The Rossetti Letter (v5) (36 page)

5 March 1618

I
T WAS A
setback, certainly, but perhaps he could find a way to turn it to his advantage, Girolamo Silvia thought as he climbed the Giants’ Staircase leading up from the courtyard of the Doge’s Palace. La Celestia’s murder implied that all his best-laid plans had come to nothing, but he couldn’t be sure until he found out what had happened to Bedmar’s code book. Perhaps the girl had retrieved the book before La Celestia had been so unhappily dispatched. If she’d returned it to the ambassador’s room, then he might still be able to decode the ambassador’s correspondence, as long as Bedmar had not discovered the deception. If the marquis had gotten wise, then the copy he’d had made of the book would be no use to him now, of course, as the ambassador would never use the original again.

But who had killed La Celestia? Already Silvia feared that he would never know for sure. She had too many enemies: lovers jealous of the loss of her affections, courtiers angry about their gambling losses, courtesans looking to rid themselves of their greatest rival. Of course Silvia suspected Bedmar—hadn’t La Celestia been afraid of the ambassador’s reprisals?—but his inquiries had revealed that the marquis had been at his
terraferma
villa for the past two days. The damned Spaniard certainly knew how to keep his hands clean, removing himself from the city like that. That, combined with the ambassador’s diplomatic immunity, meant there was little chance that Silvia could implicate him. No doubt the marquis had sent one of his
bravi
to do the job, but Bedmar was no fool; the murderer would be gone from Venice by now, or dead himself.

Silvia gazed across the courtyard, watching the senators who gathered around the two bronze wellheads in the center, the scurrying figures of magistrates, lawyers, secretaries, and scribes. Batù should be here already, he thought, and his quarry locked up.

The previous night, Batù had shown up at Silvia’s palazzo with the news that Antonio Perez had been spotted in Cannaregio. The senator had told his disciple that the viscount’s arrest was critical: Utrillo-Navarre was known to be Ossuna’s most lethal swordsman, and he had met with Bedmar at the Spanish embassy only a month ago. His capture could provide the necessary link between the duke and the marquis. He’s slipped through our fingers before, Silvia had said, and Batù had promised to bring him in. But where was he?

Silvia looked to his left and saw Ottavio, his personal secretary, hurrying along the colonnade to greet him. The very sight of the pale, chubby-cheeked young man irritated him, as always. The little favors required for political gain are often more irksome than the large, Silvia reflected.

“Good morning, Senator.”

“Where’s the whore?” he barked.

“Which one, sir?”

Silvia sighed.
Face like a turnip and a brain to match.
If Ottavio weren’t his cousin’s son, he would have tossed him out on his ear ages ago.

“The courtesan Rossetti.”

“She’s in the
pozzi.
Number eight.”

“Have her brought up to the Sala dei Tre Capi,” he said. “I’ll be along in a while.”

He hoped that the girl could provide some answers. But even if she couldn’t, Silvia had already thought of a way in which she would be very useful.

Silvia stood outside the Sala dei Tre Capi and peered through a peephole. The courtesan was seated in a chair that sat alone in the center of the room. This room was usually reserved for meetings of the Three, not interrogations, but Silvia disliked going down into the ground-floor prison; he suffered too much from the cold and wet.

Alessandra Rossetti was a handsome woman: thick gold hair, a fair countenance and figure. Younger than he’d imagined, though he could see the wear and worry in her face. She hadn’t slept, of course. No one slept well in the Doge’s Prison. After a few days, prisoners were usually so debilitated by anticipation and fear that confessions were easily achieved. But the courtesan had been here only one night. Unfortunately, Silvia couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

He entered and made his way to the riser at the back of the room, where three chairs sat on a dais, and settled into the middle chair. The courtesan looked at him warily. She’s no fool, he thought; she’s guessed that this room belongs to the Three. Her intelligence would work in his favor—he could use her fear to obtain her compliance.

“Signorina Rossetti, I am Senator Silvia. I’ll be the only person speaking with you today.”

She relaxed a little. “Why am I here?”

“I ask the questions. You answer them.” She looked chastised, but not afraid—not yet, anyway. “Where is the book?”

“What book?”

“The book you stole from the Spanish ambassador.”

She started with surprise. “It was you who was behind it?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“You did not put it back in the ambassador’s room?”

“No.”

“And why not, when you were told that this was an essential part of your task?”

The girl was silent. He could see the confusion in her face. “Answer me.”

“I could not put it back because…because La Celestia did not have it.”

Silvia rose from his chair and approached the girl. “La Celestia was discovered yesterday in a very unfortunate condition—her throat was cut so deeply that her head was very nearly detached from her body. But I see this is not a surprise to you. Did you kill her?”

“No, of course not. She was my friend.”

“And when did you see her last?” The courtesan did not answer. “After she was killed?”

Reluctantly, Alessandra gave a little nod. “I was meeting with her in order to retrieve the book. When I got there, she was already dead. The book wasn’t there.”

“You looked for it?”

“Yes.”

By the bloody Virgin.
Silvia took a moment to collect his thoughts. Bedmar must have gotten wise, he realized. Who else would have stolen the book, once he’d killed her? Damn him to Hell. Silvia knew he couldn’t implicate the marquis in La Celestia’s murder, but he could pursue another path to the ambassador’s ruin, perhaps an even better one. And this young courtesan would help him do it.

He turned back to her. “So your friend, as you call her, was brutally murdered, and yet you did nothing—did not call for help, nor alert the authorities. Why is that?”

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That whoever killed her would kill me, of course.”

“You could have at least written a letter for the
bocca di leone
—”

“Do you really believe that would protect me?”

Silvia studied the set of her mouth, the way her shoulders rose with tension. He could see that she was not telling all. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not a good liar? You may be able to fool a dimwit, but I will have nothing less than the truth. Trust me when I say I have ways of getting at the truth that you would not like at all. Now, why did you not tell anyone of La Celestia’s murder?”

“As I said, because I was afraid.” No, she was not a good liar.

“Do not toy with me. I think you protect someone.”

The girl dropped her eyes from his face.

“Yes, I think that’s it. The Spanish ambassador has bought your loyalty, has he not, in the same way his Spanish gold has bought up half the Venetian army?”

“That is absurd.”

“That is the truth, I am sure. Bedmar plots to overthrow the Republic. I think you are as deeply involved in his intrigue as the mercenary captains whose service he has purchased. You will hang along with them once your treason is known—”

“No!” She rose to her feet, her eyes darting, her cheeks flushed. Silvia smiled a little as he saw the panic take hold. “How can you accuse me of such a thing? I am a loyal Venetian citizen, the daughter of a citizen. I would never—”

“Sit down,” he commanded. “Another outburst and the guards outside will take you back to your cell—or to someplace worse.”

She sat. Silvia could see that her panic had turned to fear.
Good. Very good.
Now maybe he would get somewhere.

“Are you familiar with the punishment for treason?” Silvia asked. “As you probably know, traitors are hung in the Piazzetta by their feet, but that is the least of their sufferings. By the time that happens, they are already dead. What transpires before that is slow and agonizing. In fact, you would probably go mad with pain long before you died.”

He stood up and walked closer to her. He noticed a strong, rapid pulse at the base of her throat. He could feel her anxiety, smell her fear. “I see you’re beginning to understand the position you’re in,” he said. “You are luckier than most, however. I’m going to offer you a way out.”

She didn’t speak, just stared at him, wide-eyed.

“All you must do,” he continued, “is write a letter outlining the ambassador’s plot.”

“I have already told you that I know nothing of this plot except what I was told by La Celestia.”

She’s dissembling again, Silvia thought. Why? “That matters little. My information comes from other sources. I’ll tell you what to write.”

“If you have other sources, why do you require my assistance?”

“First of all, because Bedmar is known to be your lover. And because, as you said, you are a citizen, and the daughter of a citizen. A courtesan, yes, but one who is known for her piety, her charity, and her discretion. I’ve heard you are educated, if that is possible for a woman. A letter from you will be far more persuasive than one from one of the wretches who has revealed the conspiracy among his compatriots. In fact, as they are all illiterate, I don’t think it would be believed at all. They can’t even write their own names, much less the names of those men who will be identified in this letter.”

She turned pale. “Are you asking me to implicate men who may very well be innocent?”

“Innocent? To a man, they are rogues and scoundrels and worse.”

Her face grew paler still. “But surely you cannot condemn men until you are certain they have committed a crime.”

“It seems to me that a loyal Venetian citizen such as yourself would care more about securing the safety of the Republic than the fate of a few Spaniards and Frenchmen.”

“I do. I do, but you are asking me to be a party to the deaths of men I know nothing of.”

“Tell me, are you protecting your Spanish lover? Is he just too good to give up?”

She gave a start, and for a moment looked as though she might be ill, then recovered. “You mean Bedmar.”

“Of course.”

“I do not love him, if that is what you think.”

“Then I suggest that you write this letter. It will save your skin—literally.”

She trembled, and gripped the arms of the chair. “I will not do it.”

“I can force you.” He took one of her hands in his, then twisted her wrist until she cried out in pain.

She wrenched her hand away. “If you break my hands, I will not be able to write, will I?”

“There are other parts of you that are equally vulnerable.”

She shuddered again, and held on to the chair as if to still her shaking. Then she stood and looked him in the eye.

“I will not do it.”

We shall see, Silvia thought. We shall see.

Perched on the bench in the center of her cell, Alessandra pulled her knees closer and wrapped her arms around them. The puddle of water that had formed at the end of her cell abutting the Rio del Palazzo had grown to cover the entire floor and was rising with the tide. Although the prison wasn’t old—it had been completed around the time she was born—it had already been dubbed the
pozzi,
or the wells, as the cell floors were under water more often than not. She knew that the tide would subside in a few hours, but the effect was disconcerting—like being inside the dark, dank hold of a slowly sinking boat.

Her cell was dark and windowless. There was a small window in the corridor, but she could not see it unless she stood at the iron gridwork door, and the daylight that came through it was diffuse and gray. A small torch was mounted on the stone wall outside her cell, but its faint light was barely enough to illuminate the corridor. Here, it would always be night. Already, she’d lost track of how long she’d been there. Since she’d arrived, the only glimpse of daylight she’d seen was when they’d marched her across the Bridge of Sighs to the palace and the Sala dei Tre Capi.

She heard the sound of light, quick footsteps approaching. Not the guard’s, certainly; the Missier Grande soldier who stood at the end of the hall was large enough to fill the doorway. Her curiosity was satisfied when Bianca appeared at her door.

“I’ve brought some victuals, my lady,” said Bianca, and pressed the small, napkin-tied bundle of food through the bars.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You must eat it anyway.” Bianca’s voice was dull with grief; Alessandra was pained to see how haggard and worn she looked.

“Will you be all right, Bianca?”