Charles of Anjou wants to be king of Jerusalem, and he will bathe the Holy Land in blood to do it." His blue-veined hand tightened on the sheet. "Venice must keep its freedom, never forget that. Never give it up, to anyone, emperor or pope. We stand alone." His voice sank a little lower, and Giuliano had to lean forward to hear him. "Promise me that."
There was no choice. The hand on the sheet was cold when he placed his own over it. The pull of Byzantium was strong, the world was full of danger, enticement, and promise, but this man had nurtured him after his own father had died. A man who forsook his debts was worth nothing. Venice was the cradle of his heart. "Of course I promise," Giuliano answered.
Tiepolo smiled for an instant, then the light faded from his eyes and he did not blink again.
Giuliano felt a prickling in his throat and a tightness inside him so he could barely breathe. It was like his father's death repeated, the beginning of a new loneliness that would go on forever. He slipped his hand off the old man's and stood up slowly, turning to face the shadowed room.
The physician looked at him and understood. Giuliano found his throat too tight to speak, and he refused to embarrass himself. He nodded his thanks and walked past them, outside into the cool, marble-floored anteroom and then into the hall.
Tiepolo's funeral was a magnificent occasion, too profound for the clatter of words to intrude on. The day was misty and suffocatingly hot, with a fine summer rain drifting like streamers of silk as the black-ribboned barge moved slowly and almost soundlessly along the Grand Canal, seeming already a ghost ship.
The way was lined with people, either on balconies above the water or in small boats tucked in well to the sides to allow the procession and the mourners to pass on their way from the Doge's Palace through the city, then back again as far as the Rialto Bridge, then through the smaller canals more directly to the Cathedral of Saint Mark, almost where they began.
Giuliano came in the first boat behind it, not in the prow-he was not family-but toward the stern. He stood watching the high facades of the buildings and the pale, rain-dappled light on the water, blurring the images. He was intensely alone, in spite of Pietro only a few yards away. In the death of a leader was the passing of an age, and they were both indissolubly bound in something unique and as deep as blood or bone.
They moved through silver bars of weak sunlight that struck the canal's face into luminescence and made the barge ahead momentarily stark, oars shining. Then the shadows closed over again, and colors faded. There was no sound but the swirl and dip of water.
A week later, he sat over wine again with Pietro. They had spent the day out in the lagoon talking, remembering, watching the sunset colors touch the facades of the palaces opposite, making them seem to float on the face of the water, insubstantial as a dream. Now they were sitting, wet-footed, a little cold, in one of their favorite taverns off a small canal five hundred yards from the Church of San Zamipolo.
Giuliano stared moodily into his glass. He liked red wine, and this one was good. He was quite aware that he was drinking too much. The heat clung like damp cloth, and his thirst was never quenched.
"I imagine they are choosing the inquisori to go through all his acts and pass judgment," he said angrily.
"They always do," Pietro responded, taking more wine himself. "They'll have to find something to complain about. Or people will say they aren't doing their jobs. You can't win."
"What could he do wrong, for God's sake?" Giuliano demanded angrily. "They kept him under surveillance all the time! He couldn't open dispatches from foreign powers without them peering over his shoulder and reading behind him."
Pietro laughed. "It's human nature. Venetians will always be pulling someone apart. Be glad he wasn't a pope." He grinned suddenly. "They dug one of them up and hanged the poor sod. Ambrosius the Second, I think. Twice! Buried him, then a flood in the river uncovered the grave and washed him away, or something of the sort. All after a proper trial, of course. Didn't matter the accused was a corpse, God rest his soul."