"Alfeo!" Nostradamus snapped.

"Master?"

"Warn Mama that we have a guest for dinner and tell Bruno I need him." Although he rarely displays it, Nostradamus does have a sense of humor; sometimes he can even laugh at himself.

2

The dining room on the upper floor of Ca' Barbolano can seat fifty. The Maestro and I dine there in splendor every day, with silver tableware on damask tablecloths under grandiose Burano chandeliers. I dine, he nibbles. The palace belongs to sier Alvise Barbolano, who is richer than Midas and a similar age. The old man lets the Maestro stay on the top floor rent free in return for some trifling services, including business astrological advice, trading clairvoyance, and effective roach poison. The Barbolanos live below us, on the piano nobile. Below that are two mezzanine apartments, occupied by the Marciana brothers and their respective families; they are of the citizen class, partners with sier Barbolano in an import-export business.

I once suggested to the Maestro that he obtain a chair on wheels, but he does not need it while he has Bruno, who is a mute, a little larger than Michelangelo's David. He happily lifted Nostradamus, chair and all, and carried him through to the dining room. He loves to be useful.

And Mama Angeli loves to cook. St. Peter's fish comes from the deep sea especially to bathe in her orange sauce and I marvel that the holy man himself does not descend to sample the result. Even the Maestro ate industriously for several minutes. Violetta has dined with royalty, but she raved about the food and discussed with me the two magnificent Paolo Veronese paintings on the wall. She was still Aspasia, her political mode.

I asked her about Carnival, which had been running since immediately after Christmas, and she began describing some of the better masques and banquets she had attended. Her escorts at such affairs would have paid many ducats for the privilege, whereas I can only take her to the free street shows, and rarely get the chance, because she is so much in demand. Her closets are packed with such a multitude of exotic Carnival costumes that I have never seen her in the same one twice.

Nostradamus quickly grew bored, laid down his fork, and leaned back.

"Tell us about the victim, madonna."

It was criminal to spoil a good meal with such a topic, but Aspasia would never be so crude as to reject her host's conversational lead.

"Lucia was about forty. She retired two years ago and turned her house into a home for street girls anxious to reform. Nuns from Santa Spirito supervised, so that there could be no scandal. The last time she was seen was when she went off in a gondola with a masked man. She had said that they were going to the Piazza to dance."

I decided that I agreed with my master; the case was impossible. It had probably been impossible right from the beginning and after three weeks the trail was ice-cold.

"How did she die?" he asked.

"The notary did not know. He hinted that she was probably a suicide but the sbirri were calling it murder so she could be buried in hallowed ground."

Who could tell, after the body had spent a week in the lagoon?

"Who found the corpse?" Nostradamus snapped. "Who identified it after so long in the water? Are you completely certain that the dead woman is who you think she was? If she was dragged under by the weight of her clothes she would surface when distension of the corpse buoyed it up, but putrefaction would be well along by then."

Violetta understandably laid down her fork. "I recognized the jewelry when it was shown to me."

"That it was returned at all makes me highly suspicious," the Maestro said angrily. "The first instinct of any Venetian recovering a body is to strip it of valuables. Fishermen, I assume? Bah! They're all rogues. Even the sbirri would not pass up such an opportunity. Who found the body, and where? Who delivered it to the authorities? How did they locate you to identify the jewels?"

"I do not know, lustrissimo. These are things Alfeo could find out for you."

"I have more important things for him to do. Your friend committed suicide. Or she was drunk and fell into a canal."

"Not Lucia."

Nostradamus snorted. "Alfeo, call Bruno. I am going to lie down. See your friend home and come right back. You have work to do." He had been sleeping so badly the last few nights, that he had started taking to his bed in the middle of the day, not his normal practice.

Before I could rise, Violetta turned to look at me and I was startled to see a golden glint in her eyes.

"I become so nervous when I think of this terrible act," she said. "Many ladies in my profession feel the need of a strong, full-time defender. I do believe I shall have to hire a reliable bodyguard."

I said nothing. What she was hinting was the worst of nightmares for me, my greatest fear. I know how to use a sword and if my beloved ever decides that she needs a guardian, I shall be lost. Loving a courtesan is one thing, living off her earnings is another, but I can refuse Violetta nothing. If she wants me as her bravo, then her bravo I must become. Then the Grand Council will order my name struck from the Golden Book, a noble house that has endured for centuries will end, and scores of ancestral ghosts will wail in shame.

The Maestro knew exactly what she meant and scowled at her furiously. Those gold serpent eyes had warned me that he was now dealing with Delilah, who is as deadly as a spiderweb, but he does not know her as well as I do. Delilah can lie like sand on a beach.

"Rubbish. Alfeo, you can have the rest of the afternoon off. Investigate all you want, but be back by curfew."

"I may borrow Giorgio?"

"Yes, yes. Now get me Bruno."

A murder so old, with the corpse half rotted and already buried, with no known motive or witnesses, was a totally impossible assignment, and a wonderful excuse to spend some hours with Violetta. It wasn't quite impossible enough for me to suggest that we just give up and go to her house for a glass or two of wine and a few cantos of the Divine Comedy.

Giorgio Angeli is Mama's husband and our gondolier. Since the boat had not been used yet that day, we emerged from the apartment with Giorgio carrying his oar and Corrado, one of his sons, laden with the cushions. The surly boatman in the Gradenigo colors was plodding up the stairs toward us. The look he gave Violetta almost made me draw my rapier to start improving his face.

He handed me another letter, this time addressed to sier Alfeo Zeno. I broke the seal.

"Hey! That's for messer Zeno!" Surly barked.

"That's me," I said, scanning the text. Normally I dress as an apprentice, which I am. I had changed into something a little fancier so I could wear my sword, but I was still leagues away from what a young noble should wear-a black, floor-length robe if he is already a member of the Grand Council. If he is not, then he is expected to deck himself out in illegal grandeur, far beyond what the sumptuary laws allow. Drab as I appear, I am of noble blood and born in wedlock, the equal of any nobleman in Venice. I just happen to be poor enough to beg alms off seagulls.

"Yes he is," Corrado said, smirking.

The note was brief and written in a very precise and disciplined hand.

Sier Giovanni Gradenigo is not long for this world and urgently wishes to speak with you. Come at once to Palazzo Gradenigo.

Fr. Fedele

I do not swear in the presence of ladies, women, or even courtesans. I was tempted to. The first note had not meant what I thought.

"Go," I told the boatman, "and tell Friar Fedele that I am on my way. Giorgio, please hurry."

As men and boy ran off down the stairs, I followed, holding Violetta's arm to steady her.