The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  Corvino. The word pierced his mind; language without sound.

  Have you forgotten, Corvino?

  The crow tilted its head, feathers glossing purple in the weak light of the stars. Was it growing? Stretching its wings, it swept into the room—claws extending to land with a skritch on the wooden table just beyond the bed. It tucked its wings neatly back then, feathers shuffling into place with a dry rustle.

  “Forgotten?” Corvino couldn’t be sure if he spoke the word or only thought it.

  No man can serve two masters, Corvino. Yes, the bird was growing, by imperceptible degrees: it’d somehow become the size of a small dog. Beneath its feathers, muscles twitched.

  “I serve only the glory of Christ!” Corvino was certain now that he spoke aloud; the sound of his voice punctured the heavy stillness of the room.

  The crow shook its head as if in disagreement and began to pace the table, beak pointed downward, claws scratching the wood. You desire what you do not have and fix your heart upon your own gain. And what has come of it? Venier is leaving you behind.

  Corvino felt heat rise, his ears tingling as he remembered the scene. I need to trust those around me. That was the way Venier had put it, not even looking up from his desk, when he’d announced that Corvino would not accompany the fleet to battle. Corvino hadn’t consulted him before eliminating the senator, a fatal misstep that no amount of persuasion could remedy. And when Corvino suggested he might join the fleet anyway, Venier had laughed at him—laughed in his face!—and he’d understood at once that such impetuousness would cost him any remaining respect, or opportunity.

  “I’d angered him, that’s all. A simple misunderstanding.” Corvino tried to rise to his feet but discovered he was unable, frozen upright in the bed with his sheets a twisted whorl around his waist. The crow lowered its head, darting beady eyes at Corvino. Downy feathers shot into view, then disappeared again beneath the sleek black mantle.

  Sin is crouching at your door, Corvino. The crow had grown even larger as it spoke. Its pupils lacked irises, like orbs fashioned from wet tar. You are corrupt and deluded by lusts.

  Suddenly it was his father’s voice, scorched with anger, filling the room. The white clearing emerged; Corvino could nearly feel the sting of blood in his eyes. His father’s words pummeled the silence.

  You are nothing.

  The bird shifted its weight from side to side, as it paced on scaled and knuckled claws. The table groaned. The crow stopped moving; it seemed to be contemplating the shelves on the back wall, where rows of skulls were neatly lined up, hollow sockets attending, beaks cold and naked in the gloom. Next to them sat Corvino’s equipment for mixing potions: mortar and pestle, glass and copper vessels.

  With a jerk, the crow turned to face Corvino again, extending its wings to their full breadth, until they skimmed either edge of the table. Put away your old self, which is corrupt. His father’s voice echoed louder, as the crow’s eyes became two dark tunnels, boring into the void.

  Leave Venice—for good, Corvino. There is no life for you here.

  Then the bird began to shrink. In measured wingbeats, it flew to the window ledge then plummeted out, was caught by an invisible hand of dark air. Far in the distance, Corvino heard the caw and whoop of its murder. His head began to throb.

  In the avenues below, Aurelio scuttled homeward. He turned back once to glance up at the chamber window, its shutters still open to the night. As he did, a single black feather drifted down from the folds of his robes. He bent to snatch at it, then ducked his head, melting into the shadows.

  * * *

  By week’s end the weather had turned unseasonably cold, an opalescent sky doming the city. As expected, Venier was appointed capitano generale da mar, admiral of the Venetian navy. He would report to Don Juan of Austria, who had a new title now: captain of the Holy League, overseeing the entire Christian fleet. The women of Venice began to grimly prepare for life without their men, flooding the churches to pray for mercy and protection.

  Little time was wasted after the announcements, and soon Gio found himself accompanying Chiara to the harbor to see the fleet off. They’d met in the courtyard of the great house, Gio arriving to find her dressed as modestly as any respectable matron might be, her hair coiled in a design of glossy plaits. She gripped his arm tightly as he escorted her out a side door and into the waiting gondola, stepping carefully to preserve the cleanliness of her hem. Gio noted with approval that she wore her lowest chopines; passersby could easily mistake them for a pair of honorable citizens.

  The gondolier took them as near as possible to where the fleet was docked. Already, onlookers choked the avenues, boats jostling against one another in the canals. Out in the gulf, just past the harbor, they could spot the mast tips of the fleet—sails raised and whipping in the breeze. Disembarking, Giovanni raised a forearm, preparing to press a way inward.

  Suddenly, Corvino appeared at their side, silent and immediate as a specter. Without a word of greeting, the Crow stepped in front of Gio. Under pressure of his glare, the throng swiftly parted to make way. A Devil’s Moses, Gio thought, trailing close behind; as if hearing, Corvino peered backward. Purplish circles ringed his eyes.

  With the Crow as shepherd, they made their way to the front of the crowd. The great ships hovered on the water, wide hulls towering over onlookers who’d pressed themselves up against makeshift barriers. The ocean made a greedy sucking sound as it slapped the bows of the boats, the wooden pillars of the docks. Cheers and calls of grief rang out, punctuated by the shrieks of gulls. A salty breeze undid the hair around Chiara’s face and filled Gio’s lungs. After what seemed an interminable length of time, each captain appeared on the deck of his galleass. At their center posed Admiral Venier, standing beside his barrel-chested deputy. In the boat to their right, the elegant Don Juan, commissioner of the flagship Real. In the background, the full fleet swayed. Galleys and galleasses, round ships, frigates, brigantines—all armed with mighty cannons and mounted with culverins, steel catching the light with a flinty glare. As the soldiers waved and bowed, their audience clamored. Flowers were thrown into the harbor, women wept into linens. Small children shook their fists overhead, shouting nonsense.

  Gio stole a glance at Corvino. He was staring out at the boats with a hard expression. The wind came again and he squinted into it, hair whipping back. The bite of sea air had brought some color to the man’s face, turning his beauty heroic. If this were all a play, without a doubt Corvino would have been cast as captain. Gio could imagine him commanding even the Argonauts, raising the captured fleece in one oversize fist, an army of men cheering him on.

  Arms crossed tightly over his chest, the Crow surveyed the waving commanders. A muscle in his jaw pulsed. As if feeling Gio’s eyes upon him, Corvino turned and, for a fraction of a moment, a face beneath his face revealed itself. Emotion trembled across the Crow’s features. The man was trying not to cry! Gio’s own expression must have betrayed his surprise: as he watched, anger displaced any sign of grief, until the Crow had him fixed in a look of bald fury—as if he, Gio, were the source of all ill fortune. Gio froze. Then, with a rough shake of his head, Corvino thrust away, elbowing through the crowd, his retreat marked by a wake of lurching bystanders.

  At that same moment, the boats heaved themselves into motion. Massive oars swept through the air in synchronized arcs, then plunged violently into the sea. The raised sails caught hold of the wind, snapping like flags.

  Amid the confetti of a thousand handkerchiefs, the fleet departed eastward.

  * * *

  Outside Gio’s window the next morning, silhouettes of rooftops fuzzed and bled into the still pale sky. The blackness was getting worse. Each day now began with a gut-wrenching inventory of what new territory had been lost to the darkness, that thief in the night. Gio tried to guess how long he had left—probably far less than his hopeful mind could imagine. H
e rolled over in bed, groping on the floor for spectacles, vellum, quill, and inkpot. Dabbing the ink, he began his morning journaling: scrawl, dip, scrawl and dip again. Soon, the writing gave way to sketches of Chiara. He filled the margins. Chiara standing in the bath. Chiara sleeping beside him in the afternoon, rumpled sheets framing her body. Her face turned, always.

  “Lunatics!” Aurelio didn’t bother to knock but threw the door open with a bang. All the blood in his body seemed to have migrated to his head, turning his face a deep crimson. As the alchemist stood on the stoop, chest heaving, Gio scrambled to tug on his doublet and hose.

  “Who do they think they are to do such a thing? Come, Gio, we haven’t a moment to lose!” Behind Aurelio, neighbors were rushing past, nearly sprinting down the avenue. Without any other explanation, the alchemist turned and rejoined the fray. Quickly, Gio tugged his spectacles loose and tucked them into his pouch, snatched up his robe, and darted out the door to catch up. As they hurried along with the crowd, Aurelio told him the news.

  “It’s Anzola. There’s been testimony against her—and now these idiots of the Cattaveri are announcing her charges. There’s a chance she’ll be handed over to the Inquisition.”

  Gio thought of the cloaked woman, how he’d last seen her slipping off into the shadows outside Aurelio’s home. “What is she accused of?” The Cattaveri supervised the Ghetto; normally, they kept their meddling strictly to Jews who’d violated one of their many regulations. Gio knew they’d summon the Inquisition only on suspicion of heresy.

  “They’re claiming she’s a Jewess and a dissembler—posing as a Christian, refusing to live in the Ghetto or wear the badge. They’re also charging her with sorcery. She may be a Jewess, I don’t know one way or the other, but that second charge is…” Aurelio scowled and quickened his pace.

  “Who would accuse her of being a sorceress?” As they rushed along, Gio felt a bit like Lucio: struggling to understand, bounding forward every third step to keep up.

  “Any apothecary, that’s who. They all think she takes business from them—though, of course, half their shelves are stocked with her herbs.” Aurelio shook his head. “Or maybe a Church official, if her treatments worked better than his prayers. I don’t know, Gio.” The alchemist threw his hands in the air. “It could have been anyone. But I won’t stand for it! They call men physicians, but she’s a sorceress! Now they’ve put her in the stocks, I’ve been told.” Even Aurelio’s ears had gone pink.

  “The stocks?” Gio had heard of only a handful of well-known criminals getting the stocks—and only ever men. Around them townspeople bustled, animated and chattering. Gio could hear snatches of conversation as they passed: Jew, witch, the stake.

  “What will happen if she goes before the inquisitors?”

  “I don’t want to consider that possibility just yet, Gio.” Aurelio tugged on his beard anxiously. “But I won’t let them make an example of her. Not her.”

  The two men fell silent then, hurrying toward the square. When they arrived, it was already crammed with spectators—though with some aggressive shoulder thrusts and fist shaking from Aurelio, they managed to squeeze their way to the front, where a small half circle had been established. In the center, a straight-backed magistrate was reading from a scroll, quoting Thomas Aquinas. He was pious-looking and young: narrow face, thin lips, pale from too much time spent cloistered. Beside him, a wooden contraption with two slabs had been set up, out of which poked the head and hands of Anzola.

  In the light of day, Gio wondered how many people had actually ever seen the woman properly. He’d only ever heard of her nighttime exchanges, a hand slipped through a crack in the door. Now as he regarded her, she seemed neither male nor female. Her face was bare and etched with lines, her eyes deep-set and hooded: yellow-green, like a fox. The wiry silver hair she usually hid under a hood was loose now, caught back by the clasp of the stocks. Exposed in the sunlight, she seemed ancient and ageless at once, a crone in every sense of the word. Gio squinted. Her skin shone in spots, where she’d been spat on by the crowd. As the magistrate began to call out her charges, she screwed her eyes shut.

  “It has been testified that the woman you see before you, one Anzola Leví, has posed as a Christian while practicing the religious rites of a Jewess.” The magistrate’s voice was shrill and reedy. “This is a violation of the regulations governing dress and residence to which all Jews are subject, and she kneels before you as a dissembler.” At his words, the throng erupted, swaying and shoving forward; Gio widened his stance to keep from being knocked to the stones.

  Emboldened by the audience’s response, the official thrust out his bony chest and raised the scroll higher. “Furthermore, it is claimed this woman has performed acts of witchcraft in the presence of Christians. The Cattaveri is still uncertain if the accused has lain with a Christian, thus bringing him into religious error and heresy.”

  More insults surged from the crowd. Someone threw an overripe tomato. Narrowly missing Anzola, it burst against the edge of the stocks, wet pulp and seed splattering her cheek. She winced, then twisted her neck to look back at the official. “You have no proof of my faith!” Her voice was surprising, a full half octave lower than typical female speech—less that of a grandmother than a priestess.

  The magistrate shouted to be heard over the clamor. “By the second testimony, it has been claimed this woman gave bewitched powders in drink to children suffering from the falling sickness…”

  “Flower essence and herbs to bring equilibrium,” Anzola shouted back.

  The crowd swelled again. The edge of the circle knitted tighter. Gio stumbled, grasping Aurelio’s shoulder, pushing back against the elbows that poked his sides. He felt his breath begin to shallow, sweat beading his temples as if even the sun overhead had drawn closer. Another tomato was thrown, then an egg. The tomato fell short, splitting open on the stones, but the egg hit just left of Anzola’s nose. It shattered and cut her; Gio squinted, saw a red tinge to the jelly that glazed down her chin. His stomach clenched. As she spat shell shards and bloodied yolk out onto the dirt, the spectators cheered—a tangle of angry, riotous noise. Pinching his mouth in disapproval, the magistrate glanced down at his robes and took a prim step backward.

  Gio turned to gaze at the sea of snarling faces. He wondered if any of them understood the reality of the danger Anzola was in, or if they actually wanted to see a woman they’d known for years burn at the stake. Just that week, he’d heard a story in the taverns about another woman, executed for heresy in Amsterdam. They said she’d cried out to God so loudly her own neighbors had stuffed her mouth with gunpowder before raising her into the flames. Looking at Anzola hunched and bound, with the crowd frenzied and baying for a spectacle, Gio felt a chill pass over him. The magistrate began to recite the next charge.

  “Enough!” An explosion at his side. Before Gio could register what was happening, Aurelio was pacing in front of the horde, robes whipping back as if there were a wind. He glowered at the audience like they were misbehaving children. Next to the alchemist’s commanding figure, the magistrate seemed a useless errand boy.

  “You women! To think of it!” Spit flew from Aurelio’s mouth with each consonant, glittering as it arced into the air. “How dare you show your faces here? How many of you have begged this crone for herbs to aid your aches and cramps? To ease a babe to sleep? To prevent another child?” Aurelio’s outstretched finger condemned each face it crossed. Stunned, the crowd fell silent.

  The alchemist bellowed on, the only voice in the square now. “And you men! Do you fool yourselves into believing I don’t know who among you has sought her help? Has asked her to remedy your impotent members? Your hairlessness? Your disease?” At this, the magistrate moved to intervene. Aurelio raised a hand and the man halted, ducking his head like a reprimanded hound. He blinked about frantically for reinforcement. The crowd stirred uncomfortably.

 
“Has she not helped you all?” At the alchemist’s side, Anzola began to weep. Her tears mixed with the yolk and pulp on her face, forming a sickly sheen. Aurelio brought his voice to its full capacity. “Perhaps I ought to write a list of all those she has helped and why. Will that make you remember? Shall I post it in the square for all to see? Shall I?” For a moment under the glare of the sun, the alchemist seemed to swell in size, every color heightened: beard shocking white, skin violent pink. Along the perimeter of the square, bystanders began to slip off into alleyways, the crowd loosening at first, then openly dispersing. Gio tracked one man in particular as he shuffled away, shoulders clenched up tight near his ears. Watching him go, Gio realized he was witnessing shame expressing itself through the body. A spark lit in a corner of his mind.

  Turning back to the stocks, Gio was startled to find the blind man from Venier’s dinner party whispering to the magistrate. His shrewish page stood off to one side, peering at the retreating spectators. As the old man spoke into the official’s ear, the magistrate began nodding, eyes trained on the ground. He fished a key from his robes and extended it in Aurelio’s direction. The alchemist snatched at it, then quickly knelt before Anzola. The few remaining onlookers began protesting, like chickens clucking after their feed.

  “You cannot do this! She’s been accused a witch!” A shrill voice, coming from a sour-faced woman Gio recognized from Mass. She was watching Aurelio undo the locks, fists balled on her wide hips.

  “Oh hush, you old hag!” Aurelio didn’t bother looking up. “We both know what she gave your husband, don’t we—and aren’t you glad she did?” The woman’s eyes went wide and her mouth gaped open, then shut again like a fish. Bundling up her skirts, she scurried away, muttering prayers that sounded more like curses.