casting radiance above and below.
We paused behind the maestro della casa, who thumped a huge staff against the gleaming floor.
‘Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli of the Eighth Casa of Nobiles’ Rise; his daughter Giaconda Maleovelli and, introducing his ward, Tarlo Maleovelli.’ His voice was throaty and loud.
I don’t know what I expected would happen, but nothing changed. Conversations continued uninterrupted, the music played, the people remained focused on each other. I felt a wave of disappointment. All this anticipation.
As if they were actors acknowledging their audience, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli bowed and curtsied to the indifferent room and turned to face a large, low platform, upon which sat an old man – the Doge – in a garish, high-backed chair. His throne. To one side of him stood two men, both of whom resembled each other. I imagined they were the Princes, his sons. On his other side sat a pale man with blond hair who was dressed in peculiar clothes. This must be the ambassador for whom this function was being held. Behind him stood a tall, lean man in a rich, scarlet cassock. He had a matching cap on his head and the huge gold chains of his office dangled across his shoulders, meeting over his heart in a dazzling crucifix. The Cardinale. I swallowed hard.
The foreigner rose to his feet as our names were called and the Princes helped the Doge struggle to his. Once again, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli sank into deep obeisance and only stepped away from me once it was my turn to greet the Doge. At that moment, I stood unaccompanied, exposed, at the base of the platform in the centre of the room.
It was then that conversation ceased and the music spluttered to a stop. All eyes turned in my direction. I watched as groups of men and other, elegantly clad women, spun to look at me, their mouths dropping open. The silence was complete. No murmurs, not a movement, only my breath in my ears, long, juddering.
Framed by the platform and the huge, dark painting that loomed behind it, I stood proudly, just as I’d been instructed, my head held high, my mask intact, my dress a work of art befitting this grand room. A voice in my head kept talking to me: smile, do not look around, bow your head, curtsy, keep your hands still.
The Maleovellis left me there for as long as protocol would allow, just enough time for me to catch some of the whispers.
‘Gold! She’s wearing gold!’
‘How dare she!’
‘Stunning.’
‘Good god, she’s beautiful!’
‘Who is this creature?’
‘Maleovelli, the wily old bastardo, where has he been hiding this vision?’
‘She dares to wear gold before the Doge?’
And on they went. As I rose out of my curtsy, I risked a quick sweep of the room. It told me that no-one else was attired in the metallic tint that seemed to dominate the palazzo – that was, until my eyes met those of the Doge. He’d shuffled forward to the edge of the stage, his face creased in a frown. Of all the nobiles clustered in this vast space, only he wore the colour in which the Maleovellis had chosen to attire me.
I sank to the floor once more, my dress billowing around me, the jewels that adorned the slashes in my sleeves and rimmed my bodice flashing in the candlelight. The feathers of my mask caressed the front of the Doge’s togati as I rose, running from his groin to almost his chin.
The old man regarded me steadily through his creased eyes. He held out a shaking hand. I placed mine ever so lightly in his. ‘Maleovelli, I didn’t know you had added another filly to your stable.’ I glanced at him quickly. His pitted tongue ran over dry lips. ‘She’s a beauty. A golden beauty.’ He nodded his approval, my hand still in his, holding me at arm’s length, appraising every aspect of my gown, his eyes lingering over my daring décolletage.
The silence that had held the room in thrall broke and the conversation quickly rose to a crescendo. I didn’t need to hear what was being said to know they were discussing me. It was only later I discovered that the Doge’s first words to me were paramount. He could have ordered me taken from the room, stripped, and my clothes burned. I could have been flung out into the piazza or, worse, the dungeons. Instead, he’d not only welcomed me but, through his greeting, also given me permission to be