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

The gondolier put them ashore between the two tall granite pillars a little after noon, and Vito stopped dead on the stone. Caterina had the benches, and the Avogadori had his name on a list, or so he had been told.

That was the whole plan, and it looked considerably better from the other side of the lagoon.

The Basilica glittered on one side, its bronze horses above the facade. On the other sat the Doge’s Palace, low and square, looking more like a fortress than a palace.

More heat came off the brick and beneath his mantle, while incense from the church doors fought with the stank of pitch and fish guts from the water, then all round clerks sat on the steps chewing bread.

Vito grinned like a fool.

He knew this place from every book he had ever loved. The great hall described in those books, pink and lacy and enormous, wouldn’t be built for another hundred years.

He was standing in its plain ancestor instead, and this one had the face of a tax collector.

Up the Doge’s apartments, the shutters were closed. The old fellow who would have thrown that door open for him was alive across the sea because of a letter.

Vito laughed and talked behind his shoulder. ”Ecco, amico, the plan, and it’s beautiful. We walk in, I find the Avogadori, I say Barozzi. The clerk opens a big fat book, and puff, there I am, in ink, between two cousins I’ve never even met. Easy as bread.”

Zaccaria snickered with sarcasm. ”Easy, he says. Bah, A sword on his hip, a lion on his back, and not a soul to say his name, so who opens the door?

Vito clicked his tongue. He had talked through the Doge and customs men, and every one of them had a face he could read. Some rules written in a book had no face at all.

The Piazzetta had grown louder behind them, and one voice rose above all the rest.

”BAROZZI! Ohé! BAROZZI!”

It grew louder. ”VITALE BAROZZI! The Lion of Constantinople! Scourge of Emperors! Glory of the lagoon, terror of the Rialto!”

The clerks stopped chewing.

Then one man came across the open ground at a dead run, all elbows and knees.

He was long and loose-jointed, with a nose like the prow of a galley and a mouth that seemed never to close. A green surcoat from one decade hung over a red tunic, while his rings had survived longer than their gold, and his cuffs were frayed beneath good cloth.

Poverty dressed for a feast.

Then there was a hug. ”Cugino mio! Fantin Barozzi, your blood, your bone, your mother’s second cousin’s husband’s brother’s boy, the saints know it and they won’t say! All the Rialto swears you strangled the Emperor of the Romans with your bare hands, up on the dome of Santa Sofia, eating an apple! An apple, per Dio!”

”Ma va’, ma va’!”

Vito freed an arm.

”A sword, cugino. One sword, one alley, and no bloody apple.”

”Listen to him! He corrects the legend! Make way, make way, good people, a Barozzi has come home! Un Barozzi è tornato!”

The whole Piazzetta heard him, so much for going unnoticed.

Fantin turned on Zaccaria. ”And this face, this scowl! Madonna, three hundred years of Falier in one eyebrow! A Michiel, on the good side of the blanket, I’d swear it on my mother’s rosary!”

Zaccaria put his hands behind his back while his eyes briefly checked their surroundings.

Vito cut in to to interrupt his speech. ”And tell me, cugino, how does a man come to be standing on this exact stone at this exact hour. Smells like a miracle, or a debt.”

”Ha! A clerk owes me four grossi, and a man who owes you money, cugino, never forgets your birthday. He sent a boy running, the boy ran, I ran, and Zio Marco...”

The laugh died at once. Fantin’s eyes went to the Palace door and returned.

”... has a new hat, they say! Like a pudding, per la Madonna!

The laugh came back louder than before. Vito laughed with him and let the pause remain.

Fantin hooked an arm through Vito’s and steered him beneath the arcade’s shade.

His voice dropped for the first time. ”Listen, listen. Zio Marco keeps this family the way a moneylender keeps his bench. Who vouches, who’s put up, who owes, who marries whom, who votes how. Sundays we dine, six little households round one little table, and I am the hub of the wheel, ciò!”

”Wait, wait. You’re Zio’s new attempt? The warm hand after Andrea’s cold one?”

”Andrea! Ha! That one rehearsed his speech in front of three mirrors, and not one of them believed him either!”

Vito listened for the hostility beneath the joke. It was real.

Fantin’s performance fell out of his voice. ”My sister’s girl, cugino. She was sixteen. Marco lent on her father’s boat, and when the silver didn’t come, he took a husband in payment. A widower from Chioggia, with a salt pan and a cough. Ecco. That is what the keys look like when they turn.”

Vito made no joke while Zaccaria blocked the view to them.

”And how many votes sit at your little tables?”

”Every Barozzi in the Council! Every saint who was ever asked! Two deaf men, sworn on the Gospels!”

”Names, cugino. Real ones.”

The grin lasted a heartbeat too long.

”One vote, mine. And a second cousin who copies for the Avogadori’s clerks.”

”A small army, eh.”

”A precise one, cugino! A precise one. And you and I, we are working each other, no? Admit it.”

”Constantly. It’s the only genuine thing on this whole stone, amico. Now, the roll, where do we go from here?”

Fantin took Vito’s hand and counted on his knuckles as though he were teaching a child its prayers. ”Welcome, welcome to the hoops of the Serenissima! She makes every man jump through four! One, the Avogadori certify your birth and your age. Two, a sitting Barozzi vouches for you, in person, with his own mouth. Three, your name goes to the electors when the roll is renewed. And four, the last, the sweetest, they say yes for anyone with friends, and no for everyone else. Sì o no, cugino. That’s all she is.”

”But my name is already in the book?”

”Your Vitale never went in the book, cugino. Not one soul put him up, and the one year we might have, he was out at sea, poor devil.”

”A Barozzi walks in on his name, Fantin. That’s how it goes.”

”Says who, cugino? Says who?”

”A very old book, very wise.”

”A book about somewhere else, poverino.”

”Cazzo... che cazzo di libro.”

The name in ink belonged to a city ninety years in the future, one that would lock its doors behind the chosen few. This city had not decided whom to let in yet. It figured it over dinner.

Fantin continued to explain. ”Zio Marco is the senior Barozzi with a seat, so he’s the natural voucher, no? But ask him, and you hand him the knife, cugino, handle and all. The other Barozzi with a seat? Ecco! He’s hanging on your arm!”

”I wanted to meet Zio as a member of the Council, amico, an equal.”

”Sì, cugino. Exactly that.”

”And you, cugino, what’s your price? Not a soul runs across a piazza for love.”

Fantin pressed a hand to his heart. ”Price, who said price? Blood doesn’t bill blood, I’ll send the bill after the seat, cugino. All the best bills come after the seat!”

Vito’s grin tightened by a hair.

Fantin broke off to greet a man in a blue hat.

”Messer Fantin, cugino. I take your vouching and your counsel through these hoops, and gladly. Your little tables’ case I will hear, with my partner, Caterina Contarini, in the room, for no silver moves without her. This, cousin, is an agreement for now.”

Fantin’s eyes met his, and then the lips started again. ”One favor, cugino, one little favor! Let me be seen at your elbow, arm in arm, through that door. That is all I ask.”

”Agreed, but you speak for yourself, Fantin. Never for me. Capisci?”

They shook. His hand was dry and heavy with rings, the grip practiced in front of a mirror but sincere enough.

Both men smiled, while both knew what the smile cost.

The porter at the Palace step nodded to Fantin by name and held out both hands.

”Ferro no, signori, no iron past the step. House rules, no exceptions. Per favore.”

Zaccaria’s hand was on his hilt.

Vito unbuckled [Artiglio del Leone ]and laid it across the porter’s palms. Zaccaria surrendered his own blade like handing over a tooth.

Fantin dropped his voice, and with it went the whole performance.

”Zio Marco’s inside today, cugino. You walk in on my arm, that’s a declaration, eh.”

”Then we mustn’t keep the old fox waiting, cugino. Three speeches I have ready, and one of them is even good.”

Vitale stepped inside.

Fantin led, and Zaccaria, unarmed and half a pace behind, followed them out of the glare and into the dark.