Heart of Glass

28





The crowd jostles me as I stand before the temporary wooden stage that’s been built in St. Mark’s Square. My fingertips grip its edge, my face level with the rough-hewn planks. I’m surrounded by men and women who have been up half the night in anticipation of today’s events. The smell of stale sweat hangs heavy in the air, but above us the sky is blue and clear. The Basilica of St. Mark’s stands at the eastern side of the square, and the clock tower looms over the scene, marking out each passing second as I wait to see Roberto’s face. We’re hemmed in on the other three sides of the square by rows of archways and columns, three stories high.

One thought swirled around my head last night as I tried to sleep: could I be wrong about Roberto? It makes me sway on my feet to even consider such a possibility.

A man laughs beside me, his breath ripe with the smell of beer. A flagon dangles from his hand despite the early hour. “I hope we see his innards slither to the ground!” he cries, before belching loudly.

I close my eyes and force my expression to stay blank. I cannot risk these people sensing my disgust; they must believe I’m one of them. The Venetian nobles are watching from above, in the buildings surrounding the square. No lady would lower herself to stand at the front of a boorish crowd eager for a spectacle, and I’ve taken some of Bianca’s clothes to conceal my status. The fabric of the dress is dyed a simple dark blue. My curls are scraped back severely, and I wear a bonnet with a deep brim to hide my face.

“You won’t see his innards,” a woman says, prodding the drunk man in the ribs. She jerks her chin towards the stage. “He’s too good for that.” She spits vigorously on the floor, and I only just manage to pull the hem of my skirts out of the way in time. “Son of a Doge? He’ll get a nice, tidy execution. It’s not right, if you ask me. Should be …”

Whatever she says next gets drowned out by a sudden, vicious roar from the crowd. I stand up on tiptoes to see. It’s Roberto! A guard leads him out onto the stage. He looks much better than last time, thank goodness. He’s wearing clean clothes, his hair is washed and his bruises are almost healed. He’s thin, though—the veins stand out on his arms, and he holds his body slightly to one side as he walks, as though protecting an injury. His hands are manacled in front of him.

“My love,” I whisper.

As he passes the edge of the stage, I reach forward, my fingers trembling.

“He won’t have any coins for you!” the man beside me guffaws. “Son of the Doge or no.”

I snatch my hand back, but not before I hear Roberto gasp in recognition. His eyes widen and he slows. A guard shoves him roughly in the back and he stumbles forward, his eyes flickering over to me one last time. Then he has moved away, going to stand in the center of the stage.

Three men step onto the wooden boards. These are the judges, three senior members of the Council. They’re wearing ceremonial robes and sit themselves on high seats at the back of the stage, staring out at the onlookers. Their faces look carved from stone, expressions unreadable.

There’s no sign of the Doge or his wife. Perhaps they’re hiding behind one of the hundreds of windows in the palace that rears over us. Roberto is so fully alone that it makes my heart ache.

A figure in a cloak steps up onto the stage and brings a wooden staff down against the floorboards.

“Silence!” he calls. His voice carries easily across the square, and the people around me stop their gossiping, their eyes trained on the stage.

A second figure comes forward: Faruk. His stooped shoulders are hidden beneath a luxurious robe, and his face is clean-shaven. He is invited by one of the Council to begin the prosecution, and he turns to face the crowd, sending them a winning smile. It makes my blood run cold.

“The Ottoman Empire sends out its thanks to you, Venetians, for allowing us to plead our case today. My countrymen have heard much of your fair-minded and educated legal system, and we are privileged to be part of it …”

He’s transformed himself for today’s performance, and even I am amazed. His Italian is faultless as he walks confidently across the stage.

“… but there can be no denying that the Ottoman kingdom has been maligned by a son of Venice.” At this, he flings out an arm, motioning to Roberto.

My fiancé simply stares at his feet, his face hidden from the crowd. A flash of frustration passes through me. Can’t he see that standing like that makes him look defeated already? Guilty, even?

“The case is clear-cut. Princess Aysim was found dead in this monster’s rooms. We have watchmen who will swear to it. The motive for murder? Frustrated lust! Our dear princess would not fulfill his wishes and so he brutally killed her.” Faruk shakes his head in disgust. “Do you want this stain on your society?”

“No!” the people around me chorus. “Never!” They are like baying dogs. How can they allow themselves to be so easily deceived?

Faruk gives a solemn nod, as though confirming how very wise they are, and retires to the side of the stage.

“And now for the defense,” announces the man with the staff. There are crows and hoots of anticipation, and Roberto is led forward by a chain to the front of the stage.

His eyes scan the crowd, though I notice he avoids looking at me. I mustn’t feel hurt; he is doing what he can to get through the next moments.

“I am proud to be a son of Venice,” he begins, his voice cracking. He straightens his shoulders. “I would die rather than dishonor this city.”

“Die, then, dog!” someone shouts from the back of the crowd, and ugly laughter fills my ears. Roberto waits for the insults to die away. His expression is strong and proud; this is not a man who will cower before them. Hope flutters in my heart. Finally, quiet descends.

“This much I can tell you: I have never met the woman, Aysim. On the night she was so foully killed, I was drugged and my apartments arranged to look like the scene of murder. Whoever committed this crime, it wasn’t me.”

Now there are hisses of disapproval from onlookers.

“I am an innocent man,” says Roberto. He lowers his head again.

He allows himself to be brought back to the center of the stage, and I feel my hands ball into fists at my sides.

“Is that all he has to say?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

“I could have done better myself,” says the man beside me, taking a long gulp of beer.

Anyone could have done better than that. Roberto has betrayed his fate with a few paltry words and a story that not even a child would believe. I want to sink to my knees, to weep. What hope is left to us now?

Halim steps up. Handsome, powerful Halim. His hair is freshly oiled and his robes are pristine. He looks every inch the prince he is. He talks quietly with the judges, and I guess that he is requesting permission to speak. Then he turns to face the crowds.

“I’d hoped that the Doge’s son would show his noble birth, and admit his guilt, but it seems that is not to be. So my hand has been forced.” My glance darts towards Roberto. The blood drains from his face as he watches Halim intensely. “My poor sister was the most virtuous of women. When she first disappeared,” Halim continues, “our lives fell apart. We didn’t know whether she had been kidnapped, or worse. We searched high and low for clues that might help us find her.” From the sash of his robe, Halim pulls out a roll of parchment. “Then we found this letter.”

Halim slowly unrolls the parchment, which bears a broken ducal seal. Though no one can read the writing from their vantage point, the crowd seems to press forward as one. I can see the prince’s hand shaking a little. He looks upwards to the sky.

“Forgive me, sister,” he mutters. “I betray your secrets to save your honor.” Now he turns his face to the parchment and begins to read.

“My Darling,

“Since we met in Constantinople last month, I have not been able to put you from my thoughts. Even when I close my eyes, your face does not leave me. Each day since seems a year in length. That night, you gave me a hundred reasons why we should not be together, but my single reason trumps them all. I love you, and cannot live while we’re apart. Come to Venice at once, and I promise our life together will be a paradise. I think of you whether the sun or the moon rules the sky.”

Halim’s voice cracks on the words, and he holds the letter up for all to see. “I ask you to bear witness to the signature.”

“Roberto.”

The crowd boos and hisses in fury. Halim holds the letter towards Roberto, and the ugly sounds cease.

“Do you deny this handwriting is yours?” The last word is almost spat.

Roberto looks at the letter for what seems a long time. His face grows pale and his brow creases with … what? “I don’t understand,” he says. “The handwriting is mine, but the letter is not.”

Halim shakes his head. “Even now, you damn yourself with lies. I would have expected better.” He throws the parchment on the table in front of the judges.

My vision blurs as my eyes fill with tears.

“Are you all right?” the woman beside me asks as she takes my elbow and holds me upright.

I manage to nod. “Yes, I’m sorry,” I gasp. “It’s the heat.”

Up onstage, the judges are passing the letter among them.

“Do you have anything more to say?” one of them asks Roberto. “I taught you to read and write as a child. I would know your handwriting anywhere.”

Roberto looks bereft. “I’ve told the truth,” he says.

“Were you in Constantinople?” another judge demands, his face cold with fury.

Roberto nods. “You know I was. I supported the trade delegation but two months ago.”

The crowd erupts in roars and the judges exchange glances. They don’t even need to speak to one another; they already know what they’re going to say.

“No!” I cry out.

“Shush, child,” the woman tells me. “Don’t excite yourself.”

Roberto is looking at me now. My own eyes are fixed on his, unable to break our shared gaze across the stage that stretches out between us. He is so close, yet totally out of reach. Tears are running down my cheeks. Roberto shakes his head, and I read the words that he mouths to me: “I’m sorry.”

The cloaked man steps forward again and the blow of his staff against the stage floor rings out. “The judges have come to a decision,” he announces. Low whispers travel through the crowd, but his eyes stay fixed on the balconies at the back of the square. “Silence!”

The voices fade away, and one of the judges stands up from his seat, clearing his throat. My fingernails cut into the palms of my hands.

“The prisoner is found guilty of the crime of heinous murder,” announces the judge. “He will be executed an hour after dawn tomorrow.”

The crowd erupts in a roar of thirst for blood.

I turn and push through them. I can hardly breathe. “Let me out, let me out!”

Everyone is shouting, and I keep running, pushing people aside. My bonnet is torn from my head, but I don’t stop to retrieve it. A voice rings in my ears, calling over the heads of the crowd. Unmistakable. It’s Roberto.

“Laura!”

But I don’t stop and I don’t call back. I plunge down a narrow street leading from the square, until I’m quite alone in a courtyard. Everyone else is at the trial, and I hear their distant hoots and catcalls. I pause for a moment, leaning against a wall to catch my breath. The sun beats down on my head, and white stars dance behind my eyes. My hopes, the prayers and sureties that had supported me, seem to have crumpled like some cheap stage trick. Judgment has been passed. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing the Segreta can do. Nor the Doge. Roberto’s guilt has been signed by his own hand. He is to be executed tomorrow, at sunrise. The law has the final say.

I manage to walk on. Even the words of the letter sounded like Roberto’s. Like the words he used to speak to me.

I hear quick steps behind me. As I turn, before my eyes even take in the figure, a burlap bag is brought down over my head. I stumble and scream. It’s suffocating, and I can see only tiny squares of light seeping through the sacking. I hear the sound of feet scuffling against wood, and I am dragged inside a doorway. I kick out, but it’s hopeless. The arms that grip me are strong, and it’s all I can do to stay upright. We move farther into darkness and a cool interior. There’s another set of arms, a muttering voice I can’t make out. Then my legs are kicked away, and my rear lands on a wooden seat.

Someone pinions my hands behind my back, and I feel ropes on my wrists. I hear heavy panting beside my ear as a body leans over me.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I ask.

Nothing but a low chuckle of laughter. Rough fingers grip my wrists, and the ropes are pulled painfully tight. Footsteps move away from me, growing faint, and there’s the slam of a door.

Am I alone? My chest heaves as I struggle to draw in air through the coarse cloth. I feel myself gagging as panic rises within me.

Then there’s a soft noise from somewhere to my left. The pad of leather against wood. Someone else is in the room, approaching me.

I want to call out, Who are you? But all that comes out is a strangled sob.

Suddenly, I sense the warmth of another body beside my cheek. Someone is very close, I can tell. The panic is almost overwhelming now. I wait for the sensation of cold metal against my throat.

“Hello, Laura.” No blade, just a voice. But a voice I know all too well, even if the words are slurred.

A ghost from my past has returned.

“Carina?” I gasp.