hemmed in on the other three sides of the square by rows of archways and columns, three stories high.
One thought swirled around my head last night as I tried to sleep: could I be wrong about Roberto? It makes me sway on my feet to even consider such a possibility.
A man laughs beside me, his breath ripe with the smell of beer. A flagon dangles from his hand despite the early hour. “I hope we see his innards slither to the ground!” he cries, before belching loudly.
I close my eyes and force my expression to stay blank. I cannot risk these people sensing my disgust; they must believe I’m one of them. The Venetian nobles are watching from above, in the buildings surrounding the square. No lady would lower herself to stand at the front of a boorish crowd eager for a spectacle, and I’ve taken some of Bianca’s clothes to conceal my status. The fabric of the dress is dyed a simple dark blue. My curls are scraped back severely, and I wear a bonnet with a deep brim to hide my face.
“You won’t see his innards,” a woman says, prodding the drunk man in the ribs. She jerks her chin towards the stage. “He’s too good for that.” She spits vigorously on the floor, and I only just manage to pull the hem of my skirts out of the way in time. “Son of a Doge? He’ll get a nice, tidy execution. It’s not right, if you ask me. Should be …”
Whatever she says next gets drowned out by a sudden, vicious roar from the crowd. I stand up on tiptoes to see. It’s Roberto! A guard leads him out onto the stage. He looks much better than last time, thank goodness. He’s wearing clean clothes, his hair is washed and his bruises are almost healed. He’s thin, though—the veins stand out on his arms, and he holds his body slightly to one side as he walks, as though protecting an injury. His hands are manacled in front of him.
“My love,” I whisper.
As he passes the edge of the stage, I reach forward, my fingers trembling.
“He won’t have any coins for you!” the man beside me guffaws. “Son of the Doge or no.”
I snatch my hand back, but not before I hear Roberto gasp in recognition. His eyes widen and he slows. A guard shoves him roughly in the back and he stumbles forward, his eyes flickering over to me one last time. Then he has moved away, going to stand in the center of the stage.
Three men step onto the wooden boards. These are the judges, three senior members of the Council. They’re wearing ceremonial robes and sit themselves on high seats at the back of the stage, staring out at the onlookers. Their faces look carved from stone, expressions unreadable.
There’s no sign of the Doge or his wife. Perhaps they’re hiding behind one of the hundreds of windows in the palace that rears over us. Roberto is so fully alone that it makes my heart ache.
A figure in a cloak steps up onto the stage and brings a wooden staff down against the floorboards.
“Silence!” he calls. His voice carries easily across the square, and the people around me stop their gossiping, their eyes trained on the stage.
A second figure comes forward: Faruk. His stooped shoulders are hidden beneath a luxurious robe, and his face is clean-shaven. He is invited by one of the Council to begin the prosecution, and he turns to face the crowd, sending them a winning smile. It makes my blood run cold.
“The Ottoman Empire sends out its thanks to you, Venetians, for allowing us to plead our case today. My countrymen have heard much of your fair-minded and educated legal system, and we are privileged to be part of it …”
He’s transformed himself for today’s performance, and even I am amazed. His Italian is faultless as he walks confidently across the stage.
“… but there can be no denying that the Ottoman kingdom has been maligned by a son of Venice.” At this, he flings out an arm, motioning to Roberto.
My fiancé simply stares at his feet, his face hidden from the crowd. A flash of frustration passes through me. Can’t he see that standing like that makes him look defeated already? Guilty, even?
“The case is clear-cut. Princess Aysim was found dead in this monster’s rooms. We have watchmen who will swear to it. The motive for murder? Frustrated lust! Our dear princess