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”
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Chapter Thirty Six
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.
“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
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.
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
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.”
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.”
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Chapter Thirty Three
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.”
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
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.
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
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.
“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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
