I am hardly disappointed by my reception here, senator. I meant only—
That you were surprised. That is understandable. But the explanation is simple. Had your galley not been captured by the Turks—or had you somehow returned with the relics of Bragadin in hand only a year after Lepanto—then today you would probably be married into a great family, grooming your sons for their eventual dogeship. As it is, the Republic quietly made a separate peace with the sultan during your long confinement, renouncing all claims to Cyprus. Then that sultan died, and a new sultan took his place, one who is friendly to us in matters of trade. Today, the relics of valiant Bragadin that you so bravely recovered serve only to remind us that he suffered and died for nothing. Furthermore, to diplomats like myself Lepanto has become an inconvenience best abandoned to the past. So far as the history of the Republic is concerned, the battle yielded naught but glory and corpses, and may as well not have happened at all. Let the poets and the painters take care of it. You heard about Polidoro, I suppose. Do you remember Polidoro?
This is a name Crivano has not heard spoken in years, one that his sinews recall more than his brain: in the instant it takes him to place it, his limbs have already grown stiff with fear. Of course, he says. The man who stole Bragadin’s remains from the Turkish arsenal. He gave them to me, and when I escaped, I gave them to the bailo in Galata.
Polidoro also escaped. Did you know that? The Turks recaptured him, and they tortured him most foully, but some weeks later he was somehow free again. He now resides in Verona, the city of his birth. A few years ago he petitioned the senate for a monthly pension of sixteen ducats, citing his heroism in the Republic’s service. The senate granted him five.
Contarini is watching Crivano closely. Crivano shrugs. I knew Polidoro only as a pair of hands in the darkness, he says.
Just as well, Contarini says. The man is a simple thief. Thieving put him at the oars of one of our galleys. That galley was taken at sea, so he came to row for the Turks. Winter brought him to the arsenal, where Bragadin’s relics were kept. Then thieving brought him back to the Republic again. I confess my own vote was to give the man nothing. Why should the Republic reward a thief for being a thief? Last week, an asp bit my enemy. This week, it has appeared in my garden. Do I offer it food on a dish of gold? No. I reach for my stick.
Some of the silk has gone from Contarini’s voice; weariness is gathering, settling in. There will be no tour of the library today. Crivano studies the dry lines in the man’s face, the slight tremor in his strong left hand. What grand dreams must visit that snowy head, he thinks.
I have a small favor to ask, the senator says.
Of course.
Tomorrow, my family and I are to depart the city. The summer is upon us, and the warm weeks ahead are to be spent in the more pleasant air of our mainland villa. This evening, my vulgar young cousin is to return to the convent school of Santa Caterina. It would mean a great deal to me, and a great deal more to her, if you can spare a few idle hours to call on her while we are away. I suspect that she was a bit of an affliction upon you this afternoon, but I give you my word that she can at times be charming. Whether you choose to visit her or not, I hope you’ll make use of the library here while I am gone. Rigi, the porter, will grant you entry.
The sun breaks under the window’s upper arch, and the senator’s features vanish into silhouette. Crivano squints and looks down at the desktop. Of the spectrum the crystal cast only an orange sliver remains at the desk’s dentiled edge. Crivano’s chest feels as if it has shrunk and tightened, like the wrinkled skin of a dry fruit.
You are very generous, Senator. I shall comply happily with your request. May I also ask a question of you?
You may.
Why did Perina wish to speak with me about Lepanto?
The senator’s shadowed form is very still for a long time. She didn’t tell you? he finally says.
No, Senator.
I had thought she would have.
A brightly festooned galley passes on the canal outside, on its way to the Bacino. Young men in bright stockings sing and caper on its quarterdeck. The last night of the Sensa, Crivano remembers.
Perina, the senator says, had a brother who was killed at Lepanto. A brother she never knew. She was too young, you see. Did she tell you—who she is?
Crivano tries to moderate his breathing, the tone of his voice. Through the window, the blazing sun seems to spend all its dying light on him. She said she is your cousin, he says. She told me only that.
Yes. She is the youngest daughter of my kinsman Pietro Glissenti, whom I am certain you remember from your youth in Cyprus. Your father was his chief secretary.
My God.
Pardon me?
Her brother—
Was named Gabriel, I believe. He was quite young when he died. About your own age, I should guess.
That is not possible.