Now, pull boys, get those oars moving! We're going to Venice!”

o o o o o

The regular units of the Papal army were shattered and demoralised, and they retreated to regroup. Even though their casualties in the breach and by the wall had numbered no more than a few hundred the sudden and shocking violence had been like the knock out blow to the head that leaves a prize fighter reeling on the canvas.

Meanwhile in the shadows and dark places of the city another, more insidious, army lurked. This army had been watching and waiting for the moment at which to strike, and now came their opportunity. Plans were laid, weapons readied and soon blood would be spilt on the streets of Venice.

Chapter Thirty Seven

2008-11-23T10:13:00.000-08:00

It was the day of the feast of Saint Stephen.

The most serene republic of Venice was facing blockade, war and ruin. A storm was blowing through the streets, rattling shuttered windows like an angry lover. Flood waters roiled in the Piazza San Marco and house holders nearby rescued rugs, paintings and furniture and moved them to higher floors for safe storage. There was much to be concerned about and little to celebrate, but the day had a significance that countermanded everything else, for the feast day of Saint Stephen was the start of the Venice carnival.

The carnival ran every year from the 26th of December – Saint Stephen's day – to Shrove Tuesday, lasting for between six and eight weeks depending on where the moveable feast of Easter fell in any particular year. During the carnival everyone would dress in their finery, regardless of whether they could afford the money for extravagant clothes, and wear elaborate gilded masks to conceal their true identities. It was a time of licence, licentiousness and Bacchanalian excess. It was the very spirit of Venice, distilled and concentrated into a brief span of time.

A mere trifle like a war was not going to stop the people of Venice from celebrating with gusto.

In Mestre, a small flotilla of boats, gondolas and barges had ferried most of the civilians who wished to leave the embattled port across the lagoon to the comparative safety of Venice itself. Fletcher had persuaded Alonso and Antonio di Rossini to leave in one of the boats while the Venetian guards and the hundred and twenty men of the Black Company had control of the city walls.

“What about you and your men?”, Alonso had asked, “You'll be wiped out if you stay.”

“Don't worry about us. We'll make a tactical withdrawal to Venice when we have to. It's all in hand.”, and with that Fletcher had made sure that they had boarded their boat for the short trip across the choppy waters of the lagoon. The noise of cannon fire was an omnipresent background noise, both from the forces besieging Mestre and also at one point a brief but violent volley from the direction of the seaward entrance of the lagoon.

“Some fool must be running the blockade” remarked the Gondolier who was propelling them across the waters. “Bloody stupid if you ask me. This war will be sorted out soon enough – there are too many people relying on Venetian trade to allow anything to interrupt it for too long”.

This was indeed true. The thought of a world without the finance, trade and culture of Venice was unthinkable, and after every previous war, battle and skirmish Venice had risen again like a phoenix from the flames – a true fenice – more powerful, elegant and richer than before.

Their gondola was now approaching the dock where they would set foot onto Venetian soil.

“What do you plan to do now” Antonio di Rossini asked Alonso, who had fallen silent.

In truth, Alonso was at a loss. He simply had not thought this far ahead from the point at which he had decided to leave the monastery. Since that time they had been on the run, with barely a moment in which to contemplate his future. Now he felt utterly spent and bone weary, adrift in an uncertain world.

“I don't know. I don't know about anything, any more.” he said.

“Perhaps you should stay with us for a while” said Antonio, in kindly tones. “The company always has need of smart, resourceful young men like you”

“Thank you, signor. I appreciate your generosity” replied Alonso.

“It is I who should be thanking you. Without your help I would still be dying in a cell in that monastery. We have survived together. Now, we are at our destination, let us disembark.”

A commotion at the far end of the dock caught their attention. A large ship was approaching the dock at a rate of knots and it looked as if it sailed to hell and back. The hull was splintered and holed in several places, the main mast had shattered and was lying across the deck and what remained of the rigging was tattered and torn. It looked as if it was lucky to have made it to the dock without sinking.

Antonio di Rossini stared in disbelief and then shouted for joy

“I'd know that ship anywhere – it's La Serenissima! By the bones of San Marco it's the bloody Serenissima!”.

Better still was the sight that greeted him when they reached the jetty where the Serenissima was being moored. Walking down the gang plank was a figure – wind swept, soaked to the skin, bruised and scarred but grinning exultantly there was no mistaking the figure of his daughter, Donatella.

“Father! I brought your ship home” she said and ran into his arms.

Alonso watched the joyous reunion and smiled. This was the reason for his sacrifice. The simple joy of a parent and child meeting, both of whom had feared the other to be dead or captured. All of the troubles of the recent past seemed as naught in comparison with this happy moment.

Antonia di Rossini seemed to change, almost in an instant. He was transformed from a feeble and ailing old man into somebody twenty years younger and full of vitality. He stood up taller, and his voice was as clear as the bell of San Marco. This was his city and his business, and he was taking charge again. He hadn't run one of the most successful trading companies in the Adriatic by being a doddering old fool.

“Captain Parese!” he summoned the captain of La Serenissima to the dock.

Benito Parese had been injured in the engagement with the Papal ships by a large splinter of wood dislodged from the mast as it fell, and one of his arms was bandaged and strapped to his chest.

“Yes sir!”

“Running the gauntlet of the blockade was the most foolhardy manoeuvre that any of captains in my company has ever attempted. You were lucky not to be sunk with all hands and now be supping with Neptune on the bed of the lagoon. The repairs to the ship will cost a sum that you can barely imagine. You are dismissed from your command of La Serenissima immediately”

Benito looked momentarily shocked at these harsh words, but then a sly smile spread across Antonio's face and he continued.

“However, seeing as you have brought home safely a treasure of ten million ducats and something of inestimably greater value to me personally”, at this he indicated his daughter Donatella, “you are henceforth instated as business manager for the whole fleet, with a seat on the board of directors and an appropriate percentage share of any and all profits.”

Antonio held out his hand to shake Benito's.

“Congratulations – you are now a very wealthy man, indeed.”

“Thank you sir!”

“Please – it is Antonio now. We are on an equal footing. Now, I trust that I can leave you arrange safe and discreet transport of the money to the Rialto bank as soon as possible, and after that to take full charge of the repairs to La Serenissima – I want her seaworthy and ready for action within a month.”

“I'll see to it without delay Sir, I mean Antonio” Benito corrected himself and smiled.

Another figure was approaching from the end of the dock, and he most definitely was not smiling. He had a face as grim as the storm that was approaching Venice. It was Silvio di Rossini.

“Father. Donatella. I am pleased to see you both, but we do not have time to celebrate just yet. Our enemy is still at large, and I believe that an atrocity is being planned for tonight. We must return to the house and plan our strategy carefully. We may have won a skirmish but we have not yet won the war.”

Silvio winced as his sister hugged him fiercely.

“Careful, please. The enemies that are spoke of are not averse to using cold steel to the furtherance of their ends. I am lucky to be alive, and indeed I would be cold in my grave now if not for some people that I would like you to meet.”

“I have my own scars, brother.” replied Donatella. “I believe that we all have reasons for seeking revenge, but we must be cautious in the extreme.”

“True. Let us return to the house and then we discuss this properly.”

o o o o o

They were all sat around the grand dining table of the di Rossini family palazzo in the Campo Santo Stefano and a strange assortment they were indeed. The three di Rossinis – Antonio, Silvio and of course Donatella, Rachel di Jehuda and Alonso, now no longer called Brother. All were much changed from the people that they had been until recent days, harder, grimmer and more care worn.

The first order of business was food and wine. It was after all the feast day of Santo Stefano himself, the patron saint of their local church, and they were all much in need of sustenance. Alonso could scarcely believe the richness of the fare laid out in front of him on the table. He had lived the ascetic life for years and he had difficulty even identifying some of the provender on offer. Rare cheeses, fine wines, spiced meats sliced more thinly than paper, candied fruits and other sweet meats.

Antonio smiled and welcomed them all to his home.

O o o o o

They all shared their stories and experiences, and then examined the evidence that they had accumulated, particularly the list of names and amounts that they had acquired from Carmelo and Bompanzini. Rachel di Jehuda spoke,

“These are the people that we have suspected for some time. We have evidence of a conspiracy to subvert the lawful government of Venice by bribing some members of the council and black mailing others.”

Silvio continued

“They tried to influence the voting for the election of the Doge, but at least they failed in that attempt.”

Rachel spoke again,

“It is worse than that – we have good reason to believe that the late Doge Grimani was poisoned, and that an attempt on the life of the present Doge Donato will be made tonight. The republic will be thrown into chaos and dark forces will take control. Venice will become a puppet client of Rome and they will rule Europe with an iron fist. Their ultimate goal is to eliminate the Jewish people in their entirety.”

“Surely not!”, Antonio interjected in shock.

“Believe me. We know. We have seen the future, and it is a very dark future indeed”

Chapter Thirty Six

2008-11-23T03:54:00.001-08:00

Donatella pulled away from the arm on her shoulder, but she had no where to escape in the crowded tavern. She automatically reached for her dagger with her free hand.

“I'm sorry Miss – I did not mean to startle you. It's me, Benito, from your father's ship La Serenissima” he hissed.

Donatella heaved a sigh of relief. At last, this was a man she knew that she could trust. Benito Parese had worked for her father for many years and she knew him well. Many was the time that he had dandled her on his knee on a warm afternoon by the docks as she listened to tales of his exploits on the high seas.

“Let's find somewhere out of sight to talk” she said and they found a free table at the far side of the room where they could watch the door and still remain out of sight. They also had the benefit of a blazing log fire which was more than welcome given the cold and the rain outside.

Benito purchased two mugs of a weak local beer which was considerably safer than drinking the local water, and also a plate of bread, oil and salt, and some pickled herrings to eat. Donatella realised that she had had practically nothing to eat in days and tucked in greedily, wolfing the bread down. Benito waited patiently for her to finish and then asked.

“What are you doing here in Ravenna?”

“Looking for my father,” she replied, “although it all seems to have got a lot more complicated than that. I could ask you the exact same question?”

“I am doing the same thing, more or less. I wasn't sure what to do after your father disappeared. We were anchored off shore and your father came here to negotiate with his business partners, and we haven't seen him since. He told us to keep La Serenissima safe, so we've been sailing around the Adriatic hiding in smuggler’s coves in the islands hereabouts.”

“How do you know about the smuggler’s coves?” interrupted Donatella

“It's probably best that you don't ask about things like that Miss” replied Benito, “You don't captain a trading ship without knowing where you can hide when things get a little tricky. The Serenissima is a fast ship, probably one of the nippiest in these waters, but you can't keep running forever. I've been coming back here every so often to look for your father, but I wasn't expecting you to be here – you looked as if you were on the run from somebody”

“I was, but I killed them.” she replied with a wolfish grin. “I suspect there are more of them on the way though. There's a whole Papal army marching on its way to Venice, and I don't think they are going to best pleased when they find out what I did to one of their financial backers”

“What do you want to do then?” Benito asked. “As your father's daughter, I reckon that makes you the boss of company in his absence”

“Venice” she said with finality. “We're going back to Venice, and the sea is our only option – there's a whole army on the road ahead of us.”

“Very well. La Serenissima is moored just up the coast. We have a boat that can take us there. It will be a rough trip, mind. The seas are up, and there's a hell of a storm on the way if I'm any judge of the weather.”

“What are we waiting for then? Let's go!”

o o o o o

They left the tavern and Donatella once more pulled her cloak hood up to hide her face. She didn't imagine that the disguise would be effective for very much longer but at least it would deter casual identification. It wasn't far to the dock and they made their way to the jetty where the boat was waiting, with two sailors ready to row them to the Serenissima.

Benito had, if anything, understated the weather as the storm was steadily growing in intensity.

“You'll have to bail” Benito told Donatella, handing her a leather bucket. “Hold on tight and don't, whatever you do, let yourself get swept overboard. We'll never find you in this weather”.

She did as she was told and concentrated on fighting the waves that crashed over the side, filling the bottom of the vessel with sea water. It was hard work but it kept her mind off the violence of the storm and the precarious situation that they found themselves in. The small boat bobbed and dipped between the huge waves that were crashing on to the shore, but they made good time with the two sailors sculling hard and taking advantage of the racing tide to speed them forward. They approached the Serenissima from the lee ward side which provided enough respite from the storm to allow them to climb safely aboard with the crew hauling the boat after them and lashing it to the deck.

Captain Benito Parese ignored the fact that he was soaked to the skin and ordered an immediate departure from their mooring.

“We'll be running ahead of the storm in full sail. Trim the rigging for speed as tightly as if the Devil himself were on our tail. Every man to his station and do your duty. Batten down all of the hatches and make everything secure above and below decks. We're going home boys!”

The crew gave a resounding cheer and set to their duties. They were not a full compliment, but they were all experienced enough to squeeze the last ounce of speed of the ship given the limited numbers that they had. In a remarkably short time the ship was ready to sail and as they weighed anchor La Serenissima sprang forward as she were a race horse ready for action at the start of a prize race.

The deck of the ship heaved and bucked with the waves and Donatella clung on for grim death. Benito had offered her space in a cabin below decks, but she was feeling queasy and being confined inside would make it worse. At least when she could focus on the horizon she could anticipate the action of the waves and the wind. This was certainly a wild ride.

O o o o o

The sun was not far off rising, but the storm meant that it was almost as dark as it had been during the night. They had started tacking before making the turn to head directly west into the mouth of the Venetian lagoon. The lookout from the crows nest at the tip of the mast sang out as the ship heeled into the wind.

“Ships ahoy! Ships ahoy! Flying the papal flag”

Benito cursed with the fluidity and floridity that a lifetime before the mast had given him. He could see a blockade of three papal ships across the mouth of the lagoon. They were broadside on, and having a rough time being battered by the wind and the waves, but they would be able to loose a vicious volley of cannon fire at any approaching vessel.

A sensible Captain would, in this situation, furl the main sail and run parallel to the blockade, staying out of range of the guns. He didn't have time for such a lengthy manoeuvre and he made the decision to gamble. They would run the gauntlet and damn the consequences!

“Keep the sails at full stretch – we're aiming for the gap between the two ships on the left. If we continue at this speed they'll only be able to get one broadside off apiece before we are past them. Load our cannons and we'll give them a taste of round shot as we pass them by.”

The crew readied themselves for action as La Serenissima flew towards the line of ships. Every timber shivered from the strain and the main mast was dangerously bowed and making ominous creaking noises as the storm force wind pressed into the billowing sails.

“Steady lads, steady!” said Benito and he lashed the wheel into position to keep them on course. He ran to the fore deck to look at what they were facing. The furthest ship at the end of the line could not bring her guns to bear, but feverish activity on the two closest vessels indicated that they were preparing to loose a volley.

“Prepare for incoming fire!” he yelled as he returned to the wheel and his post.

The first ship fired a rolling volley of round shot, each gun firing one after the other. The ship was rolling heavily in the swell and most of the shots went astray, either going far too high or plunging into the sea. Three shots landed though. Two went through the upper decks sending a deadly hail of splinters flying through the confined space, killing three of the crew in a instant. The final shot skated across the deck leaving a trail of devastation as it bounced and finally carrying a hapless sailor through the side railings to his merciful death.

The second ship delayed firing and then unleashed a volley of chain shot. Chain shot consisted of two smaller cannonballs joined by a six foot length of chain. When fired the balls would separate and then spin through the air scything through anything they touched. They were particularly effective against sails and rigging, although they had an equally devastating result when used against personnel.

In one blast the mainsail of the Serenissima was reduced to tattered shards, and one shot struck the mast, wrapping around and fracturing the wood. The strain from the on rushing gale was too much and the mast toppled forward on to the deck with a sound like the end of the world.

The momentum of the Serenissima propelled her through the gap running on her remaining canvas. As the ship passed between her two attackers she was perfectly positioned to unleash a double broadside of her own, which her gunners did with relish in revenge for the devastating attack inflicted on their own vessel. For such a short range attack they had selected grape shot – a collection of metal scraps, musket balls, rocks and other detritus sewn into a canvas bag and fired from the mouth of a cannon where it would wreak a swath of destruction at anything in its path. The decks of both enemy vessels were simultaneously scoured of all life, and the timbers of the Serenissima groaned in protest at the strain of the recoil.

Then they were past the blockade and skimming across the surface of the lagoon towards the docks. They had survived against the odds, although the Serenissima was in a sorry state and would need extensive repairs before sailing again. The ship retained enough manoeuvrability to steer for the docks and Captain Parese ordered a Venetian standard to be run up a jury rigged foremast so that the guns of the city would not open fire on them as well.

The Serenissima limped into the jetty and the men leaped to tie her safely to an anchor in the teeth of the howling storm.

They had made it. They had returned to Venice.

Chapter Thirty Five

2008-11-23T03:53:00.001-08:00

The bombardment from the heavy cannons ceased, precisely at the appointed hour.

Soldiers could be seen looking nervously over the parapet of the city wall to see what the unexpected silence presaged. Fletcher scanned the walls looking for one face in particular and saw it. Good, they might yet have a chance. A slim chance at long odds, but a chance none the less. He called his men to attention and shook them into ranks.

“It is nearly time. They'll be expecting us, and if they have any discipline they won't fire until we are within range – well within. Keep your weapons sheathed and concentrate on moving – don't run, just keep a steady pace and stick with the men by your side. Whatever you do, keep moving and don't stop. Listen for my voice too. If I give an order then follow it, however crazy it might seem at the time.”

He stopped and took a moment to look at his men. They were ragged, dirty and cold from being stuck on a muddy exposed hill side in the rain for days, but they still managed to stand tall. He was proud of them, proud of the brotherhood and comradeship that they represented, proud of who they were. They had fought together, some of them for many years, and seen some dreadful sights over the years. They had all lost many good friends along the way and yet they were still willing to march into hell if he asked them to do so. They believed in him and trusted his judgement, having faith in his ability to get them out of trouble.

Fletcher hoped that their faith wouldn't be misplaced. He had one chance to extricate them from this situation but he wasn't convinced that it would work. If he failed then they would more than likely all be killed – caught between the hammer of the Papal army behind them and the anvil of the city walls of Mestre in front.

He spoke again.

“If any man wishes to leave now and surrender to the custody of the Papal army, I won't think any less of him. I can't promise that they will treat you kindly, but you will not be killed.”

Not a single one of the men lined up in front of him moved.

“Well done lads. I'm proud of you. Now we wait for the order, then we march as one”

He looked into the ranks and saw Alonso and Antonio. Neither of them were carrying weapons, but then again he didn't think that they would need them. Across the battlefield a messenger from the Papal army approached and signalled to Fletcher using his sword which he pointed towards the breach and then swept down in a theatrical flourish.

Fletcher nodded to his sergeant at arms in the front rank of men. The sergeant, a huge Scot from the highlands, took a deep breath and bellowed the order.

“By the left! Quick march!”

o o o o o

Alonso stood in the ranks, listening to Fletcher's speech. He reflected on the path his life had taken over the last few days, and again he thought about how far he had come. He knew that he was more than likely going to face death in the very near future. At one time he would have been expecting to be giving an account of his sins to his maker, and feeling pathetic and inadequate in the face of celestial perfection and purity. Now, when death was imminent he felt calmer and more ready than he ever would have expected. He knew that his actions in his life were his own responsibility and no one else's. Life truly is what you make it.

Now. It was time to march again.

o o o o o

On the walls of Mestre Captain Lucio Patrese of the Venetian city guard watched the advancing men. He recognised Fletcher's company and felt a sick horror that they would soon be fighting. Fletcher and his men would be wiped out, but then the next wave would come and the city would be over run. He had one final card to play in the defence of the city but it was a true last resort that had hoped never to use.

The men approached, and the colour sergeant unfurled a banner from a leather case. Patrese saw to his surprise that it was not the expected symbol of the Black Company but instead he saw a large yellow fleur de lys on a blue background. It was the one of the colour flags of a French company and he had seen it before, many years previously. Fletcher was sending him a message, he was sure of it. He shouted an order to the men in breach.

“Hold your fire! Do not shoot unless I give you an order. I repeat – hold your fire!”

He had an inkling of what was about to happen, but God help them all if he was wrong

o o o o o

Fletcher and his men were nearly at the base of the rubble slope now. A Venetian gunner discharged his arquebus ahead of time through a combination of nervousness and impatience. A single shot rang out from the walls and struck one of the men in the front rank in the left arm, causing him to cry out in pain.

“Steady lads. Keep moving. Don't stop.” Fletcher shouted to his men, and then to the colour sergeant “The second flag now, please Mr Cartwright!”

The sergeant dropped the blue and yellow French banner and unfurled another from a second flag case on his back. This one was a plain white square of linen cloth, and it was a clear and unambiguous signal. The French flag had been to remind Patrese of the French company that had downed their arms in the battle that had fought together all of those many years before, and the white flag was to confirm their surrender and signal a parlay.

“Hands on your heads boys – we are going to join the Venetian army!”

It took a moment for the import of Fletcher's words to sink in, and then a laugh and a ragged cheer ran through the company, swiftly joined by the defenders on the walls. In the madness of war such moments rarely occur, but both sides found a common humanity and realised that the moment to fight had been postponed, if only briefly.

Fletcher ran the last few yards up the rubble and jumped into the breach. Captain Patrese was there to greet him and grasped his hand with both of his own to pull him on to the walls.

“Fletcher, you mad bastard! What are you playing at now?” he said with a laugh.

“Realised we were on the wrong bloody side, didn't I? Reckoned you could do with another hundred and odd defenders to hold off the Papists a bit longer, too.”

“It's appreciated, my old friend, but I don't think it will buy us much more time. There are thousands of them and only a handful of us left. Most of the civilian population has escaped to Venice now. We can hold them off for while but no longer. We have a mine built into the wall from the last time it was breached, but that is not going to kill them all.”

Patrese was referring to the previous breach in the wall. When the wall was rebuilt a void space had been left which was now filled with a large number of barrels of black powder. The mine could be detonated when an attacking force was about to overrun the city, but it was only a desperate weapon of last resort. It would completely wipe out one wave of the attacking forces, but at the cost of laying the city wall wide open for the next wave.

“We'll think about that when the time comes. Now, let's look lively and get inside the walls before the Papists realise what is going on and start shelling us again.”

Fletcher hurried his men inside the walls, and they took up positions along the parapets, completely accepting of their change of allegiance. Fletcher knew that violating a contract in such an egregious fashion as changing sides in the middle of a battle would mean the end of his career as a mercenary. No one would ever trust him, or his company again, but by this time he truly did not care. All he wanted was to survive this battle and get as many of his men home to safety as he could.

o o o o o

On the hill side the commander of the Papal army watched Fletcher's betrayal with a cold fury building inside him.

“That English dog will pay for this. We will scour that city until we find him, hang, draw and quarter him and then stick his head on a spike on the walls of the Vatican city! Now, restart the bombardment and prepare for another assault on the breach at my order!”

After their temporary silence, the guns spoke again.

Chapter Thirty Four

2008-11-23T03:52:00.000-08:00

A storm was coming to Venice.

Out in the waters of the Adriatic a weather system was forming, with cold air from the Balkan mountains meeting the warmer waters flowing from the south. Together they formed a dark, roiling, turbulent mass of air that was forced to the west by the constraints of geography which funnelled the storm directly towards the city. As it approached the land the storm grew in intensity, the winds howling and the clouds flecked with flashes of lightning. The combination of low pressure and seasonal high tide was generating a lethal storm surge of water that would soon engulf the city.

In the city itself a different storm was brewing.

The infection from his knife wound raced through Silvio’s body like a forest fire in a dry pine wood, and sweated through a fever dream barely aware of his surroundings. The eminent physician Solomon Benjamin di Jehuda inspected the wound in Silvio’s back and pronounced himself satisfied. He instructed his daughter Rachel to clean the wound again, and then apply another hot poultice to draw out the poisons.

“The fever will break soon. He will be weak, but he will survive, I am sure of it” he said, as Rachel began her ministrations.

“I have to go now. I have been summoned to treat a sick child of the Borghese family - I fear that she will not live to see the dawn, but at least I can ease her passing. The wasting sickness is not kind to one so small.”

“Father, please be careful. The city is a dangerous place at this time of night. We have many enemies. Just look at what happened to poor Silvio”

Solomon Benjamin di Jehuda sighed heavily and regarded his daughter with a weary eye.

“Oy veh! I have been walking the streets at night to visit sick patients for more years than I care to remember. I will be as careful as I always am, be assured. Now do as I have instructed you, and I will be back in the morning.”

“Yes father, but please make sure that you return safe.”

“I will”

o o o o o

Although the curfew was in force from midnight until dawn, as a physician Solomon was allowed to walk the streets freely to go about his ministrations. The guard on the gate recognised him as he crossed the bridge.

“Solly! It’s a filthy night and no mistake. The Piazza San Marco will be flooded in the morning, I’ll be bound.”

“Indeed it is”. Both Solomon and the guard who had recognised him wore heavy cloaks to protect them from the elements.

The rain was lashing down, and the water in the canals was rising rapidly. The Piazza San Marco is the lowest point in Venice, and was usually flooded by any storm surge or heavy rain. These floods were called the Acqua Alta, the "high water", and were little more than an irregular nuisance to the Venetians, because the waters quickly drained into the grand canal. Tonight, the flood waters had nowhere to go and they were starting to rise.

Solomon had barely reached the end of the street when he was approached by two men.

"Solomon di Jehuda? You are going to treat a child, yes?" one of them asked.

"That is my name, and yes, that is the business that that I am about" Solomon replied

"Please come with us" said the other man. It wasn't a request. They positioned themselves on either side of Solomon, pinning his arms, and hustled him towards a side alley way off of the main street.

"What is the meaning of this?" Solomon demanded.

"You'll be treating no one, old man" said a third man who emerged from the shadows and thrust a canvas bag over Solomon's head.

"You have crimes to answer for", and with that they carried Solomon Benjamin di Jehuda off into the darkness.

o o o o o

After what seemed like an age of being pushed, pulled and turned around as he was manhandled through the streets of Venice, Solomon was finally given one last shove in the back which made him stumble forward, and then the bag was torn from his head by somebody standing behind him.

He looked around to find himself in large, dimly lit room with a table set up at one end. Three men in clerical dress were sat at the table facing him, like members of a tribunal or a jury. The one in the middle spoke.

"Solomon Benjamin di Jehuda. You are accused of occult practices in the furtherance of your career as a physician, you are accused of harbouring enemies of the Holy Roman Church, you are accused of desecrating a consecrated host stolen from the Church of Saint Mark. Furthermore you are accused of using human blood for purpose or ritual unknown. Do you have anything to say against these charges?"

Solomon was dumbfounded.

"These are lies! There must be some misunderstanding or mistake? Who has accused me?"

"Silence! The prisoner will remain silent unless asked a direct question" shouted one of the guards stationed close behind Solomon.

The priest in the centre of the three spoke again.

"The charges are not contested, because the word of a Jew counts as nothing when compared to the accusation of a true Christian in the eyes of this court. You are hereby found guilty, and I pronounce that, by the power vested in me, Father Vittorio Carmello of the Holy Inquisition, your body is to be scourged with the same punishments that your people inflicted on our blessed Lord Jesus Christ in the hour of his passion."

“This is monstrous!” shouted Solomon

“I said silence!” said the guard, and clubbed Solomon hard across the back of his head with a wooden cudgel.

Solomon Benjamin di Jehuda, physician of the most serene republic of Venice, knew nothing more.

o o o o o

The dawn broke over the city of Venice, though the rains continued with a vengeance.

The streets were a washed out grey colour, and the flood waters were already lapping across the expanse of the Piazza San Marco and bubbling up through the drains bringing with them the sour, rotten smell of the drains.

In the garret room high above the streets of the ghetto, Silvio was eating a bowl of warm soup which seemed to fill his body with blessed life. He felt weak and tired, but he was alive, by God!

In the streets below a dreadful cry was heard. Bloody murder had been done, and the ripples of shock and horror spread through the community until they reached the ears of Rachel di Jehuda. She followed the cries through the street until she arrived at one of the three gates that enclosed their community.

What she saw shocked her beyond comprehension.

Her father had been found, severely beaten, whipped, stabbed in the side and then crucifed on the gate of the ghetto. He was naked, except for a loin cloth, and a crown of thorns had been cruelly pressed into his scalp. The puddled rain waters at his feet were stained crimson with his blood.

A stark note was pinned to the gate beside him.

“Such is the fate of all Christ Killers”

o o o o o

Rachel did not cry. Not at that moment. She walked back to the house, her face blank and unreadable. She climbed the stairs and entered the room where Silvio had been nursed back to health. Silvio was out of bed and getting dressed, buttoning up his shirt. He winced slightly at a sharp pain from the wound in his back that was now tightly bandaged with fresh linen bandages. He looked at Rachel, and his pleasure at seeing her turned to immediate concern.

“What's wrong? What was the commotion in the street outside? What's happened?” he asked.

“It's my father. He's dead. He has been killed by those Roman sons of whores. It is time to fight back.”

Chapter Thirty Three

2008-11-20T14:16:00.001-08:00

Donatella pulled her feet up through the hole in the plaster ceiling, just as the guards managed to kick the door open. The vomit splattered Bompanzini pointed up mutely to where she had vanished and the guards made to follow.

Donatella thought quickly and unhooked the chain that supported the chandelier and released it, striking one of the guards on the side of the head. He roared in anger and pain, and his companions looked for a way that they could climb up, casting about until they realised that they could use the desk to stand on and from there be able to reach the attic space. One of them had the sense to run down the stairs to see if he could spot Donatella from the street when she reached roof level..

Donatella crossed the beams of the attic towards the hole in the tiles. She forced herself to slow down and not rush. The last thing that she wanted now was to step off one of the solid joists and fall through a thin plaster and lath ceiling into who knows what room below.

Again, she managed to haul herself up, just as her pursuers got within sight of her. She was now on the roof and faced with a dilemma. Should she try to climb down, or to increase the distance between herself and the men chasing her.

She hesitated for a moment, and then took the second option. She climbed to the top of the roof and found that the ridge tiles were sturdy enough to support her weight and wide enough to able to traverse at a reasonable rate. She balanced herself like a tightrope walker and moved as fast as she dared. Once more she gave thanks for her innate sense of poise that had made her night time exploits a realistic proposition rather than a completely foolhardy risk.

She recalled that as a child she had played at being a tight rope walker on the high banister at the top of the marble stair case in her family home. Needless to say it was a risky business but she had only slipped and fallen on one occasion. Fortunately she fell onto the landing rather than the other direction which would have seen her plummet twenty feet or more to a hard tiled floor below, a fall which doubtless would either have killed her or left her very seriously injured. As it was she had a series of colourful and spectacular bruises along her entire right hand side stretching from her thigh up to her shoulder.

The one lesson that she had learned above everything else was to never look down. You had to trust that your feet would find a secure hold and keep your eyes on the horizon ahead of you so that you could feel your balance shift and adjust the weight of your body to compensate.

She risked a glance behind. One man had slipped down to the edge of the roof and was frozen with fear of the drop below. The other had a greater sense of confidence and had followed her up to line of the ridge tiles and was recklessly running towards her to try and catch her up. He stopped for a moment and pulled a wicked looking dagger, and started to advance toward her again, waving it menacingly.

Donatella pivoted on one foot so that she was now facing the man with the knife, and drew her own blade. She knew that a dagger fight was a dangerous lottery at the best of times, never mind on such dangerous ground that she now occupied. A knife was quick and deadly, provided that you could get into close measure, and a fight was usually decided by whichever combatant was lucky enough to score a solid blow first.

Her opponent was moving his blade from side to side in a cutting motion, trying to intimidate her into making a rash move. In reply, Donatella kept her blade held out straight in front of her and was retreating step by careful step along the roof line. She knew that this tactic would fail when she reached the end of the space that she had available to her, so she had to think of something quickly.

An opportunity presented itself. She felt a tile shift under her back foot and she realised that it was loose. She needed to provoke her opponent into a rash lunge so that he would step on the tile before realising it was unsafe. She dropped her guard slightly, and when he thrust forward she disengaged over his blade and nicked the back of his hand with the tip of her dagger in a perfect stramazone cut. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would certainly provoke him.

“You bloody bitch!” he roared, “I’ll stick you good and proper for that” he said and lunged forward attempting to drive his dagger between her ribs.

Donatella danced back two steps and her attacker landed on the loose tile, twisted awkwardly as he tried to keep his balance and then slipped, falling down the slope of the roof to his death on the cobbled street below.

Donatella listened to the sickening thud and shuddered, and realised that she was shaking. She took a deep breath to calm herself before moving. She was, after all, still standing on a narrow strip of slippery and uncertain roof and falling herself would be foolish and pointless.

She turned to face her original direction and saw how little space she had had left. Just a few more paces and she would have fallen off the roof herself. She shuddered again. Now she needed to get down to street level, quickly.

She carefully descended the slope of the roof and looked down into the alley way below. Piled up against one of the walls was a substantial rubbish heap consisting of kitchen waste, scraps of material, old sacking and rotted straw. It wasn’t pleasant, but it would have to do.

She lowered herself from the eaves, feeling again the pain in her arms from when she had been chained to wall of the Inquisition’s torture cell, took a deep breath and let herself drop into the rubbish pile, rolling as she landed.

“Not bad, no bones broken” she said as she stood up and brushed herself down. The rubbish pile was a trifle fragrant, but she was past caring by this stage. Her troubles were not yet over though. The guard who had chosen to track the chase from the ground rather than risk scaling the roof tops now appeared at the end of the alley, with a drawn sword, and was evidently not very happy.

“That was my mate who’s lying in a heap back there, you bitch. I don’t care if they said that they wanted you alive – I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done.”

Donatella drew her own rapier and quickly wrapped her cloak around her left arm to afford some extra degree of protection. She really did not want this fight.

The guard opened his attack by rushing her, hoping to catch her off guard, but this was a situation that Donatella had trained for and she anticipated it by stepping neatly to the right allowing his sword to pass safely by on her left. The guard quickly realised that he had been foolish in his rash attack, and began circling Donatella in a counter clockwise direction launching probing thrusts along different lines to see how she would react. Donatella held her ground for as long as she dared, parrying attacks as they came in but refusing to reply in kind. She could see that he was starting to get frustrated at being constantly blocked and so she judged that the time was right to show him an opening.

Donatella allowed the tip of her sword to drift out to the right in front of her. It was a subtle move, but one that an opponent might interpret as an opportunity for an attack. The guard had evidently been waiting for such an opportunity and stepped in to make a thrust attack for Donatella’s chest. Instead of stepping away to avoid the attack, she stepped in and used her cloak to wrap and envelop her opponent’s blade. When she had control, she stepped back again neatly lifting the sword from his grasp and in an instinctive reply she made her own thrust attack which landed under his armpit and pierced his right lung.

The guard clutched his side as Donatella pulled her sword free from the sucking grasp of the man’s flesh. He struggled to breath as his lung collapsed and filled with blood, and in a matter of seconds he had collapsed to the floor, unable to make a sound. He would be dead within minutes.

Donatella felt numb with shock. She was a good swords woman, an expert some would say, but her experience had been confined to the training sale with blunted weapons. Prior to this night she had never fought for her life, and now in the space of a handful of minutes she had killed two men. Her need to escape was now greater than ever.

She whispered a mute apology to the dying man on the ground and quickly cleaned the blood from her blade before sheathing it and hiding it under her cloak again. She forced herself to take a breath and left the alley way at a fast walk, not a run.

She headed for the docks, hoping to lose any pursuit in the night time crowd that thronged the taverns and brothels of the area. She became aware that she was being followed, even after ducking in and out of several of the maze like back alley ways that punctuated the buildings. Finally, she resorted to entering a tavern, but the crush was too great to allow her to use it as a through way. She was trapped. She felt a hand touch her arm and she heard a voice say.

“This is a surprise. I’ve been looking for you for some time now.”

Chapter Thirty Two

2008-11-20T14:15:00.003-08:00

In the trench outside Mestre, Fletcher's company was in a sombre mood.

The bombardment had continued relentlessly all day, and now they barely noticed the cannonballs screaming over head every minute or so. The breach in the city wall that had started as a few cracked and dislodged stones was now a gaping rift with a slew of debris piled up underneath it.

Fletcher judged it with an eye honed by many campaigns – he didn’t think it would be long before the engineers would judge the breach a practical proposition for an assault. Usually in situations like this the bombardment and assault would have been preceded by weeks of blockade and siege, and by the time the attack was finally pressed the defenders would be starving, sick and cowed, low on ammunition and men to replace casualties of war, and more than ready to cave in without putting up too much of a fight.

Today would be very different.

The defenders were fresh, well supplied and willing to defend their city to the utmost of their abilities. The first wave of attackers into the breach would be ripped to pieces by enfilading fire from both sides, from arquebuses and crossbow bolts, and probably canon fire from within the walls if a suitable artillery piece could be brought to bear. More than likely the second, third and forth waves would suffer a similar fate, but by the sheer, crushing weight of numbers of attackers pouring into the city through its weakened defences, the defenders would eventually be overwhelmed.

However you looked at it though, it was almost certain death for the first men into the breach. It truly was a forlorn hope of survival.

A runner arrived with a packet of sealed orders. Fletcher tore them open in the vain hope that the situation would have changed, but he quickly saw that it had not. They were still to assault the breach at the signal of the commander of the Papal army, and the orders were countersigned by Sir Roger de Montfort with his personal seal. Fletcher saw that he had appended a personal note in his characteristically precise script.

“John, I am truly sorry. I pray that you and your men will survive this day, and I will have a chance to explain these orders. My hands are tied by circumstances. – Roger de Montfort”

Fletcher folded the orders and tucked them inside his pack. He could not see a way out of this situation, and feared that this was truly the end. He decided to face it with his usual bluff dignity, and walked over to talk to Alonso who was sitting on his own by a small camp fire.

“Well Alonso, it looks like we've got one hell of a tough fight on our hands. You don't have to come with us – you can hide by the tree line until night falls and then try to slip past the Papal forces.”

“No John. I have made my decision. You trusted me when you found me on the road, and I will try to repay that trust”

“I fear it will more than likely lead you to your grave then.”

Fletcher paused for a moment, and then continued.

“What does the good book have to say on the subject? Any advice for those about to face their final battle?”

Alonso considered this question carefully before answering

“Our Lord Jesus Christ in his sermon on the mount said this 'Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'”

“So, you are saying that we shouldn't fight at all. We should just lay down our swords?”

“That is what the Bible says. You should make your own judgement as to what it means for you, though.”

“I may just do that, Alonso”. Fletcher reached inside his pocket for his flask and took a sip of the strong liquor it held. The familiar taste and its associated memories offered him some measure of solace. Once more he read the roll call of honour engraved on the side of the flask and called to mind his fallen brethren. Unless a miracle occurred this day, then he would soon be joining them in whatever elysian fields they now inhabited.

“If your religion does not forbid it, would you care to join me in a drink for luck?” Fletcher offered the flask to Alonso with an outstretched hand.

“All things are lawful unto me, but all things are not expedient: all things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the power of any.” he took the proffered flask with a smile.

“I suppose that means yes, eh?”, Fletcher grinned.

“Indeed it does, Fletcher, indeed it does” Alonso drank from the flask and returned it.

“Now, I have business to attend to, please excuse me. If I don't talk to you again before the assault, then I would just like to say that it has been a pleasure to know you. The luck of the day to you!” Fletcher shook Alonso's hand and took his leave.

He stood up and had taken a few paces when something that Alonso had said struck him forcefully.

“Lay down our swords, eh” muttered Sir John Fletcher, walking across the camp toward the quartermaster. He had an idea that might just save them all yet.

Chapter Thirty One

2008-11-20T14:15:00.001-08:00

From a darkened alleyway, two figures dressed in black watched Silvio fall to the ground, his life blood ebbing away. One of them made as if to intervene immediately, the other restrained them with a hand on the shoulder.

“Wait. It is not yet time”

“He will die if we don’t do something soon”

“It is in the hands of God now. Wait a little while longer”

One of the assailants fired a gun shot into the air, and the loud report scattered the few bystanders from the area from investigating further. Without further delay they fled the scene.

Finally, the two figures in the alley were free to act. They ran quickly and silently from the darkness and picked up the unconscious Silvio by the shoulders and legs. From the square they followed a maze like route of back alleys and small bridges until they reached a particular gate.

The letters above declared it to be the Ghetto Nuovo.

o o o o o o

Silvio awoke in a small room, in the eaves of an old house.

He tried to sit up, but the pain in his back forced him to lie down again immediately. He looked down and saw that his chest was tightly bandaged with strips of linen that were starting to stain with crimson blood.

“I'd stay still, if I were you. You've lost a lot of blood. It's lucky that we found you when we did, and that my father is one of the finest doctors in Venice.”

Silvio gingerly turned his face towards the sound of the voice and saw that the speaker was a young woman with dark shoulder length hair, wearing a long dark dress.

“My name is Rachel - Rachel di Jehuda. We know who you are. We've been keeping an eye on you for a while - the inquisition have been following you like fleas on a dog for days now. We didn't know if we could trust you until you voted in the election. It was a brave but foolish thing to declare your views publicly like that - you have no idea quite how deep the Inquisition have their claws sunk into this city”

Silvio felt utterly bewildered this turn of events. It was as if he had fallen through a mirror into a world that was topsy-turvy and upside down. Just a week ago he had had no concerns beyond the mundane business of running a trading company. Now he was in a world of intrigue, corruption and imminent war, where groups and factions that he had never even suspected the existence of were in deadly conflict.

“What are you talking about? Just what is going on here?” asked Silvio, sounding somewhat more plaintive than he had intended to.

Rachel laughed, not unkindly.

“We are the Fraterna Della Misericordia Degl'Ebrei Todeschi de Venezia - the Brotherhood of Charity of the Ashkenazi Jewish Community of Venice, although I object personally to the word Brotherhood if I may say so. We are sworn to protect ourselves and our community first, and Venice as our home after that. This is one of the very few places in Europe where we are protected and have a home to call our own. Our enemies in the Christian Church wish for nothing less than us to be wiped out in a pogrom. Venice offers us a safe haven, so that is one reason that they wish to control Venice first.”

A realisation dawned in Silvio’s mind at last, as he made a connection.

“The ghetto! I’m in the ghetto, aren’t I”

“Correct! Yes you are, after all it is the one place in Venice where the angels, or should I say the agents of the inquisition, fear to tread.”

The Venetian Ghetto had been instituted almost a hundred years previously, in the year 1516. As merchants, the Jewish people played a vital part in the Venetian economy as traders who could operate between the mutually hostile Christian and Muslim worlds. Restrictions on their movement and permitted occupations varied, but money lending, running pawnshops, dealing in second-hand goods, tailoring, and medicine were common occupations. Unlike most other cities in Europe, a strong faction in Venice argued for the Jewish people to be protected rather than being expelled from the city. The compromise arrangement was to designate an area of the Cannaregio Sestiere formerly used for iron foundries and other industries as a place of containment and refuge. The ghetto was an area surrounded by canals on all sides and was linked to rest of the city by just three bridges, which were controlled by gates that were closed from midnight until dawn, and also during certain Christian Festivals.

Life in the ghetto was cramped, compared to rest of the city, and buildings often reached the precarious heights of five or six stories - a tricky prospect given the shifting ground that Venice was built on. The area prospered though, and most regarded it as a refuge rather than a prison.

However, some feuds were not forgotten. Some looked at the life of the Jews in the ghetto and resented even that restricted presence. Even tolerance and peaceful co-existence was too much and they plotted cruel violence and dreadful vengeance. The Brotherhood was the only thing standing in their way.

Chapter Thirty

2008-11-20T14:14:00.001-08:00

In his dream Signor Bompanzini was drowning.

He pictured himself falling backwards into a canal, and then slowly sinking as the waters rushed to cover his face. He flailed ineffectually, but he could not catch a breath. Just one more breath of air was all he wanted. Just a sip. Enough to keep him alive for a few seconds more.

He struggled into consciousness with, for him, a superhuman effort of will. He opened his mouth to scream, and realised that he was securely gagged and bound to his chair, and that someone was dripping water from a jug onto his face which he could not help but inhale.

"Ah, you are awake are you, you fat pig?"

He recognised the voice and then the face - it was Donatella di Rossini. He thought that that bitch had been sent to rot at the pleasure of the Inquisition in one of their hidden torture rooms. He suddenly felt afraid, very afraid.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions and then I'll loosen your gag. Any funny business or trying to call for help then it goes straight back on and I'll stick you like the hog that you are."

She demonstrated by spinning a wickedly sharp dagger up into the air and then catching it.

Bompanzini nodded furiously to signify his assent. Donatella loosened his gag, and he gratefully sucked in a lung full of fresh air.

"Please, don't kill me. All of the business earlier was a misunderstanding, a dreadful misunderstanding. It is all the doing of Father Carmelo, not me. I am an innocent party, you must believe me! You must!" Bompanzini babbled.

"All I want to know is where my father is, and what you were planning on doing with all of that gold. Just tell me the unvarnished truth - my patience for your prattle is growing dangerously thin"

"I don't know where your father is. He was sent to the same place that Carmello's men took you, but he went missing from there after a fire a couple of days ago."

Donatella felt a thrill of hope - this confirmed what she had suspected from her overheard conversation on the road.

"As for the money, Carmelo has half of the Venetian Grand Council in his pocket and spies everywhere. He needs the money to pay them all off and finance the attack on the city. Your father was supposed to part of the deal, but his ship with ten million ducats aboard has gone missing. Perhaps you are now beginning to see things from our perspective?"

Bompanzini continued.

"If you'll untie me, perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement to our mutual benefit?" He pleaded with her, trusting in his ability to strike a bargain from even the most unpromising of circumstances.

"No deals. I just have one more question for you. Where is Carmelo?"

"He's in Venice somewhere. I don't know where, I promise you. I swear it!"

Donatella said nothing, but reached inside Bompanzini's pocket and removed a small bottle. She unscrewed the lid and tipped the whole bottle into a jug of wine which she picked up. Bompanzini swiftly realised what she intended to do.

"No you can't! That much of the infusion will surely kill me. Please, no!"

She pulled his hair to force his head back and poured the wine over his face until he was forced to swallow some if it. He gagged, and then vomited profusely and extravagantly over his expensive silk shirt.

"You'll live, I think" Donatella chuckled, and then the humour went from her as she heard heavy foot steps climbing the stairs and a hammering on the door.

“Boss? What's happening in there?”

It was time for Donatella to make herself scarce.

Chapter Twenty Nine

2008-11-20T14:13:00.002-08:00

Fletcher was awoken before the first light of dawn by the noise of a cannon ball flying overhead with the sound of a canvas grave cloth being torn in two.

“Bloody hell - the Vatican boys are starting the party early this morning!”, he remarked as he shook off his blanket, soaked from the overnight rain. One of the adjutants slogged through the mud and handed him a mug of water and a hunk of bread that was obviously past its best. He chewed on it thoughtfully.

“I thought that this was just supposed to be a show of strength? Rattle our swords until the diplomats and politicians bang their heads together and then we can all go home and put our feet up. Why are they in such a god damned hurry to start a shooting war?”

“Don’t know sir”, said the adjutant

“But that bugger might know”, said Fletcher gesturing down the hill.

An office of the Papal army was riding up the hill towards the camp, his horse picking its way gingerly through the mud. He was resplendent in his formal uniform and looked down at the dishevelled and mud splattered mercenaries with obvious disdain.

“Captain John Fletcher of the Black Company, I presume?” he said, hauling back on his horse’s bridle as yet another cannon ball flying overhead made her skittish. She settled to cropping the meagre grass under foot.

“That would be me, sir. Would you care to tell me what the hell is going on here? All I know is that we ordered to show up here and make camp. Nobody said anything about the heavy guns being brought into play.”

“We have heavy guns and much more, signor. His holiness the Pope is most keen to see this conflict concluded swiftly, to send a clear and unambiguous message to all of those who would dare to defy the will of Rome.”

The man on the horse cleared his throat and continued speaking.

“I have two messages for you. We are seeking two men - a merchant from Venice called Antonio di Rossini and a capuchin monk called Alonso who was instrumental in abetting his escape from our lawful custody. The Inquisition are most eager to speak to both of them. If you should encounter either of them you are under orders to deliver them to us without delay.”

Fletcher acknowledged this statement with a non-committal grunt.

“Secondly, we expect a breach to opened in the city wall later on today.”

He indicated the section of wall that Fletcher had noted previously - the section of stone that was a different colour to the rest was evidently a weak spot, and it was now being pounded by highly accurate cannon fire. Loose stone was starting to pile up against the wall, and eventually it would be possible to scale the rubble and effect and entry into the city.

“Your troop will have the honour of leading the initial assault on the breach”

Fletcher exploded with anger.

“That’s a forlorn hope! We’ll be shredded by fire from both sides - it’s bloody suicide to mount an attack like that at this stage. Why not wait until the siege has been in force for longer? The defenders in the city aren’t going anywhere after all.”

“Nevertheless, you are being paid handsomely for this job and you will follow orders given by your employer. It is dangerous, but if you succeed in the assault you will earn a substantial bonus and the first share of any loot from within the city. Prepare your men - you will receive written orders later in the day.”

Fletcher knew that further protest at this stage was futile. These orders would have been passed through the ultimate commander of the Black Company. The Papal army evidently wished to make the point that they were in charge, and they wanted quick results, no matter how bloody the cost, and not a prolonged siege.

There was also the other point to consider. He was currently harbouring two fugitives from the Inquisition, and they were surrounded in all directions by one of the largest papal armies mobilised in an age.

Fletcher and his small band of brothers was caught in a diabolical trap.

Chapter Twenty Eight

2008-11-20T14:13:00.001-08:00

From the portico of the palazzo the new Doge appeared before the people of Venice.
He was wearing the corno ducale - the ceremonial crown that was the well-known symbol of the Doge of Venice. It was a stiff horn-like bonnet, which was made of gemmed brocade and worn over the camauro, a fine linen cap. Every Easter Monday the doge headed a procession from San Marco to the convent of San Zaccaria where the abbess presented him a new camauro crafted by the nuns.

The voice of a herald rang out across the expanse of the piazza San Marco.

"This is your doge, if it please you," and to a man and a woman the crowd responded with boisterous cheers and thunderous applause. Leonardo Donato was truly recognised as a servant of the people. He acknowledged their support with a wave before retiring to the council chambers for their was much work to be done.

His first duty as Doge was to read the papers left by the Papal Nuncio, and according to the laws and traditions that were in place to prevent the undue accumulation of powers he had to accompanied by other representatives of the council before even opening the letters. He had noted the words of Silvio di Rossini during the voting process, and he summoned him to chamber now.

A clerk read the missive aloud. Given the Republic's intransigence in the matter of the two imprisoned priests the whole of Venice and her people was to be placed under interdict and face excommunication. This meant that the Papal states could now attack Venice with impunity and no further regard for the niceties of diplomatic negotiation.

The Doge turned to Silvio.

“It seems that the Pope is determined to wage war upon us. If you believe that you have any information regarding their intentions or tactics you should share it with us now”

Silvio explained the series of events that had transpired. The disappearance of his father, the threats and insinuations made by Father Vittorio Carmello and the other priests, and the strong suspicions that certain council members had been bribed into changing their votes.

The Doge nodded gravely.

“Furthermore we have been informed that a large army of the Papal states, supported by condottieri, is preparing to attack Mestre, and a fleet of ships is moving towards our lagoon. We can choose to surrender to the whim of the Pope, or we can choose to fight. We choose to fight”

He looked around the table to see if any one would dissent in this matter. No one did. There was no triumphalism or glory in this course of action, rather there was a grim acknowledgement of the fact that if Venice were to continue as a free and independent republic it must face down its enemies.

“Summon the Papal Nuncio - we need to speak to him regarding this matter urgently”

o o o o o o

The nuncio appeared before the doge, his head bowed like a naughty school child about to admonished for some minor transgression. The doge spoke, in vigorous tones.

"Monsignore! You must know that we are, every one of us, resolute and ardent to the last degree, not merely the government but the whole nobility and the population of our state. Your excommunication we make light of and hold it as nought. now just see where this resolution would lead to if our example were followed by others."

"Your Eminence", replied the nuncio, "His Holiness the Pope is merely acting as the Holy Ghost has inspired him to"

"In which case ", snapped back the doge, "the Holy Ghost has inspired Venice to ignore the edicts of the Pope. We will not be bullied into submission. You are dismissed from this court."

o o o o o o

Silvio left the palace in a daze, barely aware of the fabulous art and sculpture on display around him. All of the gilded splendour was as naught compared to the looming storm clouds of war. Wars and rumours of wars were nothing new to the people of Venice, but this time felt different. This was a clash of two ideologies - the freebooting individualism of the Republic was now in direct conflict with the theocracy of the Pope.

He walked along the pathway to the jetty, lost in his thoughts and paying little heed to his surroundings and before he could cry out he realised that he was surrounded by three men - two behind him to either side and the third who had cut in front of him impeding his progress. He felt the prick of a dagger in the small of his back and realised that he was trapped.

A dark voice beside him said “You were warned, and yet you ignored us. You will now pay the price”

One of the men behind Silvio moved to grab his throat as if to strangle him. Almost without thinking, Silvio took half a pace to the left, took hold of the hand of his assailant and then straightened his right leg throwing him to the floor with a sickening crunch. The man in front threw a punch directly at Silvio's face, which he avoided by ducking and driving his head into the mans stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Two down. The third man was the charm though, he realised that the situation was spiralling out of control rapidly so he drove his dagger hard into Silvio's back just above his kidneys. This gave his companions time to recover, and he fired his pistol into the air to disperse the small crowd that was beginning to form. All three then made a run for the jetty where they had stashed their boat earlier.

Meanwhile, Silvio was lying face down on the flagstones, losing blood with every breath and dying by degrees.

Chapter Twenty Seven

2008-11-20T14:12:00.003-08:00

Donatella continued her journey back to Ravenna, under leaden grey skies and heavy rain.
The same rain that was falling on Fletcher and his men was now falling on her, and she wrapped her cloak around herself in a vain attempt to stay dry. She reached the gates of the city without encountering any further patrols, and passed through with her cloak still giving her a degree of anonymity. If they were indeed searching for her, then they evidently didn't have any idea of what she might look like.

It suddenly occurred to her that the soldiers may well have been referring to her father - after all she had only heard her surname of di Rossini being mentioned, and there had been nothing about a feisty young woman with a penchant for kicking priests in the head before stringing them up in chains in their own torture chambers. Well, perhaps they might not be so keen for that last detail to become public knowledge. She chuckled to herself at that thought, and then smiled, pleased that the depredations of the inquisition had not managed to dent her essential good humour.

Night was falling quickly, and lights were already burning in most of the windows of the houses against the winter gloom. Lanterns and candles were a quick indication of the relative wealth of the inhabitants of any given houses. The poorest residents could only afford a handful of poor quality tallow candles, or perhaps a single smoky oil lamp, whereas the wealthy could display their riches with a conspicuous display of the finest wax candles arrayed in a candleabre or even perhaps illuminating a chandelier.

Needless to say Bompanzini's house was alive with dancing lights, but where there are lights there are always shadows to accompany them. Donatella intended to take advantage of this fact. The front of the house was too dangerous a route - she thought that she might have been able to bluff her way past a doorman or other minor servant, but beyond that she had no idea of how many guards Bompanzini might have or where they would be stationed.

She followed a small alleyway that ran between Bompanzini's house and his neighbour and found herself at the back of the row of houses. An open sewer ran between the houses, feeding directly into one of the canals that ran through Ravenna in imitation of its grander cousin to the north. The eaves of the adjoining houses jutted out over the foul smelling stream, and Donatella saw an opportunity.

One of the facing houses had a trellis with a withered vine still clinging to it, and with careful choice of hand and foot holds Donatella was able to scale the wall and reach the lip of the eaves. The overhang presented a potentially tricky problem, but she was able to find a place where the plaster rendering had cracked and crumbled exposing the joists that supported the roof space. She grasped the wooden beam and worked her way out into empty space, her feet dangling precariously, until she reached the edge of the roof and by grasping it she could pull herself up onto the tiles of the house facing her objective.

She allowed herself a moment to rest and catch her breath, before jumping the gap between the roof that she occupied and that on Bompanzini's house. As she landed, she nearly slipped on the wet tiles that were slick from the earlier rain that had now subsided to a steady and persistent drizzle, but she stretched out her arms and legs to their fullest extent like a cat finding purchase on the limb of a tree and found a purchase. Experimentally, she pulled and pushed a few of the tiles until she found an area that was loose. Either the nails had rusted through, or the original builder had skimped on materials on the assumption that his shoddy workmanship at the rear of the house would not be noticed for many years. She carefully removed enough of the tiles until she had a large enough gap to lower herself into the roof space and onto the joists of the attic.

By dead reckoning she estimated that Bompanzini's room was at the front of the house and somewhat to the left of her current position, so she carefully inched her way along the beams and then across. She spotted where the chains for a chandelier had been attached to the beam through a hole in the plaster ceiling just below her.

Donatalla could see a gap in the plaster where the chandelier chain poked through, and a shaft of candle light shone up the attic space, picking out dust motes in the gloom. Looking down through the hole revealed that the viewpoint was too restricted to show much more than the a small area of the desk immediately below the chandelier.
She slowed her breathing and strained to hear any sounds or noises that might be coming up from below. She picked out a strange rasping noise which alternated with a whistling, piping drone. She was momentarily puzzled, until she realised that the noise must be the sound of Bompanzini snoring - the fat oaf was asleep, and more than likely drunk into the bargain.

She carefully pulled up some of the plaster laths around the chandelier trying to avoid dislodging any fragments into the room below. A few flakes drifted down and she held her breath for a moment, but the snoring continued as before. Soon she had created a hole large enough to climb through, much as she had done with the tiles previously. She looked down through the hole, and sure enough Bompanzini was slumped in a chair by the fire, evidently fast asleep.

She took hold of chain and carefully lowered herself down to the surface of the desk, avoiding the few guttering candles on the chandelier that were still alight. From the desk, she went to door and turned the key in the lock. Fortunately Bompanzini was the fastidious sort who kept the mechanism well oiled and it did not squeak loudly enough to alert anyone below.

Now it was her turn to have some fun …

Chapter Twenty Six

2008-11-20T14:12:00.001-08:00

Dawn broke over the mercenary camp to reveal a large number of very wet and cold men.
The soldiers set to breaking camp with customary efficiency, grumbling but getting on with their jobs with the minimum of fuss. In contrast, Alonso felt thoroughly miserable and apathetic. It was true that he had been living a life of poverty in the monastery, but at least he had had a roof over his head and been comparatively warm and dry.

“Come on, shake a leg and look lively, you slug a beds. The time is a wasting, and there will be soft beds aplenty when we get to Mestre, I promise you”

Fletcher was in an ebullient mood, disguising the considerable misgivings that he was feeling inside. He walked through the camp, chivvying where it was needed, sharing a few words of encouragement with younger men who looked like they were suffering, joking and laughing with the horseplay of those in high spirits. He had the gift of command - being able to empathise with his men, making them feel that he understood their fears and doubts but also possessing an aura of invulnerability.

“We've got a tough march today, but we should have a better idea of what we are going to do once we get in sight of Mestre. We move out in ten minutes, leaving the baggage here. Take only what you can carry comfortably at double time.”

If the truth were told, he did not know precisely what he intended to do at the end of the journey, but he had the feeling that this job had changed from a straight forward contract into something a hell of a lot more dangerous and tricky. When the crunch came, he would trade the safety of the men in his command for any amount of gold and to hell with anything his superiors in the Black Company might say about it.

It was time to march.

It was the single hardest single day's work that Alonso had ever done. The soldiers set a punishing pace, marching at double time which was about as fast as it was possible to move without breaking out into a run. He was struggling to keep up and he was not carrying any gear, unlike the soldiers who had packs as well as their armour and weaponry. They marched for an hour and then rested for five minutes before picking up the pace again, and Alonso found a rhythm that pushed him through the fatigue that turned his legs to lead weights.

Antonio again was riding on Fletcher's horse, although he did have the good grace to start each stage of the march to show some degree of solidarity with his younger, more able bodied companions. He offered words of encouragement and the soldiers that he was travelling alongside responded in kind.

They made good time, despite the weather, and by mid day they had reached their objective. The land around Mestre was largely flat apart from one small hill in an open area near to the main gates. The hill offered the only vantage point from which to observe the gates without being dangerously exposed. Fletcher ordered his men to take up position in the lee of the slope whilst he went ahead to look at the task that they were potentially facing.

The gates were flanked on either side by guard towers which offered a perfect position from which to enfilade any assaulting force with withering fire from crossbows and arquebus balls. A glacis slope offered additional protection to the gates - all but the most accurate cannon fire would be deflected up and away from the gates and over the walls. It was as well designed as any defensive fortification he had faced, although he noted that it had seen action before. A section of wall to the right of the gate was a noticeably different colour where the stone had been breached and repaired in an earlier battle. Mestre was not as impregnable as his first impression had suggested.

He returned to where his men were waiting and spoke to them.

“It's tough, but we've seen worse in our time, all of us. We still don't know what the overall plan of attack is going to be, but with a well defended target like that, a siege is the only way that the defences will be worn down. That will mean earth works, piquet patrols to keep the defenders inside the walls and we will play a waiting game until the artillery is in position and lobbing cannon balls into the gates. Now, get dug in, and we'll see what happens next.”

As things transpired, they did not have to wait long. Their approach had not gone unnoticed by the Venetian defenders on the walls by the gate, and soon a defender came out of a side door carrying a flag of truce. Fletcher walked forward to meet him, striding forward so that they met in the middle of the open area between the gates and the bluff that Fletcher's men were busy fortifying.

Fletcher extended his hand in greeting and introduced himself.

“Sir John Fletcher of the Black Company, at your service signor!”

His opposite number responded in kind and shook the proffered hand warmly.
“Lucio Patrese of the Venetian City Guard, likewise. I think that we might have fought on the same side against the French ten years or so ago?”

“Indeed. That was a damn good scrap, if I recall correctly. The frogs broke and ran inside half an hour. That's the sort of fight that I like.”

“Yes - would that all of our wars could be so easily concluded. Now, may I ask what your company is doing digging in in range of the gates? This is an overtly hostile action, as you must be well aware.”
“We have been ordered to this position by our employer - the Holy Roman Church. We have not been ordered to initiate an attack, so I trust that we can all rest easy for the time being?”

“There has been no formal declaration of hostility, Signor. Perhaps you are not aware that our beloved Doge died recently, so any pre-emptive attack at this time would be a particularly dishonourable act. Is this really the sort of action that you wish your company to be associated with?”

“My condolences on your loss. Grimani was a fine leader from what I have heard of him. I can assure you again that we will not be making any overtly hostile attack at this point, and it is my sincerest hope that this matter will be resolved by the politicians and diplomats before any blood is spilt.”

Fletcher extended his hand again.

“I trust that we will meet again soon. The best of luck to you”

“And to you, signor”

The Venetian doffed his feathered cap and bowed, and then turned smartly around and returned to the safety of his city wall. Fletcher returned to his men, feeling even more unease at the situation his company had found itself in. There was a hidden agenda at work here, and he wished he knew what it was.

Chapter Twenty Five

2008-11-20T14:11:00.001-08:00

The electorate of forty one withdrew to an ante chamber adjacent to the main council hall. They had the responsibility and privilege of choosing the next Doge of Venice and they did not intend to take it lightly.

Before the deliberations began they were seated at a grand table and served a simple meal of freshly caught langoustines from the Venetian lagoon, grilled and dressed with extra virgin olive oil and fresh herbs, complemented by a glass of fresh Prosecco wine. This reminded them all of the bounty of the sea that fed them all on a daily basis. Any man they selected as Doge would have to both respect and honour the sea, and he would celebrate the symbolic marriage of Venice by casting a golden ring into the waters of the Adriatic from the deck of the Ducal barge.

They ate the food and drank the wine in comparative silence after the fevered chaos of the main council chamber. The discussions would begin soon enough.

Silvio was troubled by the words that had been whispered into his ear just before he had been sequestered into this room. He paid attention as the cases for the two foremost candidates were presented by speakers for each faction.

Leonardo Donato had been a candidate ten years previously when Mario Grimani had been elected as the popular choice. He had been an ambassador to the Roman court and he was wily and experienced in the ways of Papal political machinations.

His main rival, Ermolao Barbaro, was very different. The Barbaros were a family with a long and distinguished lineage and their forebears included bishops, ambassadors, philosophers and admirals although they had never supplied a family member who had been elevated to the position of Doge. They were well known for their close ties to the Borghese family, relatives of the man who had become Pope Paul the fifth so recently.

The argument between the two factions was a choice between a shrewd politician who would fight for the utmost advantage of Venice and the republic, and a man who would seek an accommodation with the Vatican through personal contacts and influence. It was not an unreasonable choice, and no doubt both candidates were reasonable choices, but a nagging doubt remained in Silvio's mind. Why were the church so keen to see Barbaro elected, and how many other council members had they tried to influence, threaten or bribe?

A few electors argued for other candidates, but after further discussions the choice came down to either Leonardo Donato and Ermolao Barbaro, so it was decided that a vote should be taken without further delay. With forty one votes and no abstentions allowed there was guaranteed to be a victor, and the new Doge would be crowned.

A clerk was called into the room who would draw the names of the electors at random who would then declare their vote publicly. The process proceeded quickly and smoothly, and the numbers of votes were split equally between the two candidates. There was some surprise that people who had been considered likely to vote for Donato made their declaration for his opponent Barbaro instead.
The numbers left to vote dwindled rapidly, and Silvio di Rossini was left to last. He had kept a personal tally on a scrap of paper and realised with a sinking feeling that the counts were split equally with twenty votes for each of the candidates. In effect, he had been left with the casting vote.
Silvio's heart was in his mouth as he rose to speak. His throat was dry and he took a sip of wine from his cup before he could enunciate the words that he needed to say.

“These are dangerous times for the Republic. I believe that we are facing a time of conflict when dark forces will try to assail us from all sides, including in this very election process. I suspect that an attempt has been made to influence the vote by forces of the holy Roman Church, and so I declare my vote for Leonardo Donato”

Gasps rang round the council chamber, and unseen by the majority of the crowd a black clad priest left the room with fury in his heart. The attempt by the inquisition to rig the election of the Doge had failed by just one vote. There would be a terrible revenge for this act of perfidy.

Chapter Twenty Four

2008-11-20T14:10:00.000-08:00

Donatella left the gates of the monastery with a spring in her step.

She had expected to be challenged at any moment, but nobody had questioned her as she made her way up the stairs and through the main gate. She reckoned that she had perhaps a couple of hours at most before the guard would check the cell and find out that the prisoner in the manacles was not the helpless girl that he would be expecting but rather a humiliated and no doubt furious priest. She had to make some distance and then stop to think what she was going to do next.

Returning to Venice was one option, although that felt like an admission of failure, like a whipped cur running for home at the first sign of trouble with her tail between her legs. No, it would have to be back to Ravenna first, as her original intention had been. She wouldn't mind an opportunity to talk with Signor Bompanzini again, and perhaps find out a little more about what had happened to her father.

She stopped by the side of the road and stretched her arms. The joints of her arms and shoulders still felt as if she had been hanging from a trapeze swing for a week, and while the cut on her cheek from the priests whip had stopped bleeding it was now stinging and throbbing like a bitch.
She looked at the papers that she had picked up from the desk in the cell where she had been held.

There was the list of names - most of which she recognised as influential members of the Venetian Grand Council including her father. The symbols and numbers made no sense, although the figures could conceivably be payments in ducats. If that was the case, then it would come to a very sizeable total indeed - she totted the numbers up in her head and reckoned that the total would in the millions.

They would be very generous payments, to say the least.

She continued her journey and reached a crossroads where the track from the monastery joined the main coast road that she had travelled along so recently and in such different circumstances. She reflected that she was now a very different young woman from the one who had rode along the road with the wind in her hair and the sun in her eyes. She had been naïve in her trust of Bompanzini - she promised herself that she would not make that mistake again.
From up ahead she heard the noise of a troop of men on the march. She had no wish to attract any unwanted attention, so she ducked behind a wall at the side of the road and covered herself completely with her black monk's robe. She would be invisible to all but the closest examination.

The soldiers were adjacent to the wall now and she could over hear some of them talking. It was difficult to make much out but she managed to hear a few snatches of conversation. She was sure that the men were soldiers from the papal army. The forces ranged against the republic of Venice were now much more serious than a few companies of condottieri - this wasn't going to be a skirmish for short term advantages, it was going to be a full blown war. She was just letting the implications of this sink in when she heard two further things that chilled her to the core 'di Rossini' and 'reward'.

They knew who she was, and they were looking for her.

Chapter Twenty Three

2008-11-16T07:58:00.000-08:00

The Black Company was on the march.

Usually when the company was on the move in the normal summer campaign season they could easily be spotted by the large cloud of dust that the combination of men, horses and carts would kick up from the dry and dusty roads. Now, however, the roads were wet from the recent rains and they rapidly became churned into a quagmire of mud and worse.

“Remind me again why we took this damned contract” muttered Fletcher as he put his shoulder to the wheel of a cart that had got stuck in the sucking morass and now needed to be set free by brute force. The combined efforts of the team succeeded in shoving the cart forward a few feet, splattering them all with foul smelling mud. However, the triumph was short lived when the cart immediately ground to a halt again at the next rut in the road.

“Any money they are paying us had better be damn good, sir” replied one of the men in response to Fletcher's caustic comment.

“Keep up the good work lads, I'm just going to check on the front of the column – I'll be back soon.”

Fletcher made his way ahead of the column and talked to one of the scouts who had been ahead. They had at least another ten miles to travel, and night was falling rapidly in the winter gloom.
They had a secondary problem to consider as well. Venice was a city entirely surrounded by water, so it could not be besieged directly as they would usually do. The solution however was straight forward. As well as the sea which was its life blood, Venice relied on supplies from the mainland passing through the small port town of Mestre. If they could control Mestre, then they could put considerable pressure on Venice itself, which was presumably what their employers intended.

He made a decision, and called the leaders of the various squads to his side.

“Right, this is what we are going to do. We are going to leave the baggage train here with a squad of men to keep an eye on it. The rest of us are going to push on to Mestre and set up camp there, and we'll bring the supplies up as and when we need them, or when the roads clear. We are not expecting to fight a long campaign, and if we do get into a prolonged scrap then we are in big trouble whatever happens. Get the wagons off the road and secure, and we'll all take a rest for a bit. Any objections?”

“No sir” came a chorus of replies.

“Get to it then”.

The men went about their duties with gusto, clearly anticipating a break from the slog of travelling on the muddy road. Fletcher turned to Alonso and Antonio who had been waiting patiently near by.

“What do you think of life with the Black Company, eh? Bit of a change from the monastery, I imagine.”

“That's certainly true.”

“Ah, it looks as though the boys have got some food on the go – let's go and get something to eat and get warmed up a bit.”

They made their way over to a fire which had been lit with customary efficiency by one of the squads. A large pot of stew was already bubbling and all three helped themselves to a bowl full, accompanied by a hunk of crusty fresh bread. They reflected in their own ways on the strange turns that life had taken for each of them. Fletcher had found himself leading a campaign at the behest of a capricious employer when he had planned to be taking life easy back in England. Antonio had expected an easy business deal and instead had found himself a prisoner facing torture. Alonso had taken the biggest leap of all, from a life of faith and certainty to a place where he was questioning everything and finding very few answers in return.

They watched the storm clouds gather on the horizon and prepared for war.

Chapter Twenty Two

2008-11-16T07:57:00.002-08:00

As the Nuncio was leaving the palace on the way to leaving Venice completely, Silvio di Rossini was on his way into the council chamber.

The room was in uproar with voices competing for attention, and groups and factions starting to form. Knots of nobles would gather by one of the marble columns and confer in conspiratorial whispers before dispatching one or more emissaries to another group to see what common ground they might have in their choice of voting members and candidates.

A member of the Council of Ten rose to the dais to speak, banging the lectern with a gavel to command attention.

"The first stage of voting will proceed according to all of the laws and traditions of our republic. The lots will be drawn and votes will be cast. The process will be completed to reflect the will of the people."

A clerk came forward carrying a large box containing the numbered tokens that represented each of the members of the council. More clerks recorded the results as the lots were drawn and each round of voting proceeded according the law. The results were announced to a mixture of groans and gasps as the ramifications of the composition of each voting body became clear - each faction would try to second guess the voting intentions of each elector chosen and try their best to lobby as they saw fit.

The thirty became nine who chose forty. The forty became twelve who chose twenty five. The twenty five became nine who chose forty five. The forty five became eleven who chose the final forty one who would chose the next doge of Venice.

The air in the room was one of fevered excitement, speculation and prediction. The members of the Venetian council, without exception, loved the process of democracy and they almost treated it as a game on a grand scale. For all of its carnival atmosphere, the Venetian system for choosing a Doge had been remarkably successful at picking suitable leaders for hundreds of years. In the entire history of the republic there had only been Marin Falier, the fifty fifth Doge, who had attempted to declare himself a Prince and subvert the will of the people. As punishment he had been beheaded and his name damned in perpetuity. Even his portrait in the sala de maggior consiglio (the hall of the major council) in the palazzo was ordered to be covered with a black cloth for all time as a reminder to all who would contemplate such treachery in the future.

Eventually, the final stage was reached. It had taken many hours of electoral horse trading but the clerk returned to the dais with the list of the forty one council members who would make the final choice. He read them out with due pomp and gravitas and the chamber was silent while he intoned the list in sonorous tones. He reached the final name.

"The forty first and final member of the electing body is ", he paused for theatrical effect, "Silvio di Rossini"

Silvio was jolted out his reverie and looked around in some surprise. He had not been drawn by lot or chosen for any of the earlier rounds, although he had the same chance as any other council member to be picked, so he had not expected to be named at this stage. He felt like an imposter - a inquisitive child intruding on the serious deliberations of the grown ups.

He stood dumbstruck for a moment and then he felt a hand touch his elbow and a voice whisper in his ear.

"Ermolao Barbaro. Remember our arrangement."

He turned around to see who had spoken to him, but all he saw was a figure clad in black clerical robes disappearing into the crowd.

Chapter Twenty One

2008-11-16T07:57:00.001-08:00

The Papal Nuncio was sat in a small boat crossing the Venetian lagoon. A bitterly cold wind was blowing in from the Adriatic whipping the surface of the water into choppy waves, crested with whit caps. He felt sick, both from the action of the waves and from the task he had to perform. He touched the leather document wallet on his lap, and then crossed himself instinctively.

Ahead of the boat he could see the imposing structure of the Doge's palace defiantly rising up out of the waves. Unlike most military or defensive structures the palace was constructed with numerous arched loggias layered at the base, supporting heavy walls above. This symbolised the unique relationship that the Doge had with the most serene republic of Venice and its people. Unlike Kings, Princes and Popes who ruled by divine fiat from within solid castles and palaces, the palazzo of the Doge was open to all. an expression of the Republic's special relationship with its citizens: one of trust and absolute fidelity. Venetians considered their government as legitimate not by imposition or divine right, like in other Italian medieval cities, but as an expression of the Venetians' will.

This will was in direct opposition to the will of Rome.

In April of 1605 Pope Leo had been elected to the Papal throne, but had almost immediately fallen ill and died within a month, earning him the unfortunate nickname of 'Papa Lampo' - the lightning Pope. In a fevered atmosphere of factionalism and division a new conclave had been called. Much to his surprise, Cardinal Camillo Borghese had emerged as a compromise candidate between the warring factions of Caesar Baronius and Robert Bellarmine. He saw his election as a sign that he had been directly chosen by God to stamp his will on the Church and oversee a re-establishment of the temporal power of the Papacy. To symbolise this determination he chose the name of Pope Paul the Fifth, after the apostle Saint Paul, the man who had moulded the fledgling church with his iron discipline after his conversion of the road to Damascus when the scales fell from his eyes and his blindness became an icy vision of purity.

Pope Paul V had established his rule by demanding that France accept the authority of the Council of Trent and that Spain should exempt the Jesuit brotherhood from all forms of taxation. He then turned his attention to the one remaining thorn in the flesh of his church - the city of Venice.

Relations between Venice and the Holy Roman Church had always been fraught with conflict. In the early days of the republic it had been decided that the city needed a patron saint of suitable seniority and gravitas, so a group of merchants and adventurers had set out to reclaim the bones of Saint Mark the Apostle from under the nose of the Caliph of Alexandria, spiriting the relic away in the dead of night in a chest filled to the top with pickled pork and ham to discourage the staunch Muslim guards at the port from investigating it too closely. Instead of returning the bones to their rightful resting place in the Vatican, they had been interred in the cathedral that became known as Saint Mark's basilica. The city had also adopted the winged lion of Saint Mark as a symbol of the Republic.

Venice routinely ignored Papal edicts and laws, and in 1603 the Republic renewed its previous laws, forbidding the erection of more churches, monasteries, or pious foundations in the city, without licence. The reasons given were that such buildings already occupied half the
area of Venice, and were sufficient for all religious needs, while the foundation of new establishments would tend to starve the older ones, towards whose maintenance the funds
of the pious had better be directed. In 1605, the year of Borghese's election, the Senate by a large majority -- 120 against 27 -- had forbidden the donation, in perpetuity, of property belonging to lay people, thereby depriving the Church, as a corporation, from inheriting under the wills of pious donors - a common method for the church to increase its worldly assets.

A more serious matter still had arisen. Two clerics - Canon Saraceni of Vicenza and Abbé Brandolin of Nervesa had been accused of the most grave of crimes - theft, rape and murder. The Council of Ten - the most secretive and powerful judicial body in Venice - had found them guilty and had sentenced them to be held in the infamous 'Piombi' - the lead roofed cells at the top of the palace that were intolerably hot during the summer and freezing cold in the winter.

The Pope had issued an ultimatum for the immediate release of the two prisoners which the Council had simply ignored. He had given them a deadline of twenty four days in which to respond, and that time was now at an end.

The Nuncio disembarked from his boat at a small jetty near the edge of the Piazzo di San Marco. He was met a retinue of guards who escorted him through a door next to the Lagoon, and into an enormous courtyard, and the Arco Foscari. He couldn't help but be impressed by the magnificent facades of the sides of the courtyard - a mix of classicism and gothic styles. Dominating the courtyard was an enormous staircase, the Scala dei Giganti, overlooked by huge statues of Neptune and Mars, leading the first-floor loggia.

The guards led him through the doge’s private rooms to the Anticollegio, where the doge and council would meet foreign dignitaries. The Anticollegio was graced by four magnificent paintings by Tintoretto - Vulcan’s Forge, Mercury and the Graces, Bacchus and Ariadne and Minerva and Mars, and Veronese’s Rape of Europa. The nuncio had little time to appreciate the art on display before a functionary came to greet him.

The nuncio cleared his throat and announced the purpose of his visit.

"I am here to deliver two messages directly from his holiness, Pope Paul. These messages are to be delivered directly into the hands of the Doge himself"

The functionary spread his hands in a gesture of humble apology.

"I regret that that will not be possible at this time, Monsignor"

"My orders from his holiness were quite specific."

"Nevertheless, it is not possible. Perhaps you are unaware that the Doge has passed on to his eternal rest this very day and even now his succession is being decided. I will take the messages and pass them on"

The nuncio was lost for words. He had not expected news of this nature, and he handed over the documents without saying anything further. He turned on his heels and left the palace. He knew the contents of the documents and their implications all too well, and he had no wish to remain in the city any longer than necessary.

In fact the documents contained an encyclical from the Pope which was nothing less than an interdict and excommunication of the entire republic of Venice, its citizens and any and all sovereign territories.

It was, in effect, a formal declaration of war between the Papal States and La Serenissima.

Chapter Twenty

2008-11-16T07:56:00.001-08:00

To Fletcher's mind the situation was at becoming clearer. They were caught in the middle of a plot by agents of the Inquisition to acquire a large amount of gold for some unknown purpose connected to the members of the grand council of Venice. The same Inquisition had also hired Fletcher's mercenary company to march to the gates of the city and wait. Fletcher smelled a rat, but he was sure that he didn't yet have the full picture.

The trio approached the camp for Fletcher's company. He commanded a unit of around a hundred and twenty men with a mix of light skirmishers armed with bows for hit and run attacks, and an equal number of heavy infantry troops - hard bastards, armed to the teeth, who could hold a line for as long as it took or storm a position and put the fear of the devil into whoever they happened to be fighting this week.

They were the advance guard for Roger de Montfort's Black company, responsible for ranging ahead of the main force to get the lie of the land and harry the opposition. They were fast enough to be mobile, but tough enough to get the fighting done when necessary, until the artillery and cavalry could be brought into play.

Fletcher summoned his unit commanders to discuss the situation - Alain de Bouton, a wiry Frenchman who commanded the light troops and Karl Bergman of the heavy company, another veteran whose hard bitten exterior hid a surprisingly sensitive soul with a fine appreciation for art and music.

"Right lads, we've been ordered to march within sight of the gates of the Venice and pitch up making ourselves visible. I don't like it, particularly as I think our erstwhile employers have an agenda that they are not telling us about. We are going to do as we have been told, but I want a fall back position for when it all goes to hell. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and if you get any inkling of trouble get your men to safety. You know what to do - get your men organised, we're moving out within the hour."

His commanders nodded their assent and went about their duties. The company had been waiting for orders to move and they ready for action. Squads lined up, equipment was checked, the baggage carts were loaded and given a once over. Swords were sharpened, armour straps pulled tight, bows restrung and quivers of arrows slung over shoulders. Some of the men that were religious offered a silent prayer for safekeeping, and those that weren't observed some ritual or habit that they had become accustomed to over the years. There was an atmosphere of palpable anticipation in the air. They were getting ready to do a job that they were good at - bloody good at.

Fletcher walked through the camp, keeping an eye on things, but content to trust his troops to get on with their assigned duties. The company was like a well oiled machine with each man playing his part and meshing perfectly with the others. Fletcher was truly proud of them.

He turned to Alonso and Antonio who had been following him through the organised chaos of a professional mercenary company breaking camp.

"Well, boys. You have a choice. We are heading for Venice. You can either stick with us and see what happens, or make your own way but I have to say that I don't rate your chances on your own."

Alonso replied for the pair of them.

"We will travel with you, if that is acceptable? We should be able to find our way into the city when the time comes. Antonio will want to return to his family"

"Very well. Go and see the quarter master in that tent over there - he'll be able to kit you out with something a little less conspicuous than those monks' habits that you are currently wearing. You'll want some decent boots as well."

Chapter Nineteen

2008-11-15T03:20:00.000-08:00

Donatella di Rossini awoke in the same dank room in the cellar of the monastery that her father had been imprisoned in until the events of recent days. She had no way of knowing this, but she probably wouldn't have been surprised to learn how the paths of events had been entwined. She had been manipulated like a pawn in a game of chess and now she had been captured.

She felt light headed and nauseous, and she fought back an urge to vomit. She breathed deeply a few times to clear her head and looked around to try and establish her circumstances. She quickly realised that her wrists were manacled and chained to a bracket on the wall above her. The chain was too short to allow sitting or kneeling, and the only position that did not cause exquisite pain to her wrists was to stand with her hands raised above her head.

She looked around the room. The walls were damp and streaked with black mould. The only illumination was a single guttering candle on a desk in front of her, just out of reach. She still had her clothes - at least her captors had granted her that small bit of dignity, but they were dirty and torn where she had been dragged whilst she was unconscious from the effects of the drugged wine. She could also see her other possessions - her sword, dagger and purse thrown into the far corner of the room along with her cloak, and well out of her reach.

She made a mental inventory of her injuries. Her body felt like a mass of bruises, but she couldn't feel anything worse than that. She would heal, given time.

A guard outside the door had obviously heard her groans as she had started to wake up and looked in to check on her.

"Awake are you, missy? You are going to wish that you were still in the land of nod, very shortly. There is a clerical gentleman who is very keen to talk to you, and I don't think that you are in his good books at the moment, oh no."

The guard gave a nasty laugh and leered at her showing his blackened and cracked teeth.

Sure enough, it was only a few minutes later than a priest clad in a simple, plain black robe entered the room and sat down at the desk, lighting a number of other candles from the remaining stub of the existing one. He had a sheaf of papers with him and he started to read them, studiously ignoring Donatella. He was making notes with a quill pen that he occasionally dipped into a small bottle of ink by his right hand.

She felt anger starting to boil within her and had conflicting impulses to act the cowed prisoner or to lash out verbally. She contained her initial impulse and waited patiently to see what the priest would say or do.

Eventually he looked up, as if noticing her for the first time.

"Ah, signora di Rossini - how very pleasant to see you. I have one very important question for you, and there is only one correct answer. Giving an answer that displeases me will lead to a great deal of suffering for you. Please bear in mind that failing to tell the truth at all times is a most grave mortal sin, and I would be remiss if I did not show due concern for your immortal soul by scourging you until your sin is expiated by blood."

He stopped to let his words sink in. Donatella knew that this was all part of the pantomime of interrogation.

"Now, think very carefully, and answer me this. Where is the gold?"

Donatella started with surprise.

"What gold? I'm sorry, I haven't a clue what you are talking about."

"Oh dear. I'm afraid that wasn't the answer that I was expecting. Are you sure you won't reconsider your answer? No? Very well. There will be time to recant later, but for now there must be penance"

He pushed the heavy door closed and told the guard to stand watch and let no man enter. From within his robe he produced a knotted whip with several strands attached to a short wooden handle. Donatella recognised it as a cat o'nine tails, or something very similar. It was a barbarous instrument of punishment, designed to tear the skin and leave permanent scars that would never heal.

He stalked towards her in an unhurried way, as a cat will toy with a mouse cowering in a corner. He gave an experimental flick with the whip towards Donatella's face and it caught her under the eye before she could flinch, drawing a line of blood. She gave an involuntary yelp of pain and bit it back straight away.

"Scream all you like, no one is going to hear you down here, I can assure you."

The priest seemed to be enjoying the anticipation of inflicting pain on an innocent and helpless victim, but Donatella refused to give him the satisfaction of pleading for mercy.

“This will hurt me much more than it hurts you”, said the priest, drawing back his arm to strike for a second time. Donatella instinctively covered her face with her forearm and the strands of the whip coiled around and became entangled. Dontatella saw an opportunity and tugged as hard as she was able, drawing the priest toward her and pulling him off balance. Next she reached up the bracket above her head with both hands and used it as a support to deliver a stinging scissor kick to the side of the man’s head. This had the desired effect of knocking him out cold and landing him in a heap on the floor at her feet.

Donatella kicked off one of her boots and used her bare foot to push back the priest’s black robe. She was in luck. Around his neck was a fine silver chain with a key attached to it. She grasped it between her toes and carefully lifted it free. Finally she flicked it up into the air and nimbly caught in one of her hands. She carefully unlocked the manacles and massaged the life back into her aching wrists before stripping the priest of his robe and locking him into the place that she had occupied mere seconds earlier.

The priest was starting to groan as he recovered from the kick to his head, so Donatella tore a strip of cloth from the inner lining of the robe to gag him. His eyes widened with horror as he realised his predicament and tried to call for help, but all that he could manage was a muffled squawk.

“What was that you were saying about it hurting you more than me?”

Donatella chuckled as she donned his robe and concealed her weapons beneath it.

“In this place, no one can hear you scream, remember?”

She quickly examined the papers on the desk and on a hunch picked up one with a list of names, figures and symbols, and folded it into an inside pocket. She extinguished all but the feeblest candle and pulled the cowl of her robe over her face.

She had been lucky so far, but would her luck hold for much longer? It was time to escape from this place.

She approached the door, and picked up a heavy iron key hanging from a hook on the wall. She hesitated for a moment and then opened the door. The guard was standing on the far side of the cellar and evidently did not notice anything awry as she locked the door and pocketed the key.

"Going to leave the little bitch to stew for a while, eh Father?" called the guard and Donatella nodded which seemed to satisfy him. She turned away and started to climb the stairs up and away from the cellar.

So far, so good.

Chapter Eighteen

2008-11-15T03:19:00.001-08:00

The boat sculled across the moonlit harbour, the gentle sound of the oars rhythmically slapping the water the only sound to be heard. Antonio had with him the documents from Bompanzini and he rehearsed in his mind the words that he intended to say. Behind him, the Serenissima was weighing anchor and preparing to sail out of reach of the hands that wished to lay their hands on the substantial cargo of gold that she was carrying.

Antonio felt the boat bump up against the jetty and disembarked with a sure footed ease that came from having lived in a city that relied on the sea and also on the canals for its daily transportation needs. The sea could be a cruel mistress, but at the same time a benificent provider and an open doorway of opportunity. The sea allowed for the trade which was the lifeblood of Venice, and had seen it rise from a collection of disparate tribes eaking out a living on the one hundred or so islands in the marshy lagoon that fell between the land and the sea, to one of the most powerful and influential cities on Earth.

Children in Venice learned to be equally at home on dry land and jumping off and on any number of skiffs, gondolas, dinghies, barges, dorys and row boats. Antonio recalled the first time that he had fallen into the stinking waters of the canal near the grand palazzo that his family had owned for generations, and the stern lecture that he had received from his mother about the state of his clothes and also the quiet congratulation that his father had given him on having the presence of mind to be able to tread water and make his way to a ladder and the safety of solid ground. His father's motto had been the harsh but fair words "Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers won't drown" and he supposed that he had proved himself not to be a duffer.

Antonio abandoned his childhood reminicences as he approached Bompanzini's office. A light still burned in an upper window, and Antonio did not hestitate before rapping sharply on the heavy iron-bound oak door with the large door knocker. He did not have long to wait before a servant opened the door and escorted him inside.

Bompanzini's initial look of surprise turned to expansive pleasure as he shook Antonio's hand warmly.

"My dear friend, business partner and colleague! You are a day earlier than we expecting! I trust that the gold is being safely unloaded as we speak? I shall send men to supervise forthwith. Now, I trust you will take a glass of wine to celebrate our mutual enrichment?"

Antonio broke into Bompanzini's effusive monologue.

"Very well, I will take a glass of wine with you, but we have important matters to discuss before the gold is unloaded."

Bompanzini's look of pleasure quickly changed to one of surprise and then a darker mood of anger and malevolence.

"What is this? I trust you have a very good explanation? Some very influential people are trusting that this deal will be concluded with no room for error or misunderstanding. If anything should go awry then I assure you that the consequences will be most serious, and that things could go very badly for you - very badly indeed!"

Rossini judged from Bompanzini's burst of furious anger that he had been correct in his judgement that there was more to this deal than met the eye. It was time to play his trump card in this particular game of bluff and counter bluff. He brought out the leather document case and opened it to display the paper work within.

"Do you recognise these documents?" he asked

"Yes, of course - the invoices and receipts for the wine. What of them?"

"How about this particular document?" said Antonio producing the list of names from amidst the other papers.

"Sweet Mary, mother of God, where did you get that? Carmello will kill me! Give it to me now, I order you". Bompanzi purpled in the face and he made a futile effort to grab the piece of paper from Antonio's hand.

"Not until you explain what it means, and I'll thank you to moderate your tone with me, sir1"

Bompanzi turned away and poured a glass of wine from a jug on the small side table.

"Very well, I will explain all. I apologise for my sharp words. It has been a very long day, and I will feel much happier when this business is safely concluded and we can both enjoy the fruits of our labours. Now, will you join me in a glass of wine? Please?"

"Very well" Antonio took the glass and drank from it, noticing the heavy, cloying sweetness that seemed to go to his head almost immediately.

"Good, now please sit down and I will explain. Close your eyes if you are tired. Now, the list is of no concern of yours - it is purely a matter for Father Carmello."

Antonio found himself falling backwards, the room spinning around him as he collapsed to the floor. He retained a degree of consciousness and was aware of Carmello entering the room and conferring with Bompanzini.

"You fool! You were not supposed to drug him until we had the gold safely in our hands! The Serenissima could be leagues away by now. If we don't have that gold to pay the agreed retainers our plans will be in jeopardy."

"But Father Carmello, he has seen the list" Bompanzini pleaded.

"Which will tell him precisely nothing, you fat and careless oaf! Now, we must think carefully - I have a safe place to hold di Rossini captive until we can trace the ship and the gold. You must be aware that his family will be looking for him - I trust that you can deal with any inquiries without making any more mistakes?"

Antonio di Rossini knew nothing further as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter Seventeen

2008-11-13T12:00:00.002-08:00

Two months previously, on board the Serenissima, somewhere in the Adriatic

The trading voyage to sell on Bompanzini’s consignment of contraband wine had been swiftly arranged and had commenced in secret. The customs declarations were forged, a small crew of reliable men was picked, and the actual loading and embarkation had taken place on a distant and rarely used jetty on the far side of the docks. The port authorities were not overly concerned with goods leaving the port. In general they spent more of their time scrutinizing incoming shipments to ensure that the relevant taxes and levies had been duly paid.

Selling the wine had proceeded smoothly. They visited a series of minor ports dotted around the coast of the Adriatic, offloading a portion of the cargo at each stop and exchanging it for the arranged chests of ducats. Bompanzini had accompanied them for the first part of the voyage to oversee the transactions before transferring to another vessel to return home. The arrangement was for the portion of the gold due to Bompanzini and that due to repay the letter of credit for Father Carmello to be unloaded in Ravenna, leaving the remainder as pure profit for the di Rossini family business.

Antonio was in his cabin checking the sheaf of paperwork left by Bompanzini – invoices, bills of exchange and receipts for each delivery. The paperwork was neatly stored in a leather document wallet tied with a ribbon, and Antonio was sorting and replacing the documents as he checked them when he found something that puzzled him.

He noticed a sheet of parchment that was stuck to the back of a receipt that had been signed by Bompanzini. He carefully peeled the two pieces of paper apart so as to avoid tearing either of them and saw a tell-tale circular stain of a sticky red wine that obviously had caused the documents to adhere. He examined the new document and saw that it appeared to be a list of names, specifically prominent members of the Venetian Grand Council. Against each name was a particular symbol – a star, a question mark or a dagger – and a number. Some of the symbols had been clearly been amended and changed, with questions marks becoming stars and a few becoming daggers. The column of numbers had been neatly totaled, with the figure at the bottom being just shy of ten million. Antonio was particularly troubled to find his own name on the list with a line scratched through it and the figure amended to a zero.

It did not take a great deal of imagination to suppose that figures were bribes to be paid to certain members of the council, but for what purpose Antonio could not be sure. The symbols and the presence of his own name on the list made the situation more confusing still. He resolved to challenge Bompanzini about the matter before handing over the gold – a very substantial bargaining chip, to be sure.

He left his cramped but functional and comfortable cabin, and went in search of the ship’s captain – a stolid and reliable fellow called Benito Parese, who had worked for the di Rossini family for all of his working life, starting as a cabin boy and progressing to his current rank by dint of hard work and honest service. He was the only other person on board who had an inkling of exactly how much gold was on board.

“Captain Parese, I think that there may need to be a change of plan. I fear that our business partners are involved in some form of corruption and furthermore they may be planning on betraying us and taking the whole sum for themselves.”

Benito looked at his employer.

“Permission to give my honest opinion, sir?”

Antonio nodded his assent, he valued the thoughts of his employees and was always willing to give them due consideration.

“If you don’t mind my saying Sir, in my experience, if a deal seems too good to be true then it probably is. This business has been too easy for my tastes, and I suspected that something was not entirely above board about these arrangements. What do you propose to do?”

“I’ll take a jolly boat ashore, and I want you to take the Serenissima back out to sea. I’m due to meet Carmello and Bompanzini tonight, so I’ll challenge them about exactly what game they think that they are playing. I do not want you to land or surrender the gold unless I signal you with three long flashes of a shuttered lantern. If something is amiss then take the ship to one of the smuggler’s haunts on the islands to the north, and return to Venice when you judge it is safe to do so.”

“Very good sir. Are you sure you want to go to this meeting alone? These men could be dangerous if they are already planning to double cross us.”

“I’ve gotten us into this mess and it is my responsibility to my family and the company to get us out of it again. If anything should happen to me, I am counting on you to get the gold to safety"

"Very good Sir" replied Captain Parese, delivering a sharp salute to show his intention to do his duty. Antonio di Rossini knew then that he could trust him.

Chapter Sixteen

2008-11-13T12:00:00.001-08:00

Fletcher listened to Alonso’s story in respectful silence.

“So, a Cappuchin monk with doubts, eh? Still, I supect that that is not so very unusual. In my experience most people, even those like yourself who are in Holy Orders, harbour some sort of doubt and uncertainty about their faith. It is the ones with cast iron surety about their beliefs that frighten me”

He shuddered involuntarily. He had seem that fanatical gleam in the eyes of true believers on many occasions, usually as they were about to burn some poor sod at the stake.

“The question remains though. No matter how many doubts you have, why try to burn down the monastery and run away in the middle of the night? It doesn’t make sense to me, and it doesn’t explain who our friend on the horse is.”

“He is a man with some very dangerous enemies. He was being held in the monastery, kept drugged and sedated, and I suspect that the Inquisition were intending to keep him locked up there until he died from the cold. Worse still, I found out that they had a torture chamber hidden away in the cellar, for who knows what foul purpose? I could not countenance that, regardless of my faith”

“It seems to me”, Fletcher replied, “that you are exhibiting a far truer Christian charity than those that would trumpet their virtue from the roof tops.”
They continued their journey in silence for a short while, both lost in their own thoughts. On the horse Antonio de Rossini gathered his strength and finally began to speak.

“This whole situation is my fault and mine alone. I made a deal with the devil and signed my name in blood, metaphorically speaking, and now it is not just I who will pay with my immortal soul. I fear that I have doomed the whole of Venice into the bargain. I have been such a fool – a greedy, stupid fool”.

Fletcher looked at the old man quizzically. He knew that he was struggling to unburden himself of a terrible weight of guilt, and that with a little gentle prompting the whole story would come out, piece by piece. He had seen before the look he now saw in Antonio di Rossini’s eyes. Men who had seen the horrors of war and participated in terrible deeds had that same haunted emptiness, like an old house abandoned to the elements for too long.

Fletcher reached into his tunic and pulled out one of his most prized possessions. It was a small, solid silver flask engraved with the names of his colleagues who had fallen in a particularly grim battle in Anjou some ten years ago. He kept it filled with a fine French Calvados brandy from a small farm in Normandy, and although he rarely drank from it, it served almost as a talisman. He would take a small nip from it before going into a dangerous situation – just enough to take the edge from his fear but not enough to fuddle his senses. Now he offered the flask to the frightened old man on the horse who took it with gratitude.

“Here – take a little of this. It should help to steady your nerves. Careful – not too much, now. It’s strong stuff”

The old man coughed and spluttered as the fiercely strong liquor burnt his throat on the way down, but it seemed to do the trick. The colour returned to his cheeks and he drew himself up in the saddle, reinvorigated. He began to speak again.

“Yes, I have been foolish. I did not stop to question what an agent of the Catholic Church would want such a large sum of money, other than simple greed. If I hadn’t found that piece of paper then the deal would have gone ahead, and perhaps I would have been none the wiser …”

Chapter Fifteen

2008-11-13T11:59:00.000-08:00

After the announcement of the unexpected death of Marino Grimani, the Doge of the most serene republic of Venice, the crowd in the Rialto had exhibited a range of reactions. At first there was a stunned silence - the Doge had only been in office for eleven years and had not been particularly old, or suffering from any illness, so his death was like a bolt from the blue.

The shock did not last for long though. Within a matter of minutes the throng of bankers, merchants and nobles had started to form into small knots of people, theorizing about the cause of death, offering wild speculations that foul play was involved somewhere and of course pontificating on who his possible successor might be.

The Doge of Venice was unique in just about all of the known world, being a leader who was not born into the role - indeed, after a few early scandals the Doge was forbidden from naming his successor or of granting his patronage to any member of his family. Instead, the Doge was chosen by a curious mixture of election and lottery - from all of the members of the Great Council thirty were initially chosen by lot, and those thirty were reduced by another lottery to nine; the nine chose forty and the forty were reduced by lot to twelve, who chose twenty-five. The twenty-five were reduced by lot to nine and the nine elected forty-five. Then the forty-five were once more reduced by lot to eleven, and the eleven finally chose the forty-one who actually elected the doge. The final stage had initally been set at an electorate of forty, but after a tied vote in 1268 the number had been increased by one to avoid such a situation ever arising again.

Thus, the reasoning went, no family or power bloc could control the final selection, but this did not stop the frantic horse trading that went on as different interests tried to bargain with those chosen by each stage of the lottery to score themselves a place in the next round of voting. The final ballot of the forty one was the most important stage of all, but because of the protracted and wide ranging nature of the arguments that led to that point, every noble member of the grand council had some sort of influence in the process.

Whilst his father was absent, Silvio was responsible for casting his vote by proxy, and as he pushed through the crowd he was surrounded by those who wished to argue for their particular choice of voting member or candidate. He felt overwhelmed by the choices on offer and eventually threw his hands up in frustration and ignored everyone trying to talk to him and finally managed to make his way to the exit and thence out onto the steps of the Rialto bridge.

He hailed a gondolier who had just delivered some passengers to the jetty and was about to board when a voice behind him said.

"I trust that you will allow me to share your gondola - I believe we are heading in the same direction?'

He was too startled by the effrontery of the stranger to say no, and before he quite realised what had happened he was sat in the boat being propelled towards the centre of the Grand Canal with somebody sat at his side.

"It is so much more peaceful here than in the pandemonium of the Rialto bank, wouldn't you agree?" said the stranger.

Silvio took a moment to look at the interloper who had imposed on his gondola. The stranger was clad in a simple black clerical robe with no adornments, and he was sitting with his hands folded in his lap.

"You have me at a disadvantage Monsignor", said Silvio.

"Indeed, it would appear so. I bring a message from my superiors, and I urge you to listen carefully. Over the next two days the lottery and election process for the new Doge will be held. You will be selected in the final round and you will receive instructions at that time as to how you should cast your vote. If you do not follow these instructions to the letter the consequences will be very serious indeed."

"How dare you threaten me! Any way, how can you possibly know that I will be one of the forty one electors - the process is as random as throwing dice or drawing cards from a deck."

"Ah, you do not understand. For one thing, our God moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. If we say that you will be part of the forty one, then that is how it will be. Secondly, I am not threatening you, I assure you. However, you might like to consider how you would act if your impetuous sister were to fall into the hands of thieves and robbers. I understand that the roads between here and Navarra are particularly dangerous at this time of year, especially for a lady travelling on her own ..."

He let the implicit threat hang in the air, and Silvio felt trapped like a fly in amber.

"Very well, how will you contact me?"

"We will let you know, when the time comes. Do not fail us. Now, I believe that this jetty is my destination"

Chapter Fourteen

2008-11-11T11:32:00.001-08:00

"If you'll excuse me, I prefer to let a little air in here. It can get very stuffy, don't you think."

Bompanzini got up from his chair and walked over to the window and threw back the shutters, letting a rush of air into the room. He then picked up a bronze statue of a knight at arms mounted on a fine charger from his desk and placed it in pride of place on the window sill where it caught the light and sparkled most attractively.

"Now, if you'll seat yourself over there in the corner, my dear, I have a story to tell you. This may take a little while - my memory isn't what it used to be, so you will have to bear with the foibles of an old grey haired man like myself. Please help yourself to wine from the jug on the side table - it's a particularly fine, and very drinkable, vintage from my personal cellar. I sent for some more just before you arrived, so please don't be alarmed if you hear someone at the door. It will just be one of the servants".

Donatella thought that this was a somewhat odd thing to say - why would she be worried by a servant coming in the room to serve drinks? Then again, perhaps Bompanzini had assumed from her dishevelled state that she was a rural hick with no experience of living in a house with a domestic staff.

"Now, it must have been about three months ago that your father came to see me" ...

Three months previously ...

The three masted barque La Serenissima bobbed delicately at anchor in the warm August sunshine. The light of the late afternoon sun bouncing off the ripples in the harbour caused Antonio de Rossini to squint and he was grateful when he reached the shade of the harbour wall. He looked around for the tavern where he had arranged to meet the wine dealer Bompanzini who had promised a most lucrative arrangement that would be to their mutual benefit. The bell of the Campanile in the piazza San Marco sounded the hour and he knew that he was on time.

His eyes took a moment or two to adjust to the gloomy interior of the tavern, but when they did he spotted the merchant at a table towards the rear of the room already in conversation with a figure in a dark robe. The merchant waved him over and stood up to greet him, grasping Antonio's hand with both of his and shaking it effusively.

"Ah, my friend, how good it is that we could meet today. I promise you that this deal will make us all very wealthy men indeed. Now, if you will seat yourself at the table I will summon the serving wench to fetch us some more wine and we will get down to business"

He indicated the sombre black clad cleric already seated at the table.

"Allow me to introduce Monsignor Vittorio Carmelo who will be helping to bank roll this venture with some of the most considerable resources at his disposal."

The priest said little, beyond offering a curt nod. Antonio seated himself at the table and Bompanzini spread his hands in an expansive gesture.

"Well gentlemen, we have some fine wine, I have ordered us a plate of fresh oysters, harvested this morning and gently cooked in white wine, garlic and butter. Let us do business!"

At the last he raised his goblet and then drained it dry in a single gulp. He refilled it to brim with practiced ease and opened a leather binder with his other hand, retrieving a sheaf of papers and fanning them out on the table as if he were dealing a hand of cards.

"Let me give you summary, as it were. We can let the lawyers fight over the small details later on, but I think that you will find the basics of the agreement very much to you satisfaction."

The large florid man picked up a pepper pot and pushed it into the middle of a table.

"This is a consignment of Château Pétrus - a particularly fine and rare French wine, and needless to say astronomically valuable beyond the dreams of King Midas. It has been stored in the cellar of a certain monastery, not so very far from here, and records of its original ownership are, shall we say, in dispute. You will buy the consignment for the sum of one million ducats and ship it out under suitably doctored customs documentation, and I will facilitate its resale in a number of ports far away from here. The resale will net us a ten fold profit which we will split at a mutually agreed percentage, and you will ship the coins back here where they will be banked at the Rialto."

Antonio considered for a while before replying.

"It is a tempting offer, although you must understand that I do not make a habit of indulging in activities of a dubious nature"

"Dubious? You insult me, signor! All we wish to is avoid drawing unwanted attention to our business arrangements until the money is safely under lock and key in a secure vault"

"Of course, but a more significant problem is the initial funding. I do not have that kind of money available to invest at short notice."

"Ah, but that is the beauty of the scheme! Our good Monsignor Carmello will advance you a letter of credit assured against the value of your ships which will be repaid when our golden goose comes home to roost. You and I will travel with the shipment to ensure its safety and when we return home we will all be very rich men indeed"

Antonio swallowed whatever misgivings he was feeling and nodded his assent. This truly was a once in a life time opportunity, and he allowed his heart to over rule his head which usually counselled a cautious approach to business. He felt a rush of guilty excitement at the prospect of easy money.

"Very well, I agree. Let our clerks formalize the arrangements, but it principle I agree."

"Excellent! I assure you with every fibre of my being that you will not live to regret this deal! Now let us drink to fine wine, business and gold beyond measure!"

~~~

Today

Signor Bompanzini paused in his telling of the tale.

“Have you had sufficient wine, my dear? I expect that you must be feeling tired by now. An arduous journey can often lead to exhaustion, in my experience. If you try to move your arms and legs it will probably feel as if they are made of lead weights. No – don’t try to speak, there really is no need”

Donatella had been feeling woozy for a while, and now when she tried to move the room began to spin alarmingly and her vision smeared as she moved her eyes.

“Wh – what have you done to me?” she managed to say through a mouth that felt as if was stuffed with cotton wool.

“Ah, that was a particularly strong wine I served you there, supplemented by a few drops of a little something extra that I like to reserve for … special occasions, shall we say.”

He chuckled and patted his breast pocket conspiratorially.

“Some of my associates will be here shortly. They know to watch for the statuette in the window as a signal that their services will be required for the care and attention of any particularly troublesome guests. “

Signor Alberto Bompanzini stood up and walked to door, and placed his hand on the handle. He paused for a moment.

“I expect that you would like to know exactly what became of your father, and the ship loaded with ducats to boot? Well, I think that that question will have to remain moot for a little while longer, as I fear you are about to take a journey into dream land.”

Now he opened the door, and a group of four rough looking men entered.

“Farewell my dear, I don’t expect that we shall meet again.”

He nodded at the men.

“She is all yours, boys. Play nicely now”

And with that, he closed the door behind him as Donatella slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter Thirteen

2008-11-11T11:31:00.000-08:00

Padua 31st of December, 1599

The frost was as hard as iron on the ground, the puddles in the road were frozen solid, icicles hung from the eaves of most of the houses and a few lazy flurries of late December snow blew through the streets of Padua. It had been a harsh winter in the region, one of the coldest in living memory, and it looked set to continue well into the new year, and indeed, the new century.

Alonso was walking from his family’s comfortable villa in the hills to the cathedral in the main square, accompanied by his mother and father and three of their household staff walking at a respectful distance behind them. They were going to attend the traditional new year’s eve ceremony and then share some mulled wine at an informal reception with some local dignitaries in the town hall. They had followed this ritual for as long as he could remember, and there was something comforting in the idea that life would continue in much the same vein when he too finished his studies and raised a family of his own.

The family passed by a alley way between two buildings and from within the shadows the voice of a beggar was heard.

“Please sir, alms for the poor and needy, I beg of you”

Although begging and vagrancy was technically illegal in the area, Alsonso’s father was not an ungenerous man. He saw that the beggar was clearly in desperate need – his clothes were tattered and torn and he had wrapped himself in some old sacking to ward off the harsh cold of winter. He reached into his pocket and gave the poor wretch a handful of copper coins from his purse. He advised him to leave the area before he was picked up one of the notably zealous night watch patrols of the city guard, but promised him some kitchen scraps to eat if he waited by the back entrance of the family’s house the next day.

“Thank you kindly sir, thank you most kindly indeed” said the beggar with genuine gratitude as he moved off to find somewhere warm to shelter for the night.

“Poor man”, Alonso’s father had said, “but I’m afraid that it will ever be thus. The poor you shall have with you always, as the good book itself says. Remember boy, that being rich gives you an obligation to show proper Christian charity and generosity to all those in need, wherever they may be.”

The family proceeded to the door of the cathedral where they were welcomed inside into a space lit by generous numbers of fine tallow candles, and shown to their allotted seats in a boxed pew near the front of the nave. A choir of young boys were singing a traditional chant, and the air was heavy with the scent of myrrh that was being burnt in the heavy thurible that was suspended in the aisle. The atmosphere was one of calm serenity, and a refuge against the bleak mid winter cold outside.

The service followed the usual pattern of prayers, readings and hymns and then the bishop rose and mounted the small spiral stair to the ornate wooden pulpit. He gripped the sides of the lectern, elaborately carved into the shape of a swooping eagle with outstretched wings, and began to speak.

If the truth be told Alonso had been day dreaming in his seat, drifting from tiredness at the lateness of the hour and with the soporific fug of the incense and he could not now recall the exact details of the start of the bishop’s sermon. The prelate had been talking about the challenges and trials of the new century and the approaching end times when there would be wars and rumours of wars, when stars would fall from the skies, plagues and famine would ravage the land and the ten headed beast would rise from the seas. He talked about the church being a bulwark against such chaos and the only safe refuge in times of trouble. He had then deviated from his prepared text of one of the more purple passages of the Revelation of Saint John to talk about the passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ himself.

To his shock, and with a certain degree of horror, Alonso found himself shaking in his seat as listened to the bishop enumerated the gruesome horrors of the crucifixion in great detail. As each torture was described, Alonso became convinced that he could feel them being inflicted on his own body. He felt the scourging whips on his back, he felt the crown of thorns pressing into his brow, he felt his arms and shoulders being dislocated as the heavy wooden cross was raised into position and finally felt the centurion’s spear pierce his side. The ordeal seemed to last for an age, although in reality it must have been no more than a minute or two before the bishop finished his sermon and closed his large black leather bound bible with a sharp crack that sounded like the gates of heaven being closed on judgement day.

Alonso looked down at his palms and saw that they were both bleeding from where he had pressed his own finger nails into them. He was thrown into confusion – was God himself speaking to him? Was he going mad? What was he supposed to do next? Neither his teachers nor his parents had ever warned him that any experience like this was likely to befall him at any point in his life.

He kept his bloody palms tightly curled and hidden from view until he had a chance to wash them clean, the water in the basin being stained pink by the blood. Although he could clean away the blood, he still felt the throbbing ache in both of his hands that would not fade for several days.

The next morning, he resolved to speak to his parish priest about his experience and to ask him what it mean presage. He entered the confessional booth and said the prayer of contrition, and then related his experience to his pastor. The priest considered his words carefully before replying.

“My son, you have been blessed with a vision of the suffering of our Lord Jesus Christ. You must listen carefully to the word of God within yourself and seek His will in this matter. Nothing like this happens without a good reason. Be assured that one day God will speak to you again and you must be ready at that moment, for he comes like a thief in the night. It may take many years for the word to come to you again, but it will come eventually”

“But Father, tell me what I must do?”

“My son, that is entirely up to you”

It was at that moment that Alonso had resolved to take the vow of poverty and wait for God to speak to him again.

Chapter Twelve

2008-11-11T11:30:00.000-08:00

Fletcher bound the hands of his two prisoners with practised ease, and looped the rope through his horse's bridle. He checked that the bindings weren't too tight - he had no desire to be cruel, but he had a suspicion that all was not as it seemed to be on the surface. Until he could establish the truth, he decided to play it safe.

"Not too tight for you, I trust. Just tell me if you can't move your fingers." he said.

Alonso didn't bother to argue or fight, but he indicated the bare feet of his older companion.

"I can walk quite happily, but this man can't - his feet are blistered and bleeding, and you'll be dragging him on his knees before we've gone a mile."

"I'm not intending to, I'm not daft. I was just waiting for you to ask ..."

He helped the old man to mount the horse, and noted the way that the old man seemed to be quite at ease on the saddle. His suspicions about the pair were rapidly being confirmed. He gave his horse a tap on the hind quarters, and she stopped her grazing and set off back for the camp. Fletcher let her walk ahead a little, and loosed Alonso's bindings so they could walk together. He gathered his thoughts for a moment, and then spoke.

"Let's not beat about the bush here. You might be a monk who is accustomed to walking around barefoot, but that old man on the horse is not, by any stretch of the imagination. I passed a monastery this morning that was buzzing like a nest of hornets that somebody had stuck a pitchfork into the middle of - it was still smouldering from a fire last night. I find you pair skulking in a barn a couple of miles away. Perhaps you'd like to tell me the conclusions that I'm supposed to draw in these circumstances?"

Alonso gave a rueful smile.

"It appears that you have the advantage of us, sir. All I can say is that I believe that we are on the side of the angels, and I hope that I can convince you of that fact"

John Fletcher walked in silence for a while, considering his options. He hadn’t reached the age that he had without developing a nose for trouble and knowing how to steer clear of it. Something about this whole situation was very fishy indeed. In fact it was as fishy as the fish market in Venice, on a hot day at the height of summer when the flies buzzed in vast clouds, the sea gulls wheeled over head looking for an easy meal, and that indefinable miasma that was so characteristic of the city seemed to creep up from the water in the canal like a living force.

He had never had much time for the church, or religion in general for that matter. In his home country of England there was still a lingering distrust of the Catholic church, and it was widely accepted that the Anglican church was little more than a politically convenient construct for the benefit of the monarch. In his experience, people who professed a religious belief fell into three distinct camps. There were those who could say their catechisms, attend the services on a Sunday and knew when to stand up and when to sit down, but it seemed to have little effect on their lives beyond a few pious platitudes. Next came those who genuinely believed in the hell fire and damnation and were prepared to lay down their lives for that faith. The final group were the most worrisome and frightening – the cynics and manipulators who were prepared to use religious belief to further their own greed. They would preach poverty and live in opulent splendor, they would preach peace and wage war and they would promise eternal bliss in the life hereafter whilst inflicting tortures and suffering beyond imagination in the earthly realm.

“So, tell me why you joined the church, Alonso. Do you practice what you preach?”

“Preaching is the last thing that I would ever do, sir. My only desire was to live a life of simplicity and contemplation, not to stand in the pulpit and put the fear of almighty God into the common people.”

“You weren’t born to the life though, were you? I can tell by your features and your comparatively soft hands that you had a noble birth and a privileged upbringing.”

Indeed it was true. Whilst Alonso’s hands were starting to show the calluses of manual labour, they still had the softness of nobility to them. John Fletcher compared them to his own hands – scarred, burnt, dirty, and thick with calluses from having used heavy farm tools from almost before the time he could walk. The farm tools – the threshing flails, pitch forks, spades, forks and the like – had long since been swapped for the instruments of war – swords, daggers and match locks, but the effects were much the same.

“Yes, I admit it. I have not been a Cappuchin brother for very long, but I had intended for it to be my life until the events of recent days. Now, I am not so sure of anything any more.”
Alonso thought back to the events that had set him on the course to a life in the Brotherhood …

Chapter Eleven

2008-11-09T09:33:00.002-08:00

At the same time that his sister was making herself at home in the office of the wine merchant, Silvio di Rossini was making his way along the Grand Canal in a gondola, propelled with quiet, purposeful efficiency by one of the many gondoliers that worked the area ferrying the citizens of Venice along the canals that were the main thoroughfares of the city. The gondola was painted black, by tradition and also as dictated by one of the many sumptuary laws that regulated trade, commerce and even the clothes that people of various stations in life were allowed to wear. Silvio was grateful for the shelter provided by the gondala's small felze cabin that provided some shelter from the elements. The sunshine of earlier in the day had vanished, to be replaced by lowering dark clouds and a stiff, cold scirrocco wind blowing in across the lagoon from the Adriatic sea whipping up small waves and whitecaps on the water, making the boat ride choppy and uncomfortable. Summer had definitely long passed, and Silvio suspected that first major storm of the winter was on its way, sooner rather than later.

The small boat rounded the bend in the canal by the fish market, causing Silvio to wrinkle his nose subconciously at the familiar sour smell, and the famous Rialto bridge came into view. It had been completed only fifteen years previously and was rightly regarded as one of the architectural wonders on the world. The designer Antonio da Ponte had beaten such eminent designers as Michelangelo and Palladio for the contract and had completed the work, against all expectations, in just three years sinking twelve thousand wooden pilings into the mud of the canal base to support the imposing structure. It was the only way to cross the Grand Canal on foot, and its vast 24 foot span was thronged with street sellers hawking their wares, small shops and stalls, and a few hardy courtesans working the shadowy areas under the bridge where the traghetto ferries docked. It was a little early in the day for their trade, and Silvio knew that that particular area was one to avoid in the hours of darkness unless you liked to live life on the wild side and didn't mind the risk of getting robbed of your purse or worse.

Silvio disembarked at one of the many small jettys on the eastern bank of the canal near the bridge and climbed the steps up to the street that were now slick with the drizzle that was threatening to become rain. He hurried into the grand hall of the palazzo near the Rialto that served both as the hub for the majority of Venetian trade and commerce, and also as one of the world's major financial centers. He never failed to be astonished by the opulent splendour within. Merchants, stock traders and nobles with an eye for business thronged the area that operated as a bourse for trading in just about every product and service available in the world, and there were many areas both public and private where deals could be arranged. Silvio thought with some amusement that the old joke that when our lord Jesus Christ had thrown the money changers out of the temple they had all agreed to move to the Rialto bank in Venice was not so far from the truth.

Today the customary bustle had a darker edge. It was said that the market had the same four humours as the human body and that you could judge its health in much the same way as a physician would judge the wellness of a man, and decide where to employ his powders and leaches to cure its ills. Such as physician would have quickly diagnosed an excess of black bile requiring an severe purging. Rumours were evidently flying around, and in the central trading area papers were being waved by those desperate to sell and close a position before they lost a fortune. Prices were falling rapidly, and nobody seemed to know exactly why.

Silvio looked around for one of his dealers, and finally saw Bennedetto di Campo rushing past with a sheaf of papers, invoices and receipts in his hands. He grabbed his elbow and asked with quiet urgency.

"Benedetto - what is going on? What have you heard?"

"Nobody knows for sure, but there are rumours that some bad news is expected soon and the dealers are selling everything they can. A lot of people are losing a lot of money, and everybody is trying to get their hands on gold instead of paper. Excuse me sir, I must deal with these papers quickly before the market closes, otherwise I can't speak for the consequences."

He hurried off into the crowd.

Finally, another buzz of excitement was heard across the far side of the hall. A palace official bustled into the room, looking red in the face and out of breath. The great bell of the exchange tolled sonorously, the sign that dealing was to cease, and it was almost unheard of for it to be sounded in the middle of the day. The room quickly fell quiet as the crowd collectively held its breath. The official got up onto a dias to speak.

"Si è morto il Doge, no la Signoria"

The Doge was dead, but the council still lived.

Chapter Ten

2008-11-09T09:33:00.001-08:00

Signor Bompanzini had been a wine trader for longer than he cared to remember. Advancing years and a fondness for sampling the very product that he sold had given him an impressive girth and a bulbous red nose. He would often say that a day without wine is like a day without sunshine, and for him just about every day was a sunny day. He poured himself a goblet of a fine Tuscan red from a stone jug on his desk and settled down to work through his ledgers.

He had a keen eye for the detail in figures, and years of experience could show him the markets where he could make a tidy profit, or the merchants who were short changing him. Although a lot of his business came through Venice, he preferred to be based in Ravenna. The streets were a great deal drier for one thing – bobbing about in a gondola did not agree with his delicate constitution at the best of times. This was not to say that he did not appreciate the finer things in life that were to be found in the grand city, but he enjoyed them all the more for them being occasional treats.

His work was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. He looked up with a mild sense of irritation before replying with a somewhat world weary sigh -

"Well, come on in, if you are going to - I haven't got all day, you know"

The figure who came through the door was a revelation to him, in many ways. It was not the fellow merchant he was expecting, or perhaps a clerk from a newly arrived ship with a docket to sign, but instead was a young woman, and a very striking one at that. She was dressed in the travelling clothes of a moderately well to do noble man, dusty and travel stained from a recent journey. He struggled to describe her face in his inner monologue - she was not exactly what you might call pretty, her face was too hard and angular for that description, but she had a classical beauty that wouldn't have looked out of place on a marble statue of a Greek goddess on the front of the Doge's palace in the Piazza San Marco. Her magnificent auburn red curly hair was tied back in a functional pony tail, but he was willing to wager a very large sum indeed that properly styled she could put all of the beauties of Venice to shame.

His reverie was broken as the woman entered the room and shut the door behind her.

"Signor Bompanzini? My name is Donatella di Rossini, and I have a few questions for you. May I trouble you for a glass of that delicious looking wine - I've been on horse back for hours and my throat is as dry as a Sicilian garden in August"

Chapter Nine

2008-11-09T09:32:00.001-08:00

‘Sir’ John Fletcher was a soldier and a bloody good one by all accounts.

He was the wrong side of forty with grey in his hair and his beard, an old man in his chosen profession, but age had given him a wily cunning and an instinctive understanding of the tactics of the battlefield that had seen him through more than twenty years of fighting across the countries of Europe. He had fought in his fair share of skirmishes and a couple of large set piece engagements, not to mention the prolonged city and castle sieges that were a necessary pre-cursor to most of the battles. Most importantly of all, he had one quality that had kept him alive in the grimmest of corners, that had caused sword points to turn aside and arrows to skitter off his helmet, and guns aimed in his direction to splutter and misfire – he was what is colloquially known as a lucky bastard.

He had earned the honorific of ‘Sir’, not through an accident of noble birth or patronage, but through the acclamation of the men that he had fought with over the years. He had earned a reputation as somebody who was calm and unflappable in the heat of battle, and it was well known that those men who stuck close to him were more likely to survive than those who panicked and ran, or decided to play heroes on their own.

He was originally from a small village outside of Northampton. He had never enjoyed the farm work that was the assumed occupation of most of his peers, and his formal education had been patchy at best. When a recruiting company had marched through the village on a hot, late summer’s day he had willingly thrown down his threshing flail and exchanged it for a broadsword and a coat of mail, and elected for a life of following the drum.

Originally he had been so naïve that he didn’t even realize that he was joining an independent mercenary company and assumed he was signing up with a regular army brigade. They had soon set him straight though, and he rapidly found out that as an independent he would be better armed, better provisioned, better trained, less likely to lose his life in a vain glorious charge ordered by some ignorant foppish noble, and at the end of it, assuming he survived, he would be a great deal wealthier.

He had been mulling over the possibility of retirement, and he had saved enough money to set himself up comfortably back in England. He had a plan to buy a tavern in a small village somewhere, and name it in honour of the company that he was a member of – to whit, The Black Company, styled after the famous White company of two hundred years previously, led by another English called John Hawkwood who had carved himself a place in the troubled history of Italy in the fourteenth century.

The company had been sitting idle for a while after finishing a contract defending a city in Lombardy and the talk had been of disbanding for the winter months when campaigning usually came to a halt. In the summer, all of the advantages lay with the attacker when laying a siege - good weather, plentiful food to be had, and long days. In the winter, the situation was reversed. The defenders would be snug and dry behind their city walls whilst the poor sods in the trenches outside got soaked to the skin, starved and probably died of the ague as well.

The word had come that a patron was willing to pay a hefty sum for a company to march to the gates of Venice and threaten the city for a while. No actual fighting was expected, unless something went seriously wrong - it was more of a show of strength to intimidate the Doge - the ruler of Venice - and the council that elected him. All of the men had been happy to sign up for such a sweet deal, even if they didn't understand the machinations behind it, which was how they had come to be pitched up not far from the city, gathering supplies and preparing to march.

One of Fletcher's duties was to ensure that the company had everything it needed, and also to see that everything was paid for at a fair rate. Other armies let their troops run wild and live off the land, but that was a sure way to get yourself a reputation as a band of cut throats and brigands. It was much better to ask for your patron to foot the bill and have everything square and above board. Looting was never tolerated in any circumstances, and he had seen a few n'er do wells hung for petty theft in his time. His job today was to scout around some of the local farms and see what fodder might be available to buy, and also to get an idea of the lay of the land.

His route had taken him past a monastery building recovering from a kitchen fire or some such the previous night, and then he had followed the road down. From his vantage point he had a seen a prosperous looking farm with what appeared to be a generously stocked barn close by, so he went to investigate.

He tied his horse to a hitching post near a trough and she began to absent mindedly crop the grass nearby. He made his way to the barn, and had a feeling that he was being watched - he thought he had seen somebody duck inside as he approached. It was more than likely the farmer hiding from view, but it always paid to be cautious.

"Ho there? Anybody at home?" he shouted, keeping a hand close to his sword to be on the safe side. He came up to the open side of the barn and shouted again. "I'm not here to loot - we'll pay a good price, at least 10 ducats a load more than you'd get at market. You can’t afford to pass up a sweet deal like that, surely?"

He went further in, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dusty gloom within. He saw two people hiding at the far end of the barn behind some straw bales, but to his surprise they turned out not to be the farmers that he was expecting, but rather a pair of rather disheveled looking monks.

“I think that you pair of scruffs had better come with me and no funny business” he said, drawing his sword.

Chapter Eight

2008-11-05T13:32:00.001-08:00

Donatella spurred her horse onwards.

She had taken a boat across the lagoon to her family's farm at San Guiliano on the main land. The ostlers had readied a young filly for her, quickly and efficiently saddling her with a minimum of fuss. At the same time Donatella packed a few supplies that she would need for the journey - some humble rations of bread and olive oil, some cheese, a small wine skin, a purse filled with golden ducats - the life blood of the Venetian economy - and finally, her two most prized possessions. A swept hilt rapier, wickedly sharp and with perfect balance, and a matched dagger. She rarely wore the weapons in public - it simply wasn't acceptable for a noble woman such as herself to go armed routinely - but she had trained assiduously in private. Her tutor had schooled her after the style of the grand master Salvatore Fabris, an economical and elegant method of defence.

The road followed the coast in a wide arc, curving to the south and east. The Romans had established this route over fifteen hundred years previously as one of the major trading arteries of their empire and it had been in use more or less continuously ever since. Donatella knew from her classical history that the road was bisected by the Rubicone river, the point that marked the boundary between Cisalpine Gaul to the north and Italy to the south, where Julius Caesar had made his declaration of war upon Rome by crossing the waters.

Caesar had famously said "the die is cast" as his armies began their march on Rome - Donatella reflected that she now felt like a pawn in a much bigger game, the boundaries and rules of which she could only guess at.

For the moment, though, she was gloriously free - the wind in her hair and the sun breaking through the scattered cloud on the seaward horizon. Although she enjoyed her life in the city, she frequently felt stifled by the rules and conventions that dictated what she could and could not say and do. As the daughter of a noble family, albeit a relatively minor one, she was expected to attend to a social round of parties, dances and formal dinners, and the spend the rest of her time in suitably ladylike pursuits such as sewing, music and dance. She lived for the moments when she could exchange her silk dresses for a more practical outfit of doublet,hose and cloak, and leave her house under the cover of darkness to carouse in taverns, take fencing lessons from a maestro and scale the rooftops and hidden places of the city. Her most favourite time of year was, without doubt, the carnivals where the identity of every participant was hidden by a mask, and a wild bacchanalia ensued, with convention being thrown to the wind.

She had taught herself the arts of stealth and subterfuge, and made contacts with the rogues, thieves and smugglers, and other inhabitants of the city's underworld, and learnt how to listen to the gossip and cant and other information that flowed freely, if only you paid attention to it. There were some who believed that the famous freebooting spirit of Venice that almost verged on the point of arrogance, would lead to retribution from those who opposed any form of renaissance or enlightenment, but those voices were very much in the minority.

The spirit of Italy, and Venice in particular, was unique amongst the countries and principalities of Europe. That spirit was best summarized by the concept known as sprezzatura - that studied nonchalance that gave the impression of accomplishing everything in all spheres of life with ease and grace and no sign of outward effort and concern. It could apply equally to practice of the arts of music and dance, of trade where a deal satisfactory to both parties could be struck without the desperate haggling of merchants from less civilized nations, and most notably in the art of fencing where it manifested as an almost casual disregard for ones own life as you deprived your opponent of theirs, preferably with a stylish flourish as you pierced their heart and then turned your back before they had hit the ground.

Donatella's felt her horse starting to tire, so she eased back on reins to drop the pace from a hard gallop to a steady canter. She estimated that she had another hour or so before she would arrive in Ravenna at this pace, and there was no sense in running a valuable horse into the ground if she didn't have to.

The open road was a fine place to be on a day such as as today. She took advantage of the slower pace to look around her and enjoy the scenery.

To her left hand lay the flat coastal plain covered in hardy sea grasses broken only by small patches of stunted trees and shrubs, clinging to a precarious existence in the margins of the land. The road that she was travelling on was raised almost six feet from the surrounding terrain and protected from all but the most devastating flooding by a stout dyke, giving the impression of a defensive rampart to hold back the fury of the sea. Today though, the sea was quiescent, although she could see whitecaps and breakers further out.

To her right, the land rose gradually to a series of hills, divided into a patchwork of small farms and groves of olive and lemon trees. The harvest had long since been gathered in, so they were largely bare of any foliage or fruit. Beyond the first rank of hills, she could see the smoke from what appeared to be a collection of camp fires. This struck her as odd, as she had not heard of any mercenary companies of condottieri, being based in the area. The companies rarely campaigned during the winter, and their members generally used the time to return to their home villages to fritter away their spoils of war before returning to the internecine wars of the Italian principalities and dukedoms in the Spring. Italy had existed in a state of almost permanent warfare between highly paid mercenary companies for over three hundred years, and it was an accepted fact of life that at any given time there would be a city somewhere under siege. She resolved to ask in Ravenna if anyone had heard any rumours of such unusual activity. As a member of a trading company, it paid to be well informed about such matters, if only to be able to protect your own interests.

Before long, the walls of the city came into sight and after finding an inn where she could leave her horse to be fed and watered, she made her way to the merchants quarter and the docks in search of the wine trader Signor Bompanzini. There seemed to be a lot more activity than usual, with horse drawn carts laden with food and other supplies leaving the city in all directions. It is said that an army marches on its stomach, and in this case a substantial army must be preparing itself for action.

She hailed a passing ox cart, piled high with barrels of wine and bales of hay.

"Business is good, I see - who's buying?"

"Who wants to know", the somewhat surly carter replied.

"A ducat if you tell me where you are headed, and another if you can direct me to Signor Lucio Bompanzini"

The carter needed no further encouragement to reply.

"Bompanzini has an office down by the docks - just follow this street and turn left past the main square, you can't miss it. As for the business - where have you been living, under a rock? Somebody's hired Sir Roger de Montfort's Black Company, and kept it bloody quiet too. First thing anybody knew about it is when they pitched up a couple of miles from here and started spending gold like it was going out of fashion. Whoever's hired them has either got very deep pockets, or has got their eye on a big prize. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way"

Donatella flipped the carter the promised two ducats, and made her way slowly against the prevailing traffic following the directions she had been given. Perhaps Bompanzini would be able to shed more light on the situation?

Chapter Seven

2008-11-05T13:31:00.000-08:00

Alonso listened carefully at the cellar door before opening it and climbing the short flight of stairs that emerged at the back of the main building. Judging by the sounds he could hear there was still a considerable degree of confusion inside the monastery, although it sounded as if the fire was being brought under control.

The night sky was dark - the new moon hidden behind a swath of cloud - and the pair made their way to the road that led down the hill away from the monastery. Alonso estimated that they had several miles to cover to reach the nearest village and set a fair pace. He kept a close watch on his companion who seemed as eager to put as much distance between himself and the place of his torture and imprisonment as Alonso was.

As they walked he threw back his hood and breathed in the cool night air. He felt a sense of freedom that he had not experienced for a long time, away from the rigid routine of his cloistered life. He reflected on the unexpected turn of events that had initiated this change in his life, musing on whether such things were pre-ordained as some philosophers and priests had speculated or whether he was truly an agent of his own destiny. Did he have free will, or just the illusion of free will, and what difference would it make in either case?

His thoughts were interrupted when he realised that the old man and stumbled and was now limping quite badly.

"I'm sorry ... my feet are hurting"

Alonso cursed himself for not having realised that while he was accustomed to being barefoot at all times and his feet were hardened and calloused, the old man could not possibly have been used to travelling in such a way. He looked around and saw some farm out buildings a short distance from the road.

"Follow me - I think we will be able to lay low for a while and rest in that barn over there"

The barn was a robust structure, with stone walls on three sides and a wooden roof, used for storing hay. By the side wall a drain pipe from the roof led down into a water trough which was full from the autumn rains. Alonso found some sacking inside the barn and wet some of it, and once they were safely under cover used it to wash the old man's blistered and bleeding feet.

As he worked at his ministrations, the old man began to speak, falteringly at first, as if he had almost forgotten the nicieties of everyday speech, but gradually his confidence returned.

"I owe you a debt of thanks, it seems. Please let me introduce my self - my name is Antonio de Rossini. I am a humble merchant trader from Venice. I feared that I was losing my mind in that place, and every time I was drugged into sleep I felt more of it slipping away. It was all I could do to hold on to the memories of my children's faces and try to survive for their sake."

Alonso reached inside his robe and pulled out the locket.

"I believe that this must be yours?"

He passed the locket to Antonio, who received it gratefully.

"Yes - that's my daughter, Donatella - she is wild one, although she hides it well from most people. She is very different from her brother, but they compliment each other well. Yin and yang as the oriental philosophers would describe it. Light and shade."

Alonso looked out across the fields from the open side of the barn, and as if on cue the first rays of the rising sun appeared above the horizon. The low clouds rapidly changed colour from a deep scarlet to a rich gold in the space of a few minutes. He tried to recall the old rhyme about a red sky in the morning presaging rain later in the day. The prevailing winds were blowing in from the sea, so if they brought more cloud with them that would certainly hold true.

He turned back to the barn, and then stopped in his tracks. He could hear an approaching noise.

Someone was coming.

Chapter Six

2008-11-03T13:46:00.000-08:00

Donatella had had enough of playing hide and seek.

She pushed out from behind the tapestry and cleared her throat.

"Silvio, would you care to explain exactly what has passed here tonight, and more importantly what we are going to do about it?"

Her brother stared at her, mouth agape, in shock and astonishment to see his sister emerge from hiding, clad all in black like a thief in the night.

"I could very well ask you the same question, sister. What on earth are you doing sneaking around in the dark? How did you get in without being seen?"

"Do you still think that I spend my time at home embroidering dresses and pressing flowers? I have to do something to keep myself amused, and besides, I had an inkling that something was badly wrong and I seem to have been proved correct."

"Very well, come through to the office. It seems I owe you an explanation, although I still don't really understand it myself. As far as I can discern, it seems that shortly before he left on his voyage our father signed an agreement to finance our shipping operations in the Levant, with repayments to start when the fleet returns, or when requested by the lenders if certain conditions were not met."

"I can't believe that he would gamble the whole company on an uncertain return like that. It is completely out of his nature. Did he say anything to you about his plans?"

"Nothing at all. He was going to discuss a trading opportunity, but as far as I know that was all. Those men showed me his signature and it looked genuine to me."

Silvio walked to the window and looked out at the canal below. He sighed heavily and leaned against the sill.

"The question remains, what are we going to do?"

Donatella thought carefully before replying.

"Do you have the ships manifest for the vessel that father was due to sail on?"

"Yes - but why? What will that tell us? It's just the document that is filed with the port authorities in the event of the ship being declared lost at sea. It's a bureaucratic formality - nothing more."

"Humour me, please"

Her brother scanned the shelves of the study and selected a large leather bound ledger and placed it on the table. He opened it and leafed through the pages before finding the section that he was looking for. A list of cargo and passengers was attached to the page with a pin, and he removed it.

Donatella scanned the document looking for anything that might strike her as unusual. A cargo of wool, bolts of cloth, wine and salt, with more goods to be taken on board at Ravenna - a port less than one hundred miles to the south. There were just two passengers listed as being on board - a wine merchant called Lucio Bompanzini and a Father Carmelo, both contracted to travel for the first leg of the voyage only.

"Silvio, what was the name of the ship?"

"It's listed at the bottom, above the signatures of the captain and the harbor master"

Donatella scanned to the end of the page - the ship was called 'La Serenissima', after her home port.

"Well brother, I think that we need to start by finding out exactly what happened in Ravenna, and whether father was still on board when La Serenissima departed."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"I'll take a fast horse and I can be there before mid day tomorrow. I suggest that you talk to our creditors and try and raise the payment due. Talk to the lawyers too, and see if they can unpick that contract. There really is no time to waste."

Chapter Five

2008-11-03T13:45:00.000-08:00

The smoke was much thicker now, causing Alonso’s eyes to stream and his lungs to strain for air. He tore two strips from the blanket on the bed and wet them in the jug of water on the night stand. He kept one for himself and passed the other to his companion.

“Here – try to breath through this, it will stop some of the worst effects of the smoke. Keep your head low as well, if you can – the smoke is not so thick closer to the floor. Now, hold on to the back of my robe and follow me. We’ll take the back stairs and leave by the cellar door”

He could not see where he was going exactly – the combination of smoke and darkness made it impossible to see further than his own hand in front of his face – but he kept one hand to the wall and trusted to his memory to find the way. At the end of the hallway he almost stumbled as his hand pushed into empty space, but he caught himself in time.

“These are the stairs – we are heading down”

The narrow spiral staircase led down into cool darkness, and they soon left the choking smoke behind. Alonso counted the steps, almost without realizing he was doing it, and soon they found themselves in a large cellar with a low, vaulted ceiling that occupied almost all of the space underneath the monastery and extended in places beneath the walls.

Alonso allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, and think. They should be able to leave the cellar without being seen and make their way to the main road and the village under the cover of darkness and the confusion of the fire, but after that? They would be a pair of humble monks on the road, and he didn’t believe that they would attract too much attention, except for the fact that the old man was likely to be missed in short order when a head count was taken in the morning. They had no choice, but to try and put as much distance between themselves and the monastery before the alarm was raised.

His eyes slowly became accustomed to the gloom of the cellar. He had never been down here, and had never had any reason to, so he tried to orientate himself with the layout of the rooms above. There were stacks of boxes, racks of bottles and barrels, some old farm tools and what appeared to be a broken plough, its blade rusted beyond use. He found a stub of a candle, crudely melted onto the wood of a box, and next to it a flint and tinder. He struck the flint and lit the candle, causing fantastical shadows to loom and leer as he lifted it up to light the room.

Alonso made his way slowly through the clutter towards the far wall, and then he heard the old man let out a stifled gasp behind him and tighten his grip on the back of Alonso’s robe before releasing it.

“I … I remember this place”

The old man’s voice was thin and rasping.

“What do you remember?”

The old man did not reply, but pointed to the far corner of the cellar where a heavy oak door, reinforced with iron bands, led into another room. Alonso felt a heavy sense of foreboding as crossed the cellar to open the door and see what lay within.

A small room, carved out of the rock that formed the foundations of the monastery and obviously built in recent years rather than as part of the original structure. The walls were rough and unlined, and Alonso noted with concern a set of manacles and chains cemented into the furthest part of the chamber. In the centre of the room was a large desk and chair, facing the manacles - presumably so an interrogator could be seated in comfort whilst a prisoner would be forced to stand in considerable pain.

There was one conclusion to draw - the room had evidently been installed and furnished for the use of the Inquisition. The old man had proved to have some very dangerous enemies indeed.

Chapter Four

2008-11-02T11:26:00.001-08:00

Donatella waited in the darkness, her ear pressed to the rough wood of the store room door.

From her observations of previous nights, she knew that a night watchman patrolled the upper stories of the building at fifteen minute intervals. Sure enough, after a wait of no more than a few minutes she could hear the heavy tread of his boots on the wooden boards outside the door. She hoped that he would not bother checking the store room, and indeed he did not. He continued on his route, whistling tunelessly under his breath in a desultory manner. She waited for him to turn the corner and make his way back toward his guard post before carefully opening the door.

She emerged into a hallway, decorated in a plain fashion with two candle lanterns at either end, providing a meagre and guttering illumination. She had memorized the route that she needed to take, so she moved cautiously down the hall, in the opposite direction to the guard, and turned a corner to find the grand stair way down into the main part of the building. The stair way was a grand marble affair, although it had been carpeted which served to muffle her tread as she descended into the central atrium - the large space at the centre of the building with the other rooms branching off it.

Now she had to find the library.

Donatella stopped at the base of the stairs for a moment to orientate herself, and in that moment of stillness she heard footsteps and voices coming from behind the stairs. With no time to think, she crossed the marble floor of the lobby to hide behind a tapestry hanging against one of the walls. She held her breath and waited for the voices to approach. There were two ... no, three people but only two were speaking. A young man, his tones angry, and then an older voice with the obsequious and oily tones of a lawyer or politician.

"The situation is simple, my lord. Your father signed a contract with us, and the terms are very clear. Your fleet of trade vessels and their contents, as well as your bonded warehouses, are fully mortgaged to our company. If your family does not make the scheduled payments, as agreed, then they are surrendered to us by default. It pains me to have to remind you of this, and believe me, it is the last action that I, as a representative of our company, wish to take. If you do not deliver the gold by midnight on the last day of this month, then the terms will apply. I am sorry, but you have three days left."

"This is outrageous. I can't believe that my father would have agreed to a gamble of this magnitude. You must know that he has been absent from the city for the past three months dealing with clients in the Peloponnese islands and no one has been able to trace him or contact him."

"Again, all I can do is offer my most sincere wishes that your father will be safely returned to you. I understand that the region is prone to violent storms and heavy seas at this time of year. Perhaps he is detained in a safe harbour waiting for calm weather before attempting a sea crossing?"

"Perhaps. I hope so, I don't know. But I still don't understand ..."

The older voice smoothly cut across the younger one again.

"Regardless, in your father's absence you are the legal representative of your company and therefore responsible for all matters listed in the articles of association, including discharging any and all debts incurred, and meeting the terms of binding contracts"

"You are telling me I have no choice, then?"

"Again, I can only refer you to the contract. Your legal representatives will meet with ours to finalise arrangements by the end of the week."

The final figure spoke, in a voice that was low and polite, but with a hint of dark menace concealed within, as with a stiletto dagger hidden behind a velvet cloak.

"One further matter. If you should choose to default on the contract and are declared bankrupt, then you will lose your status as a noble and hence your voting privileges on the council will revert to the chair until a new family is raised to the nobility. We think that you should be aware of this, to save any embarrassing misunderstandings at any future council meeting. Thank you for your time. We will see ourselves to the door"

The young man waited until the two bearers of bad tidings had excused themselves from his presence and then gave a cry of frustration, and dashed a vase to the floor with a mighty crash.

Donatella was frozen, unsure of what to do next.

Chapter Three

2008-11-02T10:20:00.002-08:00

Brother Alonso felt an impetuous madness overtake him.

He knew that if he stopped to consider his actions, his natural caution would stop him from doing anything. If he was going to do anything, he had to let his instincts guide him and hope that fortune would be on his side. He reflected that at one time he would have prayed for guidance and knowledge of the correct course to take, but that particular resource now seemed to be closed to him. He was on his own, and he would take responsibility for himself.

He made his way to the kitchens, knowing that the rest of the brothers would be busy in their devotions. He still moved with caution, but the routine of life in the monastery was as immutable as the mountains themselves. The schedule of devotions ran as smoothly as the clockwork mechanisms that drove the large clock on the church tower in the market square. He could predict with a high degree of certainty exactly who would be where at any particular time, and also what they would be doing. The regularity of life in the monastery had at one time been a source of great comfort to Alonso, but now he was on the brink of breaking away from it, he realised quite how stifling and restrictive it had been.

In the kitchen he carefully removed a smouldering piece of wood from the fire in the large stone grate that had been banked down for the night. He made his way out of the back door of the kitchen to the courtyard where there was a large stack of split cords of firewood, neatly piled up under a shelter to keep them dry. He found some small pieces of kindling and blew on the ember in his hand, breathing life into it until the flames started to catch and burn the dry wood. He had no intention or wish to cause a major blaze - the objective was to cause a panic - so his next action was to pick up a large armful of wet leaf mould and kitchen waste from the compost heap that was next to the fire wood. He smothered the nascent blaze, and immediately large clouds of choking, acrid smoke began to billow upwards and into the open windows on the upper floors.

There was a large brass bell by the side of the kitchen door and he sounded it three times, the signal for a fire or other emergency, and then made his way through crowds of brothers milling in the rapidly thickening clouds of smoke. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom of the old man and gently roused him from his sleep.

"If you can understand me, please don't scream. I mean you no harm, but I am going to try and get us both out of this place. Now, please put this robe on and follow me. Keep your face covered, and don't say a word".

Alonso handed the old man a dark brown robe, identical to his own, and was gratified as comprehension began to dawn on the old man's ragged features and hope started to dawn in his eyes for the first time in months.

They were going to escape!

Chapter Two

2008-11-02T10:20:00.001-08:00

On a roof top overlooking a canal a figure dressed in black waited patiently for a cloud to cover the moon and provide a shield of darkness. An observer below would not have seen the crossbow bolt that crossed the gap between the buildings trailing a silken cord behind it. The cord had been carefully died with black squid ink so that it was effectively invisible against the sky above. The figure carefully pulled on the cord and was relieved to feel the grapnel at the far end lodge against a balustrade on the other roof top, and then tied the cord around a chimney, making it secure. The two buildings were now connected, albeit tenously.

The figure pulled back their hood to reveal an elfin face, surround by a shock of red curls. Donnatella realised that she had been holding her breath ever since she had fired the crossbow bolt and grapnel, and slowly exhaled. This part had been easy. She dismantled the cross piece of the bow and stashed it in the back pack at her feet, along with the handle. She wouldn't need it again, but she couldn't leave it behind. The next task was to remove five short sections of dark wood from her back pack, each about a foot in length, but with a screw thread and connector at either end that allowed her to assemble them into a single five foot staff. She balanced the staff experimentally in her hands, letting it slide between her fingers as she found its centre of gravity.

Now would come the most dangerous part of the night's activities.

She raised herself on to the rope and checked that the grapnel still held her weight. It did. She dismounted again and took a tinder box and a small phial from the pocket of her jet black cloak. The phial held an acrid substance with the consistency of thick honey and she proceeded to coat a section of the cord at the point at which it was tied to the chimney breast. The final act was to strike the tinder - it took three attempts before the flint produced a satisfactory spark and ignited the section of cord. It burned with an odd, purplish flame and she knew that there was now no way of smothering it or extinguishing. The Greek fire that she had purchased from the alchemist hadn't been cheap, but it was worth its weight in gold. She now had less than three minutes before the cord would burn through to the point of snapping, so there was no time to waste.

She mounted the rope again and started to cross the gap between the buildings, using the staff to aid her balance. A noise from below distracted her. A small scull was being propelled up the canal by a pair of rowers - evidently somewhat the worse for drink judging by the bawdy song that one of them was crooning and the clink of a bottle or jug of some sort. She had planned to cross unnoticed but now she would have to hope that neither of the pair in the boat would choose this moment to look up.

She made a concious effort to steady herself and not to rush, risking falling to her certain death below. A breeze started to pick up, blowing from the east and carrying the salt tang of the marshes beyond the lagoon. Half way across now, steady does it, she thought. The breeze had an unforseen consequence - when she had tested the time it would take for a section of cord to burn through she had been indoors where the air was still. Now the flames were being strengthened and made hotter and more vigourous by the air, and the rope gave an alarming lurch as it started to fray and give way.

"Bones of the Saint preserve me now" she whispered and launched herself forward, taking two steps and then reaching for the parapet in front of her. She gripped hard with one hand, holding her staff with the other, as the rope snapped and she thumped hard into the side of the building. She bit back a cry of pain and pulled herself up on to the roof, coiling the rope behind her. The rowers were now well past her position, and the sound of their carrousing would have covered the sound of her body hitting the brick work.

She paused to catch her breath and rub her bruised ribs before stashing the rope. She knew that she must leave no evidence of her presence at all. Time to move on. She had studied the architects plans carefully and knew that there should be a trap door in the roof leading down into an upper room, and indeed, the entrance was exactly where she expected.

She started to lift the heavy oak door and then caught herself as the rusted hinges started to squeak and groan in protest. This was not the time to allow the possibility of drawing any sort of attention to herself, so she removed a second phial from her cloak, this one containing a light oil, almond in colour. She carefully allowed a small amount to fall on each hinge and waited for it to penetrate the rusted metal. Now when she lifted the door, the sound was almost inaudible and she looked down into the empty space below.

A ladder led down from the opening into what appeared to be a store room of sorts. Crates of various sizes were piled in haphazard fashion, and dust sheets covered a large painting propped against the longest wall. She memorized the layout and the began to climb down the ladder, carefully closing the trap door behind herself.

She was inside.

Chapter One

2008-11-02T10:19:00.001-08:00

In a stone cell, in a humble monastery, an old man began to scream. He thrashed on his narrow bed, throwing his thin blanket off his emaciated body.

A novice monk hurried into the room carrying a mug of water. He removed a small bottle from a pouch around his neck and carefully measured three drops of a pungent, dark brown liquid into the water.

"Here, drink this, my lord. It will make you feel better"

The old man twisted his head to one side, resisting the ministrations of his would be benefactor. He tried to speak, but his mouth would not form the words that he wanted to say.

"Do - Donna - Do"

He shook his head again, tears of frustration in his eyes, and finally surrendered to the inevitable and accepted the mug of water, downing it in a few swallows. He knew well the consequences of refusing his regular medicine, and he had no wish to experience the horror of the funnel being forced into his mouth again. His tongue flicked involuntarily to the cracked stump of a tooth that he had lost the last time that he had tried to resist.

Within a matter of moments he felt the by now familiar wash of lethargy through his body as the potion took effect, and he surrendered with not a little gratitude to the sleep that quickly overtook him.

The novice took the mug from the old man's hands and covered him again with the blanket. He took a rough wooden comb from the table in the corner of the cell and began to untangle the old man's tangled and matted grey hair. He noted the pallor of the man's skin and heard the unmistakeable and characteristic rasp in his lungs. Looking around the room he felt the cold, damp, autumn air blowing through the open slit that served as a window and knew in his heart that the old man would not survive the coming winter.

The kindly words and gentle ministrations could not disguise the fact that this old man had been brought to their monastery against his will, he had been drugged to keep his tongue silent, and if he continued to be held in this cold, dank room he would soon be dead, and no doubt buried in an unmarked grave in the small cemetery outside the walls.

What they were doing here was murder, plain and simple.

Brother Alonso knew that he must act. His prayers and meditations had gone unanswered for far too long, and he took that as a sign that he must learn to think independently. If God would not provide guidance then he must trust to the logic that he had learned as a child. Those lessons seemed to belong to a different world, and in a way they did.

His decision to take his vows and enter the cloistered world of the monastery had not been taken lightly. His parents and his tutors had expected him to study at one of the great seats of learning before returning to a life as a merchant trader, a respectable marriage to a daughter of a similarly wealthy noble line and to eventually take the reins of their family business.

He still could not adequately express in words the sense of conviction that he had felt that had led him to shave his head into a tonsure and don the capuccio hood. All he knew was that having taken that step, he had felt an immeasurable sense of freedom and release.

The rules of the order were simple. Those called to the life were to live a life of asceticism, poverty and humility. They were to own no worldly goods, other than the simple hooded robes that they wore. They would be barefooted, even in the harshest cold of winter. They were to keep no supplies in the house, beyond a few days worth of food. They were to rely on the charity of others for their sustenance, and they were forbidden to even touch money.

It was difficult to imagine a greater contrast with his younger life.

They lodged with the Franciscans in the monastery, and he worked quietly and without complaint as he was directed by the Abbot. In addition to his duties tending the plants in the garden and cleaning the latrines to use the ordure produced as fertilizer, he had been summoned one day and told to care for the old man who had arrived in a shuttered carriage, his face bloodied and bruised. He had been instructed to care for his basic bodily needs and to administer three drops of a particular medicine should he ever become agitated or distressed. His final injunction was to ignore anything that old man might say, and to treat them as the ravings of a lunatic. It went without saying that he should not speak of this matter to anyone outside of the order.

It had been a warm day in late summer when the old man had arrived, and the cell had been a blessedly cool respite from the hot sun outside. Now, the chill of Autumn had arrived bringing the damp mists that rose up from the river that snaked past the hill on which the monastery had been built.

Alonso knew that to do nothing was to condemn the man to a lingering and painful death from an infection of the lungs, if the sedative action of the medicine did not cause him to stop breathing as he slept fitfully.

Alonso checked that the old man was comfortable one more time, and walked back to his own cell, his head bowed as was customary. It was almost time for the office of Nocturnes, which he would observe in silent contemplation on his own.

He knelt on the floor, and tried to clear his mind of worldly distractions, trying to hear the inner voice within, but he felt nothing. Very well, a different approach was called for.

He put back the hood of his robe and felt for the thin chain around his neck, and pulled it out and stared at the locket that was attached to it. This had been his first and only act of defiance to the rules of the order, and he wondered if this was the cause of his spiritual malaise. No, for if he was honest, he had not heard that voice for so long that he now wondered if he ever truly had, or if it had been a moment of self delusion.

He had found the locket on the day that the old man had arrived.

He had stripped him, cleaned the blood from his face, and then dressed him again in a simple robe. He had been instructed to take the pile of dirty and torn clothes and dispose of them in the fire, but something had made him hesitate. He had noticed a small object hidden within one of the man's leather shoes - a simple locket wrapped in a scrap of paper. Almost without thinking he had placed the locket around his neck and concealed it beneath his robe, and looked once at the single word on the paper before consigning it to the flames.

It said 'Serenissima'.

Prologue

2008-11-02T10:18:00.000-08:00

In a hidden room, in a gilded palace, a wicked man regarded a city on a map with greed in his heart.

With one bony finger he traced the line of the coast north to where a collection of lagoons provided a natural harbour and allowed the city to dominate the trade routes from all directions, and command the seas beyond. He tapped the map, once, twice, three times and cleared his throat.

The man opposite him at the table inclined his head, almost imperceptibly, as if granting the older man permission to continue.

"This city is an abomination in the eyes of God and the church. They refuse to pay us tribute, they steal our most holy relics and display them as their own, their cathedrals and basilicas are a mockery of the splendour of our own fair city. They govern themselves as a so called, self styled republic - an affront to the divine right of Kings and Dukes to rule in a natural order, under the guidance of their spiritual mentors."

He coughed again, this time reaching for a delicately laced handkerchief and dabbing his lips with the grace of a courtesan. He picked up an obscenely bejewelled golden goblet and sipped some sweet red wine to moisten his throat.

Again the younger man waited. He knew the rules of this game well, a dance as intricate and convoluted as any quadrille performed by the perfumed dandies at court. He would not have come here if he didn't know what he was going to hear.

"Two of our clerics in the city have been arrested and accused of the most petty and ridiculous crimes. Their council has passed a law interfering with our right - our God given right, no less - to own and enjoy our property and churches, and to collect our rightful tithes from our flock. They have thumbed their noses at the Papal interdict that was their last opportunity to repent and return to the paths of righteousness."

The prelate snatched up his goblet again and drained it in a single swallow, before slamming it down upon the table, sending a fine spray of wine flying across the map.

"Enough is enough, I say!"

Rage and exertion caused the man's face to purple, matching the colour of his robe and the droplets of wine that had stained the map, and he was briefly incapacitated by another fit of coughing.

"I charge you with the authority vested in me as a Cardinal of the most Holy Roman Church by the true apostolic succession to act as an independent agent to bring this renegade republic under the discipline of the church. I grant you a full indulgence to commit any act that you deem necessary to achieve your goal"

"Any act?"

"Break each and every one the ten commandments if you must. If you succeed in your holy mission you will have ample reward, both in this world and the next. If you fail, we will of course, deny you."

"I will need resources"

"You will have them. Now, go and bring these curs to heel."

He touched the heavy gold crucifix hanging around his neck and then mirrored the shape with a familiar gesture with his hand in the air.

"In nomine Patris, Fili et Spiritus Sancti"

The younger man rose from the table and turned to leave, the hint of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Father Vittorio Carmelo knew that the victory that his name promised was within his grasp.

La Serenissima

2008-11-02T10:12:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my attempt at writing a novel in a month for Nanowrimo. Please note that this is a work in progress and is more than likely to be scrappy and incoherent - this is my first time at writing anything like this and any feedback will be more than welcome!

If anyone wants to add me as a Nano writing buddy then my id is 'thermalsatsuma'