Reborn in The Most Serene Republic of Venice – Rise of a Doge

The moment didn’t last.

Ricciardo twirled the cinnamon stick once between his fingers, then tucked it into a fold of his sleeve with enough flourish to crown a prince.

It was impressive, if you hadn’t seen his face a heartbeat earlier. That had told the truth plainly enough, open, hungry, and caught without a guard in the world.

Rickhart put the pepper down at the edge of the counter, wiped his fingers against his coat as though the corns had never been near him, and had the stylus back on the wax.

His caution returned as quickly as his brother’s grand display had vanished.

Vito kept his grin right where it was. He had watched grown men lie worse than this for less money, back when reading a face had been the only trade he knew.

Neither brother had hidden enough for him to care, some victories were better kept in the pocket than spent aloud.

He kept his voice easy. ”Rumors travels quickly on a bridge like this, amici. We have already spoken to many stalls today, and there are still others waiting for us.”

Rickhart’s stylus stopped over the wax. ”Then why bring cargo this wanted to a mule stall in San Bartolomeo, Signore Barozzi, when the merchants on this bridge would pay to see it? Surely you have had offers already.”

”Because we came looking for those who would recognize good pepper, signore.”

Caterina was the one to reply, her voice was as calm as ever.

”If that troubles you, signore, then let it trouble you, and the pepper remains where it is.”

The brothers looked at each other.

Quick and hard to read, the exchange needed no words.

Ricciardo was the one to speak, the last of his embarrassment gone, replaced by oddly enough, alarm. ”You have not spoken with the men of Asti, I hope, Signore Barozzi? Tell me you have not, because I would sooner see that pepper thrown into the lagoon.”

He put one hand flat against his chest as though the very thought had given him a fever. ”Cristo, do not speak to the men of Asti. I have seen what they do to cargo with my own eyes, pepper thinned with river sand, cinnamon bark cut through with common willow, painted so cleverly that only a fool, or a Scotti, could tell it from the real thing by smell.”

The merchant had worked himself into such indignation that his rings were flashing with every turn of his hands. ”They would water the wine in your cup while pouring it, then charge you twice for the pleasure of drinking it thin.”

Rickhart tapped his stylus against the wax.

”They do not thin the pepper, fratello.”

His voice had none of his brother’s heat. ”Instead, these men buy a merchant’s debts before the poor devil even knows his accounts are in danger, then call the whole sum when his shipment needs paying for. By then the man has no coin left and sells cheap to Asti because he has no other choice.”

”Buying a man’s debts is an insult to his whole house, fratello!

”I said it was true. What more did you think I meant?”

Vito laughed outright, he couldn’t help it. ”Cazzo, amici, call it thinned wine or a debt, I hear the same warning underneath it. Keep our pepper away from the men of Asti if we can, yes?”

Caterina had kept silent through the whole exchange, watching the brothers as patiently as a scale. When their noise died away, she brought up the discussion back to business.

”There is another good in that hold, signori, and if you want the pepper, that comes with it.”

She let that sit for a breath. ”Cotton. Plain, raw fiber, nothing pretty about it and nothing a silk merchant would hang in his window to draw a crowd.”

Another breath, then she let them the part that mattered. ”There is more cotton than any buyer on this bridge has claimed so far, signori, and we would rather see it sold before the season ends.”

Ricciardo’s face fell as though she had just asked him to carry manure through the Basilica on a feast day. ”Cotton, signora? Raw cotton, unspun and hideous, beside cinnamon fit for a bishop’s table? My mules carry silk, they carry spice, and now you would have me load them with a peasant’s fleece because some buyer at the other end is willing to pay for it? Whatever silver it brings, I cannot imagine it worth the indignity.”

Rickhart’s eyes wandered past them, toward accounts that seemed to exist only inside his own head.

”I take you are acquainted with fustian, signori.”

He said it slowly, almost to himself.

”There are looms in a dozen towns behind Milan that turn raw cotton into cloth.”

”Rickhart.”

Ricciardo’s voice had gone flat, close to betrayal.

”You cannot be considering this.”

”I am considering the profit, fratello. You might try it yourself, now and then, between performances.”

Ricciardo threw both hands into the air, and looked toward the sky as though appealing to whichever saint had been assigned to suffer foolish brothers.

”Fine. Fine! We will speak plainly, then. Since my brother has such a passion for it.”

He turned to Vito as if granting a great and painful mercy. ”We will take a portion of your cotton, Signore Barozzi. Say a small share, enough to show good will, and we will ask no more about the rest.”

”Ma va’, amico. Caterina has already named the terms, and they stand.”

Vito refused to budge an inch.

”Every bit of that cotton travels, or the pepper stays behind. I have no charity to spare today.”

Rickhart laid the stylus flat on the counter, like cards he expected to win the hand. ”Then a greater share of the cotton, in exchange for more of the spice. Not the whole lot, naturally, we take more, you give more, and both sides have cause to be content.”

”We are content with the terms as they stand, signore.”

Caterina’s voice remained calm, steady and unmoved.

”The cotton travels whole, or the pepper remains and finds another road north.”

The brothers looked at each other again.

No words were needed. Two men who had tried every door in the house had found them all locked from the same side.

”Then is there a bargain here or is there not, signori?” Ricciardo asked.

There was no performance left in his voice now.

Caterina didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she drew the little notebook from her hip and opened it with a care that was almost ceremonial. She turned one page, then another, her eyes moving down the figures.

Ricciardo had begun drumming his fingers against his sleeve while Rickhart held his stylus above the wax, the tip trembling by no more than the width of a hair.

She let the silence last a full breath longer than either brother’s patience could comfortably bear.

Then she closed the notebook with a small, satisfied snap and looked up. ”We have given Signora Badoer the third bell, two days from now, at L’Angelo. You will have the same evening, gentlemen, after Vespers. Bring real terms, or do not come.”

Ricciardo’s whole body loosened at once.

”Signora, you are a saint! I shall have every soul on this bridge knowing it before the sun sets!”

Rickhart turned the tablet toward himself and scratched down the hour.

”We will be there, signora. We shall both be there.”

Zaccaria let out a breath that was almost a laugh and hefted the satchel onto one shoulder.

Then, business was finally over.

Ricciardo took Vito’s hands between his and swore on his mother’s grave that he would bring terms worthy of the name Scotti.

Rickhart offered one firm clasp of the hand and nothing more, folding his tablet against his chest as though it might wander off if he didn’t keep hold of it.

The merry band stepped back into the crowd together, and the noise of the campo closed over the stall behind them. Mules, crates, and a dozen languages at once, which meant San Bartolomeo was having an ordinary afternoon.

Vito looked up at the sun, which was still well above the rooftops. ”That is two done. Or near enough done that I will call it so until proven wrong.”

Caterina’s lips curved toward a smile, though the warning remained in her voice.

”That leaves the alum, still untouched.”

”Then we find a Florentine voice on this bridge before the light is gone, moglie.”

Vito looked at Zaccaria, who sighed and hitched the satchel higher on his shoulder.

”Or a Tuscan one, if Firenze’s shy. San Bartolomeo’s bound to have at least one of each.”