At a side table sat an equally venerable spectator in the robes and biretta of a state prosecutor, and beside him sat Missier Grande Gasparo Quazza in his blue and red, solid as a marble staircase. He looked at me with no sign of recognition whatsoever, which is his way.

If the doge had wanted to keep the Ten out of the Orseolo affair, then he had failed, but at least this time I was not facing Inquisitor Marco Dona. I gestured Bruno to a corner and bowed low while Sciara gave my name. He went back to his seat beside the prosecutor and dipped a quill in his inkwell.

The right-hand chief had a long white beard; the one on the left was portly. The middle one must be this week’s chairman and him I knew to be one of the Maestro’s patients, Bartolemeo Morosini. The Maestro had not told him that his heart was going to give out very shortly, but a glimpse of his inflamed, choleric face in any mirror would offer a strong hint.

In the overly loud tones of the hard of hearing, he proclaimed, “You are citizen Alfeo Zeno, clerk to Doctor Nostradamus?”

“I am Alfeo Zeno, Your Excellency. I do have the honor of being listed in the Golden Book.”

All three old men scowled at me for not being dressed as a nobile homo. I would collect no more tips from Morosini when he called on his doctor in future.

“NH Alfeo Zeno, then, but a clerk. You testify before this tribunal on pain of perjury. You were attacked by a gang of bravos yesterday?”

“I was.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“Or why they picked on you?”

I saw the portly chief wince at the directness of Morosini’s question. It left me hanging over a very long drop. To mumble hints of clairvoyance to Missier Grande in private was bad enough. To testify about demons on oath in state records would be suicidal.

I said, “I can only assume that it was to prevent my exposing the foreigner Alexius Karagounis as an agent of the sultan, messere.”

“The man who jumped out the window when you went to see him later in the company of the vizio?”

“That man, messere. ”

“And how did you know that-”

Because I was at floor level and the chiefs were up on a dais, I saw Portly’s shoe slam against the chairman’s ankle. He started and glared at his companion.

Portly said, “Did we not decide to close the file on the foreigner Alexius Karagounis, subsequent upon his suicide?”

The three chiefs choose what shall or shall not be discussed by the whole Council of Ten. If the doge wanted to keep his involvement off the table, his success or failure would be decided here.

Long Beard harrumphed. “We are questioning the witness Zeno about the assault on him earlier in the day. That case is not closed, but we have only his word-his admitted speculation-that there is any connection. On your oath, witness, do you know for a fact that there is a connection?”

“No, messer, er messere.”

“Well, then,” said Portly. “And the man was not summoned as a witness, he came here to volunteer some information. Why don’t we hear what he wants to tell us?”

Morosini shrugged and gestured to Sciara to lay down his pen. “We give you three minutes, sier Alfeo.”

Relieved, but aware that my reprieve might be only temporary, I said, “Doctor Nostradamus instructed me to inform Your Excellencies that the late Procurator Orseolo died as a result of poison administered to him the previous evening at the house of Citizen Imer. My master-”

All three chiefs tried to speak at once.

Portly had the loudest outrage: “Administered by whom?”

“He dare not say yet, messere. I swear,” I continued quickly, “that he has not confided even to me the name of the person he suspects.” The torture chamber was still open for business, one floor up.

“Why doesn’t the old fool write us a letter?” Morosini shouted. “That’s how these things are done.”

“Because he cannot yet offer absolute proof, clarissimo. He is convinced, though, that if the persons who were present at the book viewing that night were to be reassembled in that same room-including himself, of course-then he would be able to reconstruct the murder, showing how it was done and who did it.”

My suggestion was as welcome as a risotto of pig manure.

“Bertucci died of old age,” Long Beard muttered. “We agreed we had no reason to believe anything else.”

“Let him rest in peace,” Morosini agreed.

Contradicting the chiefs of the Ten requires extreme tact or total insanity, and better both. I bowed. “Without questioning Your Excellencies’ wisdom or knowledge in any way, my master humbly submits that he has additional evidence that he can bring to Your Excellencies’ attention, but it will require the demonstration I described.”

“He must tell us the name of the person he intends to accuse.”

“He insists he has reasons for his secrecy, which will become obvious at the time.”

I had reasons for the nest of eels squirming in my belly, and most of them were memories of that torture chamber.

These men might or might not know that the doge had gate-crashed the book viewing, but they must know that one of the men present that evening had been the new ambassador-designate to the Holy See. To have Giovanni Tirali mixed up in a murder case at this time would be as embarrassing as involving the doge himself. The chiefs wanted the file closed. They wanted to bury it in the bowels of the state archives. They did not want a celebrated sage throwing wild and embarrassing accusations around.

Morosini banged a fist on the table. “Nostradamus expects just us to attend his harlequinade or is he inviting the whole Council of Ten? How much will he charge for admission?”

“He hopes only that Your Excellencies will permit the demonstration and send some trusted observer.”

The three chiefs bent heads to confer. If their expressions were any guide, they were going to send Missier Grande to fetch the Maestro by fast boat and order me flogged for insolence to amuse them while they were waiting.

“The old charlatan is hinting that he doesn’t trust us!” muttered Portly.

Of course he was.

“I have never heard such audacity,” grumbled Long Beard.

Very softly, Raffaino Sciara cleared his throat.

Portly had the best hearing. “ Lustrissimo?”

“I believe there have been precedents, Your Excellencies. A similar case… Missier Grande, do you recall the details?”

Members of the Council of Ten are elected for one-year terms, although they become eligible for reelection after another year. Circospetto and Missier Grande know everything because they are appointed for life.

“Maestro Nostradamus has helped the Council on several occasions,” the police chief said. “I can recall a couple of times when he made dramatic demonstrations.”

Sciara nodded. “That case of the dead gondolier on the roof? Bizarre!”

“Incredible!”

The chiefs pursed lips angrily. Long Beard said, “What case of what dead gondolier on what roof?”

“The man had seemingly been beaten to death and his body left on a roof, which it was quite impossible for him to have reached without witchcraft.”

“And Nostradamus explained it?”

Sciara shrugged. “With a pendulum, Your Excellency-a long rope attached to the nearby bell tower. There had been a drunken bet. The sage has never been proved wrong yet, but of course the man is old.”

Morosini scowled. No one likes to hear hints that his doctor is senile. “If anyone did poison old Bertucci,” he conceded, “then he ought to wear the silken collar.”

The other two muttered agreement. I could see beads clicking on their mental abacuses-the Ten make their reports to the Grand Council, and a truly dramatic conviction would bring great credit to the current chiefs and boost their political prospects.

“You said there were other precedents, lustrissimo?”

Sciara smiled his death’s-head smile. “Nostradamus has made some startling demonstrations in the presence of state witnesses. I doubt if the learned doctor expects the entire Council of Ten to turn up.”