"Alas, madonna, I cannot reveal that to anyone except sier Bernardo."
That was the right answer and any other would have seen me tossed out a watergate without a gondola.
She sucked in her cheeks angrily, giving herself a monkey face. "Jacopo, where is Bernardo?"
"He is in conference with the bankers, I believe, madonna."
"Domenico?"
"Playing tennis." Jacopo seemed remarkably well-informed about the household's activities.
Alina pouted. "Will he do," she asked me, "or must it be Bernardo?"
"I was sent to sier Bernardo."
"Go and tell Bernardo I want him right away."
Jacopo departed. Bernardo was nominal head of Casa Michiel, but I was alone with the real head. I waited politely for her to name the topic of our conversation.
"My son was never guilty of his father's murder! He was the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice."
What else would a mother say?
"Alas, madonna, it is hard to contend with the Council of Ten when it does not reveal the basis for its decisions." It was also dangerous to accuse it of making mistakes.
"There was no evidence, no real evidence. There could not be. Yes, he quarreled with his father. He was wild and outspoken, but what boy of his age is not? His father sowed enough wild oats, even when he was old enough to know better. Zorzi was guilty of lack of respect, nothing more. He would never have hurt anyone deliberately."
"I have been told the same by others," I remarked.
Steely eyes glinted. "What others?"
"Persons who knew him." I did not add, intimately.
"You are too young to remember. You have been going around prying into those matters?" She ought not to scowl; it made her as ugly as a gargoyle.
"I was investigating other matters, madonna, and by accident ran into talk of your husband's death."
She kneaded her wizened lips together for a moment. "Nostradamus claims to foretell the future. Can he also envision the past?"
"Not as such, but I have seen him unravel old mysteries. Some of his methods are occult, but often he just uses the wisdom of a sage to cut away a web of lies and deceit that has concealed the truth."
Silence fell, as if I had dissolved and she were alone, staring at nothing. I was attracted by the painting on the far side of the room. "Is that portrait by Paris Bordone, madonna?"
She frowned as if only the rich should see art. "It is. You approve?"
"At his best he comes very close to the great Titian and I would judge that work to be one of his best. I cannot believe that it did justice to the subject, though." She had never been a beauty, but she had been young.
"Nostradamus teaches you flattery also?"
I laughed aloud. "Forgive me. If you had ever met him, you would understand my levity."
"Who painted that one behind you, sier Alfeo?"
Fortunately I was right again, and winter began to thaw into spring. Before summer arrived, her son did, with Jacopo in tow.
Bernardo Michiel was bulky, a meat inspector who brought his work home with him. Even in ordinary gentlemen's attire, without the imposing robes of a patrician, he was still a domineering presence. His beard was big, black, and bushy; his brows beetled.
I rose and bowed as little as possible without giving direct insult. Neither of us had a chance to speak before Alina Orio did.
"Here is my son, messer Zeno. Let us hear Nostradamus's message."
"Certainly, madonna. If he agrees?"
"Yes!" Bernardo barked. "Go on!"
"My master merely wishes to warn you, clarissimo, that there are rumors that your exiled brother may have returned to the city. Nostradamus advises you of this purely as a token of gratitude for your earlier interest in his work and seeks nothing in return."
The inspector of meats exchanged glances with his mother. "Rumors? You come here to repeat rumors? Neither facts nor evidence, merely scuttlebutt and tittle-tattle? I can gather a bellyful of that at any time from the sharks in the Ghetto Nuovo or the fish skinners of the Pescaria." His voice was the resonant trumpet of a trained orator and I was a public meeting.
I must now walk very close to the perilous edge of accusing the Michiel black sheep of three more murders. I drew comfort from the weight of my rapier at my belt, because I was fairly certain that either Bernardo or Jacopo could throw me out single-handedly, and they could call on unlimited assistance.
"I was instructed to mention two facts that may be relevant. First, a certain courtesan received a note purporting to be from a man she had known some years ago-not giving sier Zorzi's own name, I hasten to add, but a nickname by which he was known to her."
Bernardo's heavy features did not change by one eyebrow hair. "What nickname?"
"Honeycat. Based on a birthmark, I was told." Seeing no reaction to that, either, I continued. "Second, and perhaps more significant, the Council of Ten officially warned my master not to continue his current inquiries. So, of course, he will not."
It is very rare to mention the Ten without seeing some sort of response, but I saw none then.
"That's all? You have posited your premises, posed your paradoxes, and presented your peroration?"
"I have." I also scorn sarcasm and abhor alliteration, but did not say so.
"Then you have said all you wanted to say and may leave."
Jacopo moved forward to assist.
"Wait!" said the lady. "Thank you for coming, Bernardo. I have another matter to discuss with sier Alfeo." She waited until her son had stalked out in dudgeon and Jacopo had closed the door behind him before she continued. "Bring the casket."
Jacopo crossed the room and left by a second door, through which I glimpsed a bedchamber.
"Now, sier Alfeo, give me your opinion of that small painting above the escritoire over there."
I rose and went across to peer at the panel in question. My first reaction was repugnance, but after a moment it began to speak to me. I returned to my seat.
"Daring, but powerful. I have never heard of the artist, madonna. A Greek, from the signature, and his choice of forms and colors is unusual… At the risk of being presumptuous, I would guess that he is fairly young, searching for a personal style."
She raised eyebrows and pursed lips in guarded approval. "He was young when he painted that. "Domenicos Theotokopoulos, from our colony on Crete. He later went on to Spain, and I have been told he has met with success there. A very odd young man, he was. And the desk beneath it?"
Was hideous. "I claim no knowledge of furniture, madonna."
"It is made of ebony wood from the Spice Lands, very rare."
Very funereal. I praised a bronze cherub instead and she dismissed my opinion with a sniff.
"The escritoire belonged to my father. I should say that ebony furniture used to be rare. I have seen examples in several great houses recently. I do hope it doesn't become a fad." Anything popular would be contemptible, obviously.
Jacopo returned with a shallow silver box, decorated with pseudoclassical figures in bas-relief. Donna Alina placed it on her lap and spread her papery hands on the lid possessively as if afraid it might float away.
"My dearest treasure," she said with a thin-lipped smile. "My son is not back in Venice. I can prove it. I know he did not murder my husband, messer Zeno. I know this as surely as I know the name of my Redeemer. I want Nostradamus to prove his innocence, by finding out who did slay my husband."
I had been expecting almost anything but that. I hoped my shock did not show as much as Jacopo's did. He looked at her as if she were raving. I pulled my wits together.
"Eight years is a long time, madonna. Memories fade, witnesses may no longer be available. Even my master may balk at such a challenge. Of course I will convey your wishes. And the Ten… I mean, he will have to consider whether the Ten's interdict covers that matter also." Even trying to overthrow the Ten's judgment on so notorious an affair might be judged subversive.