Copyright (c) 2000 Theodore Beale. All rights reserved.
There is little love in the great city of my birth. Hatred runs through Venezia like the rancid green water of our famous canals, dividing family from family as surely as the sea forbids us the mainland. I do not remember why it is that the Grimani hate us, nor can I recall why we abhor them so. Was it the seduction of a daughter, the murder of a son, that began this futile cycle of brutal assault and violent reprisal? No, most likely not; this has always been a city of merchants, and I suspect the origin of this deadly feud, should anyone ever trouble to unexcavate the truth, will speak more of the market than the stage.
No doubt great-grandfather Grimani must have cheated my illustrious ancestor, Lorenzo Morosini, in some mendacious way, for surely that saintly man would not have sinned against God and honor by failing to keep his solemn word. Not the great Lorenzo, our late paterfamilias, whose haughty portrait still adorns the grand hall of my father’s mansion on the Piazza dei Angeli! I jest, you understand, for in this forsaken place we harbor greater respect for the accomplished liar than for the man whose word is true, and even our churchmen will lie like Greeks for the sake of a silver coin.
Perhaps it was a contract that was broken, a shipload of our rightfully famous glass that was delivered from the glassblower’s island, but for which payment was never received. No, even that is too romantic. There is surely nothing of beauty in this stupid dispute, and is it not far more appropriate to imagine that such a ship would have stank of fish and their rotting corpses? Yes, of corpses there have been all too many, for in the time of my own memory have we not lost three uncles, one great-uncle, and eight cousins of various degrees to the blades of the Grimani? And, lest I forget, an aunt as well.
This is a bitter accounting. I exaggerate, perhaps, but not much. Even our thrice-cursed enemies do not make war on women, but my aunt died of grief, as surely as if a dagger had been thrust into her heart at the very moment her eyes were laid upon the body of Giovanni, her youngest son, sprawled upon the steps of the Basilica. Alas, poor Giovanni, surely his stay in Purgatory will be a long one. Though he was but a youth, his hands were well-stained with Grimani blood, and as my brother Taddeo prophesied, Giovanni died as he lived, by the knife’s blade.
We have suffered much, but our enemies have suffered too. The wrath of the Morosini is now proverbial, even in this masked city of enigmatic crimes, and at times I have heard fearful whispers that the dread Council of Ten is in our pocket, that they aid us in secret. This is nonsense, of course, although it is true that for every fallen Morosini, two Grimani have been laid to a watery rest. I myself have slain no man, although I was there when we trapped Luca, the third and most unwise of the Minister’s four sons, in a tavern not far from the Doge’s palace. He was a handsome lad, with sad, long-lashed eyes, though his beauty was well-ruined by the time Giovanni’s eldest brother was through with him.
It is a waste, this war, and yet we dare not lay down our knives until the Grimani abandon their own. Some say the Signory will intervene and declare a ban, but I think not. It serves the Doge’s purpose all too well, the wily old man, to see two of Venezia’s greatest families warring on each other, denuding their ancestral trees of the fruit that might otherwise one day ripen to challenge the primacy of his clan. He is an ambitious and dangerous man, and it is even whispered that he hopes to establish a dynasty here, to turn our Serene Republic into a kingdom.
He will fail, of course, for the Serenissima will abide much that does not threaten the fat pockets of its merchants, but it will never bow before a king. Still, what is that to me? I have more urgent concerns. The Grimani are about tonight, lurking enmasked in the shadows, searching for a Morosini upon whom they can wreak their vengeance for the handsome Luca. But be not mistaken, it is not for myself I fear. I am no innocent; I am strong and I well know how to use the three daggers secreted about my person.
No, it is for Taddeo’s sake that I stalk these dark alleyways, that I hide behind this tri-colored domino. My youngest brother is sinless and pure, but he is also naïve, and heedless of all danger. He thinks his saints protect him, I suppose, those long-dead men whose sanctity was not sufficient to save themselves, much less him. The fool! He should have been a priest, or a monk perhaps, and I think he may well have been one such had not our father forbidden him to take the vows. He was wise to forbid Taddeo, was father, for in these dark times it is all too easy to lose an heir, or two, or three.
But he is nowhere to be found, my dear, imprudent brother, who will not carry a blade, not even for self-defense. You cannot turn the other cheek when you are dead, I tell him, but he only laughs softly and shrugs. God’s will be done, he declares bravely enough, and though I admire the courage of his convictions, I put no trust in them. Where is God in this bitter swamp of hate? This is not his Civitas Dei, this is Venezia. There are no graves to be found here, nor victory either.
I will find him. He cannot be far. I will find him, and soon.
I fear for all my brothers, Heavenly Father, and for Matteo most of all, though I know you hold their souls in the palm of your mighty hand. But I fear this murderous struggle with our enemies will be the death of them, for they are men of blood. Tonight it is the Grimani who hunt in vengeance; no doubt we shall soon be stalking them in return. But vengeance belongs to you, O Lord, so Father Pietro told us in our youth, and so it is written.
Myself, I do not fear death, but neither do I seek it. What will be, will be as you will it, Lord my God, and I will not hide behind our high stone walls, behind the brave men of the Veneto we import to stand between us and those who hate us. They are good men, these rough-hewn peasants with their child-like faith, and though they cannot even read their own names, I think they understand more of your Holy Word than do my well-tutored brothers.
Thou shalt not kill! Is this so hard to understand? Can there be profit in survival when it comes only at the cost of one’s soul? I know I see through a glass darkly, at best, but my brothers, they see nothing at all! Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, cousin for cousin, and never an end in sight. O Lord Almighty, will you not break this fateful chain? End it with me, if you must, but end it soon, and visit not our sins upon our children, as the sins of our fathers have been visited so terribly upon us. But let your will be done, Lord, on earth as it is in Heaven. Amen.
I am not far from San Stefano, the church that is my destination, when I see him. He wears a white mask, with a long bird’s beak that is not unlike that of the chirurgeon. He is no healer, though, for even in the faint light of the moon, I can see the lethal purpose in his eyes. His hands are empty, but I have no doubt that somewhere about him is a dagger that will be sharper than any chirurgeon’s blade. He wears a dark red cloak, a clever choice that will hide any betraying drops of blood that might spill upon it.
How long has he stalked me, this cunning killer? Has he marked me long enough to know my routine, to know that I would surely be here this night to examine Father Giancarlo’s new translation of Averroe’s commentaries? Perhaps he knows nothing of the great philosophers, this crimson-shrouded executioner, but is he not a veritable image, a perfect form, one could even say, of Death?
It is possible that if I run, at this very moment, that I might escape. Even if he is the dread Dario, the man they call the Scourge of the Morosini, whose hand has slain two of my cousins in as many years, he will not dare to violate the sanctuary of the Church. From this I know that the men of blood still hold a kernel of the truth in their rage-filled souls, would that this seed would bloom into full flower in every heart as one! But understanding only comes in its own time, and what is one man’s sunset is another’s rising moon. Alas, that this should be so, but this is the world that the Lord has made.
I do not run. Instead, I turn to greet him, this man who seeks my death. I raise my hand and show him that I hold no weapon, nor ill will.
“Welcome in peace, my friend,” I tell him.
He does not respond, except to continue walking towards me. He walks carefully, slower than before, and his hand reaches inside his cloak. Behind the mask, his eyes are hard, and I can see that there are no words to dissuade him from his deadly purpose. Holy Father, give me strength! Did I say that I did not fear death? Then I lied, I realize to my shame, as I stare into the steely gaze of this killer.
I am afraid! The realization is shocking, painful in its own right even as I cringe before the sight of the moonlight reflected off the transparent crystal in the hunter’s hand. I fear the pain, and the mystery that lies beyond the final agony as well. What if all of my beliefs are lies, what if I am truly as Matteo has claimed, a deluded innocent enslaved by the greedy lies of priests who feed the cringing visions of old women who fear the final dark. What if there is nothing beyond this life? Have I thrown everything away?
The man in the mask comes closer. I want to fall on my knees before him, to beg for my life. The instinct for self-preservation is strong. He sees my fear and is less cautious now, and perhaps I could strike out at him, kick at his knee or claw at his groin. But then my faith returns to me. It washes over me and fills me up like water engulfing a drowning man, who breathes the sea at last. Thank you, O Lord my God, for this comfort in my last extremis. I am ready now.
This killer is not cruel. This, my last mortal thought, surprises me greatly. His weapon is sharp, and I barely feel the blow as he drives his glasssy blade into my stomach, just below my chest. With the calm practice of the expert, he twists upward and the glass pierces my heart. Death comes quickly, but the pain does not linger and already I am rising upward as the darkness of the night sky melts before the grandest light of all…. Oh, praise the Lord Most High, you heavenly hosts! This is a beginning, not an end!
My heart stops when I turn the corner and see a silent figure lying in the flickering torchlight, only steps away from the side entrance of the San Stefano. A part of me dies inside even as my mind frantically creates a thousand alternate explanations, any of which would save me, would allow me to breathe once more. It could be a drunken tramp, a ravished woman, a murdered whore. Maybe an aged priest felled by the ravages of time and a weak heart. This is not the best of quarters, perhaps it is nothing more than an unfortunate accosted by robbers, or better yet, a thief slain by his fellows.
No. It is none of these. It is my brother. My youngest brother, Taddeo, and he is dead.
There is suddenly an aching pressure inside my head, and it takes me a long moment to realize that I am fighting the tears that threaten to fall from my eyes like a second Flood of Noah. But I cannot allow the dam to break, not yet, for surely all Venezia will drown before my monstrous sorrow. What will I tell our father? Protect Taddeo, he said, and I tried. Oh, damn it all, how I tried! But you would not listen. Where were your saints, Taddeo? Curse them, now and forever!
Oh, mother, will your tender heart shatter at this news and will you fall dead, like Zia Maria? You have lost one of your own, but it is the one it should not have been. Not you, Taddeo! Never you!
The looming tears feel like nails now, pounded into my skull by a screaming devil’s hammer, and still they do not come although my head throbs with the anguish of their suppression. They cannot come, they will not come, for I will not weep until my brother is avenged. Oh, how you will be avenged, my brother, for my blade will not be sated until every last Grimani is destroyed, until Venezia has been washed clean of their venomous brood.
How peaceful you look. You are still warm as I embrace you, as I kiss your pallid cheeks and your lifesblood stains my cloak. Would that it had been me instead of you! It was meet for Giovanni to die by the sword, but what weapon did you ever bear? These papers which now lie scattered about you? No, in murdering you they sacrificed the innocent lamb, and for that, the lion shall devour them. Ah, did I not say there is no God - surely this is the proof! This world is all the Hell that Man could ever need.
I should go, I know, and unleash the famous wrath of our family, but I cannot leave you now. No, let me hold you in my arms for just a little while, as I held you in years long past. Let me hold you, until the last of your warmth is gone and with it the remnants of my dying heart. Ah, stay with me, dear little brother, for just this little while. The hounds of hell can wait; soon enough they shall be summoned.
Oh, Matteo, I see that it has fallen to you to discover the shell that was once mine. My poor brother. He is stricken with grief, and though I long to comfort him and assure him that all is more than well with me, it is forbidden. Do not despair, brother! Nor seek revenge, for that way lies the true death. Your heart is good, but already hatred eats away at you like a cancer, and now that I walk in the light, my concern is not for your mortal life but your immortal soul. How hard it is to watch you grieving silently, manfully holding back your tears for me, who need them least of all.
But beware, Matteo, for is that not my killer who steps from the depths of the shadows? You do not hear him, I see, lost as you are in your sorrows. The man of blood is cautious, as he silently moves towards you, and he has not yet shattered the glass blade that took my life, it is already in his hand. Your back is open to him, and in only seconds he will reach you. But you cannot die now, not now, when your name is not written in the Book of Life.
Almighty Father, I cry. Send me back, let me warn my brother of his danger. Do not make me watch, helpless, as he is lost to the chorus of the damned!
Time is of no meaning here. It may have been a moment or it may have been a century, I cannot say. But the Almighty answers, and though he does not speak as we do, the answer is clear. No.
I bow my head. The Lord has spoken. I cannot, will not, disobey. The Glory of the Lord is perfect, and all that are here, including myself, have been likewise perfected through the grace of Jesus Christ, for how else could we bear the ecstatic radiance of the Power.
But it is also written, knock, and the door will open. So again I cry out to the Lord my God, Father, my brother will be lost if you do not send me back to him. Let me warn him, the danger is near!
The answer comes again, more quickly, I think, this time. No. Have you not heard my Word? Many will be lost. And have I not said that if they will not listen, they will not be convinced even if one rises from the dead?
Again, the door does not open. But it is also written, ask, and you shall receive. Once more I cry out to the Lord my God. Father, I do not seek to convince him, only to give him another chance. One more chance, O Lord, for my brother. One more chance, and perhaps he will turn from his ways and be a man of blood no more!
The Lord is a great and patient God. He is just, but he is also merciful. The answer comes a third time, and this time it is different. Yes. Go to your brother, that he not perish at this moment. But only for a moment shall you go, and you shall not speak, not even one word, before you return. Your brother’s fate shall then be as he chooses, for vengeance is mine alone.
So speaks the Almighty. It is enough, though, and I am grateful. Praise the Most High, for his mercy is everlasting. Matteo, do not fail yourself now! You have heard the truth, this I now know for a certainty, but you have never lived it. How many times have you been tested and failed? But for this, the final test, you must find the strength within you. Not your own strength, that will never suffice, but that which comes through the grace of God.
My brother was dead. Of this I have no doubt. I have seen no few corpses in my day, and well I know what it means when the blood flows no longer, when the breath is stilled, and the skin grows cold, firm to the touch. Taddeo was no more, and I do not know how long I had been lying there in the shadow of San Stefano, holding his lifeless body in his arms when the miracle occurred.
I held him close to my breast, his forehead pressed against my cheek, and my arms were wrapped around him. I must have been there for some time, for there was a certain stiffness to Taddeo that had not been there at the first and the blood on my clothes was dark and sticky. It has been suggested that I might have heard something, a boot-heel on a cobblestone or perhaps there was a flash of movement caught my eye. But I assure you, this was not so. I was utterly lost in my grief, and in my rage-filled plans for vengeance.
No, what alerted me to the presence of my peril was something else, and although I know it is impossible, I swear to you that I felt what I felt. And what I felt was an unmistakable push, not gentle, but hard and forceful, of two hands at my midsection. It startled me, naturally enough, and though I was both shocked and confused, I was not so confused that I did not recognize the danger which suddenly loomed unexpectedly before me.
It was Taddeo’s killer, of that I am certain. He wore a beaked white mask and held himself in the balanced stance of a well-practiced fighter. His glass blade was clean, but even in the darkness I could see the dark patch where he had wiped my brother’s blood on the edge of his scarlet cloak. I felt a dark and fey joy when I saw him, and I think I smiled because his appearance was like a gift from above, or more likely, below. It was as if the devil himself had found my brother’s killer and delivered him unto me.
I drew my own dagger and prepared to kill him, as slowly and painfully as I knew how. He was a clever one, that I could see, and his plan to use his first victim to bait the trap for the second was audacious, perhaps even worthy of admiration. But glass knives shatter easily, whereas I have always relied upon the finest Damascene steel.
It was then that my brother saved me for the second time, this time from myself. A glint of gold caught my eye, and I glanced down and saw the little cross around Taddeo’s neck. It had always been there, of course, that was nothing new. But then I looked above the cross, and realized something was different, something had changed. Taddeo’s face had been surprisingly peaceful when I first came across him, especially considering his violent end. But now, there was a faint smile on his lips that had not been there before, the same one that often graced his face when he rebuked me and my brothers for our sinful ways.
It was not much, admittedly, but it was enough. Perhaps not for you, but then you do not know my brother as I do. I cast down my knife and removed the mask from my face. Standing beside the body of my murdered brother, I raised my hand and forgave his killer.
“It is enough,” I told him. “You have slain a lamb, an innocent, but the guilt is not yours alone. It is also mine, and my family’s. Let it end here, with this, my brother.”
The killer looked at me for a long time. I do not know what he was thinking, but surely he saw my empty hands and thought he could strike me down, if he chose. It is even possible that I might have let him, although it would not have been hard to draw another of my blades before he reached me. Once a man of blood, always a man of blood, they say.
But that is neither here nor there, because my brother’s killer did not strike, but instead inclined his head briefly, then opened his hand and let his glass blade fall. It shattered against the stones of the narrow street with a crash that was thunderous in the silence of the night. Thus it was that in the shadows of San Stefano, without a word being spoken, the long, deadly war between Grimani and Morosini finally came to an end. There would be no more sacrifices on the altar of our hate.
They are not our friends and will never be, for there is no warmth between clans in the pearl of the sea, this great city of my birth. But in every end there is also a beginning, and though the blood of the Grimani and the Morosini no longer flows in the alleyways, it will flow together in the children of tomorrow’s marriage between my nephew, Raffael, and Isabella Grimani.
I have no children of my own, but in a sense, their children will also be my children, and Taddeo’s too. And God’s, for without his grace, I should never have stayed my hand from seeking the vengeance that was not mine. But we are all God’s children, of course, and it will be my privilege to remind both families of that tomorrow, when I preside over the wedding of Raffael and his lovely Isabella in the church of San Stefano.
And beneath my vestments I shall wear that shirt from long ago, the one with the marks of two blessed, bloody hands staining the front.