Fortune's Fool, page 57
part #3 of Star-Cross'd Series
While they stopped in Vicenza to change horses, Pietro and Cesco called upon the house of Morsicato, expecting to find the doctor and the Moor deeply engaged in chess. But they found only Esta.
“Where have they gone?” asked Pietro in concern. The last time he’d seen Tharwat, the Moor had been hardly able to walk.
“Gone? To Venice. Very secret they were about it, too. You men and your little conspiracies. As if keeping secrets from a wife is ever clever.”
Pietro and Cesco exchanged puzzled stares. “Venice? How did they know?”
Cesco shrugged, laughing. “We knew he was good with the charts, but I had no idea he could predict the future so accurately!”
♦ ◊ ♦
Entering Venice’s Yellow Crescent, Morsicato felt decidedly uneasy. The eyes here were furtive, unfriendly. He’d always ignored the rumours of well-poisoning, Satanic rituals, flesh-eating, and the burning of live children. In fact, he’d learned a good deal of medicine from his Hebrew colleagues. But Jewish doctors were not allowed to treat Christian patients, one of many steps to keep them insular, separate from society. Jews were not allowed to marry Christians, to sell staple foods or any clothing to Christians, to hold land or mortgage. And, most recently, on top of their yellow badges they were now ordered to wear hats with a point to represent a devil’s horn.
Yet, in an ironic twist, they were needed. Desperately so. It was heretical for any Christian to levy interest on a loan. But since Jews were damned already, they were allowed to lend at high rates – so long as the state received two-thirds of the interest levied. Indeed, usury was the only profitable enterprise a Jew was allowed. Ironic, as ancient Hebrew law declared money unclean, which was why Christ had thrown the money-lenders from the Temple. Modern Christian law forced Jews to handle money and be the bankers of the world, making them religiously unclean in the process.
No wonder, then, that the gazes upon them were unwelcoming. Though Morsicato could not tell if it was for just for himself, or also for his companion. For all that Moors were unwelcome in Venice, the doctor would have thought these people, also anathema, would at least tolerate him. But they seemed more suspicious of the astrologer’s presence than of Morsicato’s.
Perhaps it was his appearance – the old burn scars on his neck, the new scars on his hands, the eyepatch, the slack area in his cheek where teeth had been removed. The man had clearly been tortured throughout his life. It was possible that the residents viewed such a man as dangerous, inviting trouble down upon their heads.
Tharwat knew the way, so the doctor followed, matching his pace. It was slower than of old, but even. If the Moor was in pain, he did not show it. Eventually they came to a tall, thin building with a heavy oak door. “This is the house.”
Morsicato stepped up and knocked. A moment later the door was swung wide and they were faced with a repulsively ugly young servant who did not wear the yellow star or the horned cap. A Christian servant?
If the fellow thought the duo of a bald doctor with a forked beard and a one-eyed Moor was odd, he gave no sign. “Yes, masters?”
“We’re here to see Shalakh,” answered Tharwat, his rasping voice low but clear.
The servant grinned. “The devil you say.”
“We really do,” said Morsicato.
“I’m sure. I mean to say, you seek the devil my master? I wonder you don’t hear him, ser. There he is, conversing with two good Christians, the merchant and his friend.”
Following the servant’s crooked finger, Morsicato saw a short man, slim and forbidding in his fine gabardine robes. He wore a trim mouth-beard, and beneath it was a wry smile, at once grave and mocking.
The Moor nodded. “That is he.”
The two men Shalakh was talking to were fair enough, pure Italian. One was thin and sad-faced, no hat upon his head, his rich clothes in disorder as if he could not be bothered with his appearance. His companion was a hair shorter but much more dapper, and was holding his own hat in his hand. Both eyed the Jew with suspicion.
Thanking the ugly servant, Morsicato and Tharwat approached, halting just short of the three men, standing in the square at the end of the Crescent to linger unobtrusively until the interview was over and so catch Shalakh alone. Their business was not for outside ears.
This was evidently not true of the Venetians’ business. From where they waited, Morsicato could not help over-hearing the exchange. As the Jew’s servant had observed, Shalakh was talking quite loudly.
“…Signore, for years you’ve railed to the whole Rialto about my profession, called me a – what was it? Oh yes, an unbelieving heathen dog. You have actually spit in my face for being skilled at the only profession I am allowed. Passing you in the street, I’ve felt the back of your foot. Now I ask you, have you ever heard me complain?”
“Not much,” replied the Venetian merchant sarcastically.
“Exactly so! I’ve borne it all with quiet patience – well, we are accustomed to unjust suffering. And now you need my help? ‘Jew, we need money,’ you say. What should I say to you in return? Should I be the man you think I am and reply, does a dog have money? Or should I lie under your boot and beg you to take my hard-earned ducati, pretending that we’re friends? What would you think of me then?”
“Say whatever you like.” The shorter man turned to his companion. “Antonio, there’s no need for this.”
“Wait, Bassanio.” The merchant called Antonio pushed his friend aside. “Jew, you are right. We are not friends. But isn’t it better to lend money to an enemy? That way, if you aren’t repaid you won’t hesitate to take whatever vengeance that subtle mind of yours can come up with.”
Shalakh’s hands flung to his chest. “You wound me! You positively do! Here I am, charity itself, offering you my hand. Your friend there needs money? He shall have it! And, what’s more, I’ll lend it without a drop of interest. What do you say to that?”
Antonio blinked, clearly surprised. “I say – that is very kind of you. Almost…”
“Almost Christian?” Shalakh’s eyes narrowed in mockery. Then his brow furrowed. “This will hurt my business.”
“How is that possible?” asked Antonio. “I would think having my business should enhance your reputation.”
Folding his hands, Shalakh worried his lower lip. “You don’t know my people. If my brother lenders hear I let such a sum go without surety, I will be considered a risk.” His clouded brow cleared and he let loose a throaty laugh. “I have it! To show them that I have not lost my wits or my pride, let’s have a bond. You swear to repay me within three months – plenty of time to make good the debt. But we’ll have a contract that says if you fail to pay me I can have a pound of your flesh!” He chortled. “You see? My brethren will deem me a marvel, thinking I have you in my power. And your friends will see that I won’t lend you money for interest, the same way you lend to your friends. Neither of us loses face. A good joke, no?”
The Venetian merchant was smiling at the ridiculous nature of the bond. Morsicato wasn’t a lawyer, but he misliked the terms of the bond. The merchant’s friend Bassanio seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “Antonio, don’t do it. I’ll get the money another way.”
Antonio gave him a strange look. “I thought I was your last chance.”
Bassanio dropped his head. “You are. My ship sails tonight. But I’d rather not have the money than see you take such a risk.”
Shalakh threw up his hands to the open sky. “O Abraham! How suspicious these gentiles are! But then I suppose they have reason. Their Savior was betrayed by a Jew, after all. But at least he had silver in return. Signor Bassanio, if this bond is broken, tell me – what do I gain from it? What on Earth would I do with a pound of Antonio’s flesh – if I could get even that! You should eat more, Master Antonio – you’re looking almost Hebrew in your thinness. But again, what would I do with it? It’s not good currency, and if you’re right about me and I think all Christians are swine, then I certainly can’t eat it!” He laughed again with such good nature that Antonio actually laughed with him, if not deeply then at least honestly.
Shalakh smiled at the one called Bassanio. “I’m a practical man. Your friend knows this. I’m buying his friendship. Being his enemy is hard on my business.” He glanced again at Antonio. “That is, my friend, if you feel safe. If not, why then, adieu – that’s French for to God, you to yours, me to mine.”
The Venetian Antonio grasped the Jew by the arm. “Shalakh, wait! Bassanio, don’t worry! I have ships out all over the world, and in two months I’ll have the money to pay this fellow back three times over.” He released Shalakh’s arm and offered his own hand. “I will take this bond.”
Shalakh took the Venetian merchant’s hand, shook it once, and released it. “Very good! As I told you, I don’t have three thousand ducati on hand at present, but I’ll send right now to my neighbour Tubal and borrow it from him. Once I have the silver on hand, I’ll send you a note and meet you – at your convenience – at the notary so we can have this matter settled.”
“Then Godspeed, gentle Jew. Yours and mine.”
They parted, with the one called Bassanio looking worried and his friend shrugging unconcernedly. Shalakh turned and swept right past Morsicato, muttering something about Christians as he passed.
Tharwat cleared his throat, causing the money-lender to look up sharply. “The Arūs. This is an unexpected honour.” He managed to make the honour sound unwelcome and offensive. “Time has been unkind to you, I see. Are you here for yourself, or your master?”
“Myself. We have important business.” With a wave of his hand he indicated Morsicato. Shalakh inclined his head, and Morsicato did the same. “May we walk home with you?”
Shalakh shrugged in disdainful resignation. “Well.” Together they began to walk to Shalakh’s house. Morsicato attempted light conversation. “We heard your offer to that merchant. Very generous.”
The doctor half expected the usurer to excoriate him for eavesdropping. But Shalakh seemed in an affable mood. “It was, wasn’t it? But, truth be told, I can’t afford Antonio as an enemy at the moment. There’s another rumour of debt-cancellation, which has all my brethren running scared like sheep at the scent of a wolf. And Antonio undercuts my business by lending money interest-free to his friends and other good Venetians. Perhaps now the Christians will see me in a more favourable light and make use of my services.”
They reached his door. The house itself was very fine, well-made if lacking in outward adornment. Jewish craftsmen were skilled, and its austerity added a certain elegance.
“Do you mind entering a Hebrew domicile?” With their consent, he led them up a set of stairs and into a room with only two entrances and no windows. This room served as Shalakh’s office, as far as visitors were allowed. Waving them into chairs, he remained standing behind his desk. “This man is..?”
The doctor chose to introduce himself. “Ser Giuseppe Morsicato, personal physician to the Nogarola family.”
Shalakh gave Morsicato a quick up-and-down glance, clicked his tongue, and returned his gaze to the Moor. “You are still in the employ of the Scaliger?”
“Among others. I was sorry to hear of the passing of your wife,” said Tharwat. “Leah was a lovely woman, and kind.”
Shalakh frowned defensively, but saw nothing pointed or malicious in Tharwat’s face. “Thank you.” Unconsciously he touched a beautiful turquoise ring on his finger. Suddenly he looked down at it, scowled, and pulled it off. Placing it in a drawer of his desk, he became brisk. “What is your business? Do you require money? As you heard, I have very little ready cash at hand, but I can supply a modest need.”
Tharwat shook his head. “We come for information.”
“That will take longer. Please excuse me a moment.” Shalakh lifted a wax tablet and carved a few odd-looking sigils into it. “I must send a message, then I will hear your request. Launce! Launcelot! Where is that fool?”
Instead of the servant’s voice, they heard a young woman call from upstairs, “He’s out back, father, beating the rugs!”
Shalakh scowled. “Then you come here, girl!”
There was a tremendous sigh, audible through the floorboards, then footsteps, and suddenly a teenaged girl was framed in the doorway. She was ravishingly lovely. There was an exotic air to her, something old, earthy, primal. Her modest clothes couldn’t hide the swing to her hips. “Yes, father?”
“My daughter Jessica,” said Shalakh carelessly to his guests as he crossed and held the wax tablet out to her. “Girl, tell that idiot to go over to Tubal’s, give him this, and say I’ll explain later.”
She took the tablet of wax and departed without a glance in the guests’ direction. There was a furtiveness about her, as if she were guilty of something. Living in Shalakh’s house, there must have been a great many rules. Shalakh didn’t seem to notice.
Shalakh closed the door behind her and crossed back behind his desk. There was a little scroll with numbers on it, marking the current exchange rate for various currencies. Few regions of the world had sufficiently reliable access to silver or gold to mint coins. The Venetian ducato was an exception, and was accepted all over the civilized world as one of the only stable currencies.
Behind Shalakh’s desk was a massive metal box that served as a chair. Since money was officially considered a creation of Satan, a money-lender’s strongbox could hardly be imagined without a Devil engraved on the lid. But Shalakh’s was not so adorned. It was plain, and covered with a comfortable looking cushion, well-used. Shalakh settled himself onto it. “Well?”
He addressed Tharwat, so the Moor did the talking. “We need to trace someone Verona supplies with money.”
The Jew’s left eye twitched. “Does his Highness the Scaliger know of your query?”
Tharwat produced a parchment bearing Cangrande’s seal. Morsicato chose not to ask where he had gotten a copy.
Shalakh pushed his nose up to the parchment, reading and staring at the seal suspiciously. Morsicato tried to look unconcerned. Finally the Jew grunted and handed the paper back. “Very good. Who, precisely, are you looking for? The paper doesn’t say.”
“A lady of about forty years, known to us as Donna Maria.”
Shalakh straightened, taking him to his full height, which was not in itself impressive. Yet for all his short stature, he was a remarkably forceful presence. Morsicato could imagine him standing toe-to-toe with even Cangrande and holding his own.
Shalakh gazed at his guests. “Why?”
“We want to find her.”
“You have wasted your time, and mine. I cannot help you.” Rising, Shalakh started to cross to the door again.
Morsicato leapt up and grasped the Jew’s arm as he passed. “Wait. You clearly know who we’re talking about.”
Shalakh turned with such a look of anger that the doctor almost let go. “I will not have hands laid on me in my own house. I may have no recourse at law if you accost me, but I do have friends in many cities…”
Morsicato withdrew his hand, but did not step away. “I won’t accost you if you answer me. You know her.”
A sneer. “Yes.”
“What is her name?”
Shalakh looked at him pityingly. “Donna Maria.”
“Her family name.”
“We never used one. Please leave.”
“Shalakh.” Tharwat’s rasping voice was soft, but there was steel beneath the purr. “We must know.”
The money-lender stood for a time, then crossed behind his desk and resumed his seat. Morsicato did the same.
Tharwat nodded. “If there was no name, how was the draft to be honoured?”
“There was a seal to be shown,” said Shalakh. “With it she could have whatever funds she required. Or send me a note with the proper words and the seal in a certain place and I would send a draft wherever she directed.”
“So where is she?” asked Morsicato.
Shalakh smiled serenely. “I have no idea. Please leave.”
Tharwat placed a hand on the doctor’s arm, pulling him back into his seat. “Where did you send the last draft of money?”
“I sent one for one hundred twenty ducati to a banker in London.”
“London?” echoed Morsicato.
“When was this?” asked Tharwat.
“Three years ago. In fact, almost exactly three years. I received the order at the beginning of your August, in the year of your lord 1325.”
The same month she disappeared, thought Morsicato, who had pressed Tharwat for all that was known of Cesco’s mysterious mother.
Tharwat posed another question. “Do you do much business in London?”
“No. My tribe has very little to do with the English these days. Ever since their king Edward I, may the Lord spit in his eye, ran all Hebrews out forty years ago, we’ve had to use agents. There is no profit to be had.”
“Please give us the banker’s name. It will be a place to start.”
Shalakh said the name and both men committed it to memory. They would not trust writing it down.
“It won’t do you any good,” added Shalakh.
“And why is that?”
“I sent that draft three years ago,” said Shalakh in triumph. “It was never honoured. The money sits here, gathering interest in my capable hands. She never collected it.”
Tharwat was grim. “I never thought she did.”
Forty-Two
It was another half hour before they departed the house of Shalakh. Morsicato left carrying a bundle of papers. It had taken some real convincing for the Jew to part with it, because therein lay every record of money passed from Cangrande to Donna Maria over a period of fifteen years – since Cesco’s conception, it seemed. The money would be no use in tracing her, of course. Wherever her kidnappers had taken her, she was unable to collect the sum awaiting her in London. But it was Tharwat’s hope that these papers held some clue to her history. Even just her surname would help.
While their host had vanished into his back room to find these records, Morsicato had seen the daughter, Jessica, slip down the stairs and press a sealed fold of paper into the servant Launcelot’s hand just before he went out. Seeing Morsicato’s eye upon her through the open door, she pressed her finger to her lips, eyes imploring. He mimicked her, smiling under his beard. A love affair. Hopefully not with the servant. More like he was the conveyor of love – a curious Cupid if ever there was one.
