Heart of Glass

31





Even in my wretchedness, sleep took me, and now a bleak new morning has arrived.

I force myself to get up and go through the motions of preparing for the day. Bianca fills my copper bath and I am grateful for the clouds of steam that hide me from the world.

Outside, everything is christened by morning dew. Emilia is waiting for me by the gates; she has promised to come with me for support today. The two of us greet each other silently and move over to a canal, where we summon a gondolier.

“Take us to St. Mark’s,” Emilia says in a soft voice.

I can’t speak. I’m going to watch my beloved die. To watch him die.

The gondolier must see the look on my face, as he doesn’t try to engage me in conversation. Instead, he whistles softly, a plaintive tune that fits my mood well. Mist seeps off the canals, and the houses of Venice look more beautiful than ever in the morning light. For once the streets are clean and empty of people. They’ll all be gathering in the square.

Emilia’s fingers rest beside mine on the velvet cushion. I suddenly feel the need to explain yesterday’s encounter, when she interrupted me with Halim. If I cannot clear my conscience to Roberto, I must to someone, before he is gone.

I clear my throat. “What you saw yesterday—” I begin.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she interrupts. “I realize I should never have asked. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s no one’s business because nothing happened,” I say. I can hear how high and tight my voice is and I force myself to calm down. Think of Roberto. Always Roberto. But that’s the wrong thing to tell myself—my throat constricts and I don’t know how I’ll get the next words out. “I would never betray …” I can’t finish.

Emilia pulls my hand into her lap. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me. I understand.”

My shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. The gondolier’s whistling has stopped. Please, God, let today be over.

We reach the canal that runs parallel with the square, cluttered with other boats. As we climb out of the gondola, supported by the pilot’s hand, a column of smoke streaks the sky.

“What’s that?” I ask.

He shakes his head and tuts. “Did you not hear? Arson! During the night someone set fire to part of the palace. Rebels, they say. The Doge is losing his hold, that’s for sure. Did you see his performance on the stage yesterday? Kicking and jerking like an invalid.” He nods at the thick black clouds that drift above our city. “No one has faith in him anymore.” Then he climbs back into his gondola and pushes off, the stern of his boat parting the water.

Emilia and I share a glance.

“What is happening to this city?” she murmurs. “Lysander always had such good things to say about his home. And now …” She doesn’t need to say anything else; I feel certain we’re both thinking the same thing.

We make our way towards the square. As we approach, we see youths scrambling up statues and sitting in rows along high stone walls, craning to see the stage. Food-sellers with trays are weaving among the spectators.

“Imagine!” a woman walking beside me says. “Executed before all of Venice.” She holds a linen handkerchief to her mouth. Emilia shakes her head at me, warning me not to take any notice.

As we draw nearer the stage, jostled by other people, I spot the wooden planks covered with straw to soak up the blood. My empty stomach squirms. Roberto’s life will draw to an end up there. The heart I’ve loved will beat no more. I rest against a pillar, feeling faint, struggling to compose myself.

I’ve heard tales of previous executions in Venice. The man who was suspended in an iron cage, surviving on bread and wine, until he was brought down and hung. A criminal whose body was stripped and dragged through the streets behind a cart. How one man was cut into four pieces and his head stuck on a lance-point for all to see.

The executioner, a giant of a man, already wears his canvas hood and cloak. He sits on a stool and has a whetstone braced between his feet, against which he sharpens the blade of his ax. It’s all a performance, designed to get the crowd in the mood. The ax glistens. Carina will be disappointed today. Not a blunt blade in sight.

Emilia leads me through the gathering crowds towards the front of the stage. Today, I don’t care that a noblewoman should not be amid the throng. Now that I no longer wear the disguise of a servant, people recognize me as Roberto’s betrothed and step away, lowering their eyes in respect. Justice is about to be done; no one need hate me anymore. Soldiers line the front of the stage, wearing cloaks and carrying leather shields. Executions can become animated, and these men will stop the baying crowds from climbing the stage and attacking the prisoner. They’ll also stop the condemned from escaping their fate, I think bitterly. I haven’t eaten in who knows how long and feel light-headed. But I must stay strong. I won’t let him down.

A drumroll sounds from a young drummer at the side of the stage. The executioner takes his place beside the block, and a herald steps forward. “Bring forth the prisoner!” he shouts. At my side, I hear Emilia’s breath catch.

The drummer takes up a slow rhythm. I close my eyes for an instant, but when I open them again the boy is looking uncertainly at the herald. He gives the drummer a quick nod, and the drumroll continues as the older man darts from the stage. Murmurs pass through the crowd.

“What’s happening?” Emilia whispers. I shake my head; I have no idea.

After slow, agonizing seconds, the herald appears back on the stage, his face flushed. He goes to talk to the commanding officer of the soldiers. Beside him I notice for the first time the Doge, cloaked in black robes, sitting in a low chair at the side of the stage. The Duchess Besina is absent, presumably unable to bear the agony of watching her son die. Guards stand on either side of the Doge. He needs their protection more than ever, with the vultures circling. He looks pale and old. People are pushing forward now, and the row of uniformed men raises their shields, leaning their weight back into the crowd and looking over to their leader for instruction. Even the executioner looks impatient as he shifts his ax in his hand.

Something is wrong. I begin to move through the crowd, trying to get closer to the stage, Emilia’s hand grasping my arm.

“Back, you!” a soldier orders and shoves me away. The Doge’s eyes meet mine and widen in recognition. He gets to his feet, leaning heavily on the arm of his chair.

“Bring her to me!” he calls over. Now the murmurs and whispers that surround me become audible voices.

“It’s the murderer’s girl,” says one woman.

“Have some manners!” I hear Emilia tell her.

My cheeks burn with humiliation. A soldier helps me onto the stage, taking my hand to pull me up. My wrists are still sore from Carina’s bindings, but I brace my feet against the edge of the stage and lever myself up.

“Thank you,” I say. I glance down at Emilia who watches me, wide-eyed. Then I brush down my skirts and approach the Doge. Despite his rich cloak and peaked cap, he looks frailer than I’ve ever seen him, and I can see that the fits have drained his strength.

“Come,” he says as soon as I’ve drawn close. “We must visit the jail. I’ve heard … Well, come, let us go.” He grasps my arm, and pulls me after him. As we vacate the stage, the crowd begins booing and jeering. They’ve been robbed of their morning’s entertainment—for now. I can only hope that Emilia will get home safely.

“What’s happening?” I ask as we hurry through the corridors of the palace, heading towards the secret passage. At last, we climb the wooden stairs that lead to the hidden entrance to the Piombi, the rings on the Doge’s fingers now cutting into my skin. I pull my arm free, and he looks round at me, his face wretched.

“I don’t know what we’ll find,” he admits. “But it sounds bad.”

Horrible thoughts assail me. Has Roberto killed himself, finding suicide less humiliating than being executed as a criminal? I follow the Doge down the narrow corridor towards the cell where I last saw him, crumpled on the floor like a pile of rags. A group of men stand at the open door, their faces grim. Sweat streaks their shirts. The heat is still overwhelming up here, even at this time of day.

We come to stand before the cell and see a covered body being lifted off the stained floor by four men. The Doge lets out a cry of pain and reaches for me. I put an arm around his frail shoulders, feeling my own body drain of energy. My heart flutters in my chest.

“It can’t be,” I mutter.

The Doge stumbles forward and pulls away the bloody sheet. A gray face. Unseeing eyes. Smears of blood. Thick eyebrows and a smattering of warts.

It’s the jailer who took me to visit Roberto.

“Where’s my son?” asks the Doge. I look into the empty cell and then at Roberto’s father.

“He’s escaped!” I gasp. A flicker of joy passes across the Doge’s face; then he quickly hides it from the men who watch us. His hands tremble as he reaches out to cover the dead man’s face again.

“Tell the executioner he can go home,” the Doge says. “There’ll be no more death today.”

“What happened here?” I ask the men. They share doubtful glances, their faces flushing.

“Tell us!” the Doge orders. I catch a glimpse of the man he was until recently—powerful, assured, ruthless.

“I’m not sure, I wasn’t here when—” one guard begins.

“Well, bring us whoever was here!” The Doge’s face is red with fury. The guard looks over his shoulder and motions to someone standing in the shadows. Another guard steps forward, his brow heavily bruised. He stands looking at his feet.

“Tell the Doge what happened,” the first guard demands. He looks relieved that the attention is on someone else now.

“The prisoner escaped,” the man mumbles.

“How?” I ask. Though already I think I know. The Segreta’s vote, despite my worst fears, must have turned in Roberto’s favor. But would they have killed a man?

The man shrugs. Behind him, other guards hurtle down the stairs and call out Roberto’s name to each other, throwing doors open and kicking buckets out of the way. The guard we are questioning licks his lips nervously.

The Doge’s face darkens. “If you don’t tell us everything you know, you’ll be in a cell yourself.”

The heat makes my skin prickle. Now the corpse is being carried down the narrow stairs, men grunting with the exertion. One of them stumbles, and the body slips from their arms, its feet knocking against a wall. Hastily, they recover it and resume their descent. When they’re out of earshot, the guard starts talking again.

“I was on duty, when an armed band broke into the prison during the night. I’ve no idea how. This palace is so full of secret corridors.… They killed the jailer and overwhelmed the others.” His words come out in a rush now, as though he wants to be rid of them. “Then they freed Roberto and locked us up. It wasn’t until the new guard arrived this morning that we were freed. We didn’t have time to tell anyone!” His voice has turned pleading.

The Doge shakes his head. “Get out of my sight!” The two men clatter down the wooden stairs, and finally silence descends. Roberto’s father casts me a glance.

“This is bad,” he says. “Justice must be seen to be done. Especially as things stand. The power balance in Venice is … precarious.” But he cannot hide the glint in his eyes. Neither of us says it out loud, but I know we are both thinking the same thing.

Roberto is free. He lives another day.