"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.
"I know things that the Ten do not," she declared confidently. "I know where my son is."
She opened the box without using a key, but I had recognized the words and gesture she used earlier to remove a warding spell. The same actions might or might not work for anyone else. She removed a slim book bound in brown leather, which she placed on her lap under the box, out of the way. Then she produced some loose papers.
"These are his letters. He does not write often, you will understand, because it is dangerous, but a few months after he fled he sent me his most solemn assurance, an oath sworn on his immortal soul, that he was nowhere near the Basilica when Gentile died." She took up the topmost paper and held it at arm's length. "This is the most recent. It is dated just after Epiphany." She squinted at the text. "Yes… Maria now expects her confinement about Easter… after her difficulties with Gentile I try not to show her my concern… And later he says, Gentile is a very active little terror, and swims like a dolphin. I spend at least an hour every day with him… You see, sier Alfeo? Would a man name his firstborn son after a father he had murdered?" She smirked triumphantly.
"I suppose not," I said. But why not?
"In one of his earlier letters he remarked how much he had enjoyed his father's attention in his own childhood and hoped to be as loved by his own children. He is engrossed with his family and concerned about his wife. He is in a far land which I shall not name, and not here in Venice writing letters to courtesans."
"Madonna, may I examine that letter you are holding and also the first one that you mentioned?"
"Certainly not!" She thrust the paper back in the box and put the book back on top of them. "It has his new address on it. There is still a price on his head, you stupid boy!"
"If Jacopo were to lay the paper on that escritoire," I said, "and cover the address with… with one of those books on the shelf, then I could see the rest of it. And the first letter is eight years old, so it can contain no secrets now."
She clutched the casket protectively in her talons. "Why? Why do you want to see my son's letters?"
"So I can assure my master that I have done so. I also want to compare the handwriting."
"Why?"
"Because my master has taught me much curious wisdom about handwriting. The first letter must have been written under great stress. The latest one sounds like the musings of a very happy man, even if he does have worries about his wife's lying-in. The writing should show that. Even at this distance I can perceive that he is left-handed."