to observe human behaviour, when and how to strike to effect change, is that not so?’
Baroque gave a small inclination of his head.
‘Oh, Papa, let’s not play word games here. Not now, not when so much is at stake.’ Giaconda faced Baroque, putting her glass down on the table beside her. ‘Signor Scarpoli, we know that you’re an expert in all manner of delivering death – knives, ropes, glass, metal, drowning. But there is one method in particular in which we are most interested.’
‘What might that be?’ Baroque drained his glass.
Signor Maleovelli himself brought the decanter over. As he refilled the spy’s glass he took up where Giaconda had left off.
‘Poison.’
Baroque glanced at the glass and began to laugh. The sound dry, without humour. ‘Poisoning is forbidden throughout the Republic. Anyone who does it is exiled or put to death. Their employer’s name is struck from The Golden Book. As nobiles, you would no longer have a right to sit on the Great Council, to ascend to the Dogeship. Your name would be forgotten, your bloodline extinct. You would be nothing more than a sigh in history. You would be as the Estrattore …’ He paused.
A glimmer of a smile played on Giaconda’s mouth as Signor Maleovelli perched himself on the arm of her chair and leant towards Baroque. ‘Only if one is caught.’ He held up his hand as if to ward off protest. ‘No, Baroque, we will not ask you to administer poison. Only that you teach someone all about the properties of every plant and extract in the known world and what they can do – for poison takes many forms. It does not only deliver death. It can also, when administered correctly, when the right ingredients are sourced and mixed, deliver pleasure, health, acquiescence, laspes in memory, and even recklessness. Is that not so?’
Baroque regarded Signor Maleovelli for a full minute. His eyes slid to Giaconda and back to her father. What are they up to? What is going on? ‘Teach. That’s it. You want me to teach someone all about plants.’
‘And how to transform and administer their properties,’ added Giaconda.
‘Your days as a spy –’ began Ezzelino.
‘As a disgraced spy,’ added Giaconda.
‘– are over. From this day forward you will be a teacher in our employ and, my dear man, I can assure you, if the arrangement works out, you will be rewarded for your efforts.’
‘If I refuse?’
‘A bocca di leone,’ muttered Giaconda.
Baroque started from his chair. ‘You would denounce me? You would place my name in the lion’s mouth for the Council of Ten to find?’
‘No, not just your name,’ said Ezzelino slowly.
Baroque visibly blanched. ‘You would deliver my journals to them, to the Doge.’
Silence was the most honest answer Baroque had ever been given.
He swirled the vino in his glass. It reminded him of blood. His stomach lurched. It had been a long time since he’d been outwitted, especially by a barnabotti – an old, impoverished nobile with barely a soldi, only his ancient name to hang his pride on, despite his boasts. This new money he spoke of had been accumulated through trade – the trade of his daughter’s body. He wanted to shake his head. What a funny old place Serenissima was, where sex was regarded as a legitimate business and a nobile could still hold his head up among his peers even while his daughter lay beneath them. Aware of the Maleovellis’ eyes upon him, he took another drink. They were right. For the time being, his life as he knew it was over. The ache that resided deep in his bones told him this was not necessarily a bad thing. After all, how hard could it be to teach someone?
He tossed back the vino quickly, pretending a nonchalance he didn’t feel. There were many worse things to be than a teacher – an insegnante.
Placing the glass on the crowded table beside him, he knocked over a large book. It clattered to the floor. No-one picked it up. There were so many already scattered at intervals under tables, beside chairs, one more made no difference. Baroque watched as the pages fluttered, falling open on one covered with foreign script – from Kroatia, by the form of the letters. No doubt, another of Signor Maleovelli’s expensive tomes on the Estrattore. The man was obsessed.
He swallowed and raised his head. He was not beaten, or coerced, not really; but he would allow them to believe that he was … for now.
‘I have