The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Palazzo Dolfin was one of the newer buildings along the Grand Canal. It’s grand arcade was of red altinelle bricks edged in hard white Istrian stone. The same white stone had been used for the flight of steps down to the water. The whole affair was reflected gloriously in the canal as I approached, until the image broke up with the chop of my ferry boat’s prow. I pulled nervously at my wine-stained clothes, and tried to set the cap squarely on my head to give the impression of a prosperous and serious suitor. My money purse still hung at my waist, though it had been seriously depleted since yesterday. The ferryman bumped his boat against the lower steps, and I passed him a small coin as I stepped on to their pristine whiteness. As he poled away, I noticed for the first time that the palace’s doors were closed. Frowning, I hammered on the forbidding surface to be met only with silence. This was not how my suit for Caterina’s hand was intended to be. I knocked again, noting how the sound echoed hollowly behind the door.

Then suddenly a shutter screeched open above my head somewhere, and a coarse, female voice called out in a low Venetian dialect.

‘Watcha want?’

I walked back down the sparkling white steps, and craned my neck upwards. From one of the upper levels of the palace, a fat, red face poked out. The woman repeated her abrupt demand, and I was hard put to contain my temper.

‘I want to speak to the master of the house, woman. Now come down and let me in.’

I was sounding more like Pasquale Valier every day. The servant woman, for her part, mocked my snooty tones.

‘Ooh, yer do, do yer. Well yer can’t. They’ve all gorn to Padua on account of the fever.’

The fever? Was Caterina ill, then?

‘What I mean is, to avoid the fever. Don’t know when they’ll be back.’

With that, she withdrew her head, and abruptly slammed the shutter. I had not heard of a fever being rampant, but then many scares ran through the city. We Venetians did live on swampy mud-flats, after all. With Caterina away for an unspecified time, I would have to be patient in my suit. In fact, I felt some relief at not having to face Cat’s father straight away. Maybe marriage was not in my destiny. Besides, her absence would certainly give me some time to work out this voting scam. I didn’t have much time, as the election was only a few weeks away. I waved for a passing ferry boat to stop, and immediately began thinking about how to ensure one particular name was selected.

In the end it proved stupefyingly simple. I don’t know why I didn’t see it straight away, but I didn’t. I must have been moon-struck for love of Cat. So I wasted days locked away in my musty, dark quarters. I huddled in one corner, seated at a scarred table with parchment and quill. The waters of the lagoon rose-as they do from time to time-and seeped across my floor. I watched the lapping approach of the fetid waters, noting only that this time they did not quite engulf the tidal mark left by the previous aqua alta . I only left my room once to distribute the profits on my colleganza to all the investors. Some of them were not best pleased with the thin margin I gave them. But then I had had to pay off my own debts first, and I also seemed to have lost a considerable amount during that first day of carousing. The silversmith Sebenico was particularly tart, screwing his sharp nose up at the meagre coins I gave him.

‘What do you call this, Zuliani? I could have made more out of my investment if I had loaned it through the Jews on Spinalunga.’

I mumbled something about unforeseen overheads, and pirates off the Dalmatian coast, and hurried away. Thank goodness the Widow Vercelli, and Old Man di Betti were only too glad to see any sort of return on their money, and too dim to realize they could have had more. Back in my dank cell, I wrapped all my clothes around me, and pondered the little matter of the election fraud.

Getting on for a hundred years ago, the system had been changed from one where the Great Council nominated eleven electors, to a more foolproof method. It was decided to select four of the great and good, who would themselves choose forty names. I began to toy with the idea of bribing the four original nominees. That would be a damn sight cheaper than bribing forty. Oh, except it was now forty-one. Some genius had overlooked the fact that an even number of electors could bring about a tie. Which had happened about forty years ago, forcing the addition of one more elector. The forty-one commissioners operated in a sort of secret conclave, like cardinals electing a pope. Each would come up with a name on a slip of paper. Duplicate names were discarded, until a single slip for each nominee was created. These slips were placed in a vessel, and one name drawn out. A vote was then taken on that name, and if it got twenty-five votes, then that man was the next doge.

So my first idea was to suborn the four, who could then nominate forty-one people inclined to come up with the right name. But, thinking about it, I knew that wouldn’t work, and I certainly wouldn’t have bet my shirt on them coming up with the right name. No, there was too much chance of a slip-up. Similarly, bribing the forty-one would prove an impossible task. Even if I could get to them when they were locked away, some of those old families are incorruptible, believe it or not. No, I finally came to the conclusion that the trick had to be turned with the mechanics of the voting system. If I could ensure one particular slip of paper came out the voting urn, then I was nearly home and dry. Though this was a contradiction in terms in relation to my own domestic arrangements. The water of the lagoon had nearly reached my toes under the table. I lifted up my chilly feet, and plonked them on the bench opposite where I sat.

But then, to ensure one slip in particular came out, I had to ensure it went in to begin with. And I was back again to bribery. I felt I was in a maze that kept taking me back to the centre instead of out to the rim and freedom. With my brains nearly boiling, and my feet near freezing, I gave up. I needed to talk to someone, and longed for it to be Cat. But in lieu of my beautiful girl, I would have to make do with my old drinking companions. Grabbing my sugar-loaf hat, and cramming it on my head, I decided to make for the anonymous tavern close to the Arsenal, where the drinking session that had landed me with this problem had begun. I squelched through the damp streets as the rain began to fall, taking care not to fall into a canal. The high tides sometimes made it difficult to tell the difference between a watery rio , and a paved calle . And it was not rare for an unwary Venetian to blithely step into a canal thinking the water was merely a damp sheen on a paved surface. In the nameless tavern, I found only Marino Michiel, his pasty, round face made paler by the weather. I sat down beside him, and ordered the Apulian wine that we had been drinking the last time. When it came, even that seemed to have succumbed to the aqua alta . It had clearly been watered.

‘Where are the others?’ I enquired of the sullen Michiel. He waved his gloved hand in a vague gesture of uncertainty.

‘Don’t know for sure. All I do know is that Valier has gone to Padua.’

My ears pricked up at the mention of the place where my Cat languished.

‘Oh, is he fleeing the fever too?’

Michiel looked puzzled. ‘Fever? Is there talk of a fever? I have heard nothing.’

Alarm bells should have rung at that point, but I was too engrossed in my problem with slips of paper to take in what Michiel was saying. Instead I spoke of the up-coming election.

‘And its all done in secret with a few big names, as if we, the people, don’t have a say. Time was when an arengo was called-a meeting of all the people. Now it’s just a formality.’