Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Read online

  Di Santo-Germano’s answer was overwhelmed by a wallop of thunder; when it had passed, he repeated, “I am honored by such an invitation, as all who live in Venezia must be.” The storm was closer and there was a odor like that of heated metal on the air.

  “The Doge will not be offended if you do not eat. We all know that you keep to the practice of your people, and dine in private.” Trevisan coughed lightly. “It would be best if you come alone. No women will be present for the banquet, not even holy Sisters or the wives of the Savii.”

  “I understand,” said di Santo-Germano. “And I will do as you suggest.” He was about to say something more when there was a discreet tap at the door.

  Trevisan waved him away. “Attend to it. Otherwise we shall have no peace, servants being what they are.”

  “Grazie,” said di Santo-Germano, and went to the door expecting to find Niccola or Rinaldo waiting for him; instead, Ruggier stood just beyond the arch of the door, a suggestion of a frown on his usually unexpressive features. Di Santo-Germano regarded him narrowly, now alert. “What has happened, old friend? Your face is grave.”

  “Two ships are lost. I have only now had word from the secretary of the Savii, who provided confirmation on the report—one sank, almost everything was lost; the other was seized by Ottomites.” He sighed. “Their messenger just came, in spite of the rising storm. I thought you would want to know.”

  “Which ships?” di Santo-Germano asked, glancing about and noticing that they were observed by Timoteo, the under-footman. “What did the message say?”

  “The Harvest Moon and the Golden Ladder,” said Ruggier. “The former sank; there are a few witnesses.”

  “And survivors,” di Santo-Germano said urgently.

  “Four from the ship, and nine crates were recovered. Everything else is given up to the Adriatic.” Ruggier paused for a long moment. “What if there are ransom demands from the Ottomites?”

  “The ransom must be paid, of course, as soon as possible, in full,” said di Santo-Germano, “and through the Sultan’s Court so that there can be no reneging on the terms, and the transfer should take place on Venezian territory—Corfu, perhaps.”

  “We will have to make arrangements through the Collegio,” Ruggier said.

  “Then I shall attend to it in the next three days, or as soon as the Collegio will see me.”

  “You may want to consider a broad approach: you have five other ships on galleys, and there may be more unwelcome news. You may need to be prepared for more calls on your purse. Winter is coming, and storms, and more Ottomites are hunting Venezian ships.”

  “True enough. And while we are gone to the north, certain precautions must be made.” Di Santo-Germano looked toward the reception room. “The broiled pheasant should be ready, and its accompanying dishes. Have Enrici or Rindaldo bring it up, and send Niccola to the quay to find out all he can. He’s the most inquisitive of the pages. In this weather, curiosity is necessary.”

  “He’s also the most wary,” Ruggier approved.

  “That he is,” said di Santo-Germano. “It should stand him in good stead. He will not be tempted to do something reckless, no matter how intriguing it might be.” He took a half-step backward. “It would be best if I do not keep the Consiglier waiting.”

  “Truly,” said Ruggier, and stepped back. “I’ll send Niccola out and have Enrici bring up the pheasant.” He cocked his head very slightly toward Timoteo. “And I will set all the household about their duties.”

  “Very good of you. Oh, and make sure there is a second bottle of the Toscana with the food,” said di Santo-Germano, as soon as another peal of thunder had shuddered to silence. “Keep in mind that we are being watched,” he added in Chinese.

  “I have done so thus far, and will continue,” said Ruggier in Imperial Latin, lowering his head respectfully as di Santo-Germano returned to his guest.

  Merveiglio Trevisan had finished his second glass of wine and was pouring a third. “You say this is from Toscana?”

  “From the region between Fiorenza and Sienna,” di Santo-Germano confirmed.

  “It is quite wonderful. You are most gracious to offer it, all the more so because you are unable to enjoy it, this blood of the vines.” Trevisan held up the glass, allowing the flickering lamp-light to shine in its red depths. “I thank you for it.”

  “You are welcome to the whole bottle, and more, if you like. I have ordered another for you delectation. You are also invited to remain here until the storm passes. This afternoon weather is inhospitable, so I will offer you an alternative to braving the elements. Perhaps you would like to avail yourself of my music room? if not that, then my library? After your kindness in coming here, I have no wish to send you out into dangerous weather.” He indicated the small, square table near the window. “If you prefer not to be exposed to the rain while you dine, I will gladly move that to the French chair.” He pointed to the piece of furniture with the upholstered seat and the bent-wood arms.

  “A very good precaution,” approved Trevisan, wincing in spite of himself as more thunder battered the afternoon. A moment later there was another squirt of lightning, and then, hardly more than two heartbeats later, a long, rolling smash that shook the air and rattled the windowpanes and shutters and sent echoes banging along the tall buildings. When there was quiet again, the Consiglier said, “Perhaps it would be best if I remain here for the time being. The rain, as you surmise, must begin shortly.”

  “Stay as long as you like,” di Santo-Germano offered, then went to secure the shutters on the windows, and to move the table to the French chair. Now only one window remained open, a small, narrow one on the north wall. “If you are not sufficiently comfortable here, I can remove us to my study.”

  “This is quite satisfactory,” said Trevisan, taking his place in the chair. “I wish more Veneziani were as obliging as you are, Conte.”

  “It is kind of you to say so,” di Santo-Germano said, wondering what more Consiglier Trevisan wanted of him, beyond shelter from the storm. As if to underscore his apprehension, a new clap of thunder sounded, and on its echoes came rain, pouring in cataracts from the clouds, so that the air outside was veiled in silver and all of the city looked like a blurred charcoal sketch. “Shall I shutter that window?”

  Trevisan shrugged. “Not on my account. I would prefer to see what is happening out there. I always ride out storms on my decks, tied to the mast when necessary, but where I can see the fury of the waves.” The sound of the rain was a loud, persistent chatter, broken with thumps of thunder. “I must say I am glad not to be at sea in this.”

  “I agree—wholeheartedly.” Just the thought of being aboard a ship in such a storm made him slightly queasy; he had memories of tempests and floods that added to his discomfort, and was relieved when there was a tapping on the door to distract him from his recollections of Roma, of Burma, of the beach below Leosan Fortress, of Tamasrajasi’s temple, of the defile near Kiev … “This must be your pheasant; it has a wonderful aroma,” he said to Trevisan, and went to take the tray with three covered dishes from Enrici. “Thank you for being so prompt. And you have the wine open. Excellent.”

  “A good day to stay in and drink wine,” said Enrici, with an informality he would never use in addressing a Veneziano.

  “No doubt,” said di Santo-Germano. “How much rain-water do you think we will save?”

  “The cistern will be half-full by nightfall, Signor’ Conte,” the page said, touching his forehead as he stepped back.

  “Fine. Have more barrels set out. Since we are being deluged we might as well make the most of it,” di Santo-Germano said, and closed the door.

  “What, other than pheasant, have you here?” Trevisan asked as di Santo-Germano set the tray down.

  “Aside from the wedge of cheese on the plate and the new bread, here is a risotto with crab and butter,” he said as he lifted the first cover. “Pheasant”—the second cover was taken off—“and dried fruit in spirits of wine
and honey. And preserved lemon rind.”

  “Elegant, and a touch foreign,” Trevisan pronounced as he took his utensils from his wallet and began to eat.

  Di Santo-Germano went to light the rest of the oil-lamps, using flint-and-steel to make a spark. While he made his way around the room, he remarked, “I have been told one of my ships was seized by the Turks—”

  Trevisan washed down a large bite of cheese to say, “So that was what your man wanted.”

  “Sadly, yes. It would mean that I should make provision for ransom to be paid, if a ransom is demanded.” This last was lower than the rest.

  “By the Virgin’s Tits, yes,” said Trevisan. “With guarantees, so you will not pay and then lose both men and money.”

  “It should be paid through the Sultan’s Court,” said di Santo-Germano. “Otherwise, who knows what might become of it.”

  “So it must, so it must.” He hacked off one of the pheasant’s legs and bit into it. “Very tasty, and not as dry as pheasant is wont to be.” He had another bit of wine and went on thoughtfully, “You want to talk to Christofo Sen about this. He’ll know how it’s to be handled. And he will not permit the issue to be conveniently forgot by the clerks.”

  “Christofo Sen?” di Santo-Germano repeated.

  “You know him. Thin, rawboned, white hair, a wen on his cheek, but dresses as exquisitely as a man of his position can.” He stuck his fork into the ear-shaped pasta. “Very reliable; very discreet.”

  “I know the man you mean.” Di Santo-Germano considered this. “I’ll ask to see him tomorrow.”

  “Tell him I sent you, if he drags his feet.”

  “You’re most gracious,” said di Santo-Germano. “I may avail myself of your offer.” He stopped at the small, open window. “This rain is astonishing.”

  “Luckily most of the private gondole are drawn into boathouses, or they would be swamped,” said Trevisan around his mouthful of pasta. “You keep a gondola and a gondolier, as I recall.”

  “Yes,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “Something of an expense, what with the taxes,” Trevisan remarked as he poured himself more wine.

  Di Santo-Germano lifted one shoulder slightly. “The taxes are worth the money. It is certainly convenient to have both the gondola and gondolier immediately at hand.” He made no mention of his native earth in the keel that allowed him to travel over water without much discomfort.

  “And a man of your position cannot be always waiting for someone to serve you, nor can you properly row your own boat,” Trevisan sympathized with a wink.

  “It would certainly be awkward,” said di Santo-Germano, and looked again at the rain. “I doubt this will let up soon.”

  “Not until the Angels have wrung all the water from the clouds,” said Trevisan. “Too bad about your ship, with the Doge about to fete you.”

  “It could be worse,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “True: we could have the Sweating Sickness here, as they do in so much of the north. No man would offer entertainment of any kind at such a time.” Trevisan produced a grim little smile.

  “I was not thinking of disease, but with politics, which can be much more dangerous,” said di Santo-Germano wryly.

  “And it may yet be, if the Sultan will not conduct negotiations for your men’s release. Who knows what lengths you may have to go to.” He smacked his lips and had more pasta; his forehead was turning ruddy and a bit moist. “A pity you have to be gone at such a delicate time.”

  “If it were not the Collegio and the ransom, it would be something else equally demanding,” said di Santo-Germano, “and the situation in the Lowlands is truly pressing.”

  “You know your business best,” said Trevisan. “And I have my biases as a Venezian. Still, you will want to keep in regular correspondence while you are away, in case there should be some difficulty.”

  “I intend to do so.” His voice was quiet yet purposeful.

  “Have you made arrangements for such messages?”

  “There are private couriers to be hired, if there is urgency. I will leave funds for my man of business to employ such a courier from here, so that he will not have to bear the expense. Two of my ships are on the Galley of Flanders and I can entrust messages to their Captains.”

  “The overland courier is faster,” Trevisan remarked.

  “Yes, and in more danger.” Di Santo-Germano strolled around the room. “With religious fighting breaking out all over, anyone crossing frontiers must be prepared to defend himself.”

  “They are fallen into error,” said Trevisan firmly. “That monk, Luther, has much to answer for. And now the King of England is saying he will defy His Holiness and Mother Church.” His choler was rising as he spoke. “Protestants! An apt name! May God save us from such heretical excesses.”

  Di Santo-Germano paused by a small, square table that held two branches of oil-lamps and a number of handsome objects; he picked up a carving of a jade lion with a clouded paw. “There are no wars so bitter as those fought for religion.”

  “When the soul is at stake, men defend it,” Trevisan declared. “The Church must answer to God for every soul it forfeits to the Devil.”

  “That is what the Protestants claim, as well,” di Santo-Germano pointed out. “And the Islamites.”

  “The Devil is always busy,” said Trevisan, gnawing on the other leg-bone of the pheasant.

  “So he might be,” said di Santo-Germano. He put the lion back on the table and went to close the last open shutter. “Your pardon, but the wind is changing quarter and I would rather not have my books soaked.”

  “You could always move the books,” Trevisan suggested with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Closing the shutter is easier,” said di Santo-Germano. “If you want to watch the storm, I can have your chair and table carried out into the loggia, where you may enjoy it safely.”

  “No, this is preferable,” said Trevisan. “There is more space between the lightning and the thunder, which means the worst is over.” He drank the last of the wine in his glass and poured out half a glass more. “I don’t want a muzzy head in the morning.”

  “Would you like a tankard of hot ale?” di Santo-Germano inquired.

  “I would prefer lemon juice and honey in hot water,” said Trevisan. “I have a fondness for it.”

  “Then you shall have it,” said di Santo-Germano, and rang a small brass bell to summon a page.

  Rinaldo answered this call, and repeated the particulars of what di Santo-Germano wanted for his guest before he hurried off to the kitchen.

  “You are truly a most accommodating host,” said Trevisan. “I wonder: would you give me the pleasure of one of your pages if I asked for it?”

  “That would depend upon the page,” said di Santo-Germano, unflustered by this forthright question. “They are in my care, not my possessions. If it suited one to oblige you, that would be between the two of you.”

  “You are most tolerant of your household, to allow a servant such a choice for himself,” said Trevisan, a bit dubiously. “To allow a servant to have charge over his preferences could soon lead to insolence.”

  “I have learned over time that servants treated well mean a smooth-running household, and where there is resentment, there is also slovenliness and disloyalty,” Adroitly he shifted the subject. “Have you noticed how the Ottomites organize their households?”

  “That I have,” said Trevisan. “I was once in Beirut and was asked to the home of a prosperous merchant there. He was a good man, genial and educated after the manner of his kind, a man of fortune and excellent connections; it pleased him to entertain Christians, to show them how Allah had enriched him far beyond anything God had done for us.” He drank the last of his wine. “His Allah, he says, will always favor his family.”

  “Did you agree?” di Santo-Germano asked, drawing up a Fiorenzan chair and setting it at right angles to Trevisan’s.

  For the rest of the long, wet afternoon, Trevis
an offered garrulous accounts of his various adventures, and di Santo-Germano listened as if all he heard was new to him.

  Text of a letter from Prescott Greystone, bookseller of London, to the Count of Saint-Germain at Eclipse Press in Venice, written in English, and delivered seven weeks after it was dispatched.

  To the Most Excellent, the Count of Saint-Germain, resident in Venice on the Field of Saint Luke, and publisher of Eclipse Press,

  Your Excellency:

  I am in receipt of the twenty volumes I ordered from your Press in February, and I am pleased to tell you that all are in good order. I am enclosing a draught for ten guineas, nine pence, four farthings. It is a pity that the late King Henry VII seized all the funds in the London branch of the Medici Bank, for that would make my business with the Continent run much more smoothly.

  Also, I have been in communication with the Antwerp and Bruges Presses you were kind enough to bring to my attention. If their quality is equal to what you produce in Venice, then I shall soon be placing an order with that Press as well. In any event, I am pleased to know of them.

  Let me thank you for the promptness of your delivery of my order—less than four months after it was placed, I have the volumes in hand, a most commendable dispatch in your dealings, my Lord, and one that encourages me to continue this association. May this letter have as swift a journey to you as your books did to me, as a sign of our mutual benefits.

  With every good wish for your continued prosperity, good health, and fine reputation,

  I am, my Lord Count,

  Most faithfully yours to command,

  Prescott Greystone

  No. 4, Cotter Lane, London, England, the 11thday of July, 1530

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