June 28, 1439 – late afternoon, Venice
Perhaps I have made a mistake.
Francesco Sforza lifted the decanter from the side table and returned to his desk to pour himself another healthy measure of the dry red Chianti vintage – one of his favourites – then settled himself back into the chair with a sigh. He massaged his temples, feeling a serious headache coming on. Arrayed before him were numerous correspondences from his spies and none of the news was good.
- …subtle unrest…resentment to the new taxes…talk of a new would-be Caesar…less than expected response to the recruiters…
In solving his most immediate perceived needs of pulling Foscarini’s teeth, he had unwittingly stepped into a trap of his own making. That the Doge had been all meek and obsequious to his series of demands was a surprise – and he was even beginning to have just the slightest doubt that the man was involved in recent affairs after all. Was it possible that the attempted assassination had been legitimate and that its target
had been Foscarini? It all seemed far too convenient that the victims of the ship’s destruction had been the Byzantine Emperor and the former Patriarch, and that the Doge had survived. The coincidence was just too amazing to believe. But…
There were too many questions wanting answers. Was the attack a failed attempt on the Doge’s life, or was it a successful move against the Byzantine Emperor and the former Patriarch? If it had been Sforza who had ordered the assassination he would have employed the sort of man who would have done the job properly – slit the throat or poison the target nice and efficiently
before sending the vessel up in a blaze of fire. So if it was the Doge who was the target then the assassin was an amateur, but if it was the Greeks then…well, there was no denying the results.
Was Foscarini at the heart of it all? If so, what did he stand to gain? Why would he care? Would he not be more likely to realise greater fortunes for his family if Constantinople held? His spies reported, one after another, that there was no evidence at all of any communications between the Doge and the Sultan. None. The fall of the City, then, would be disastrous for the Foscarini trading interests. In fact, as the Doge had pointed to, the ones most likely to gain were the Gritti who, indeed, had been involved in active communications to the heathens in the East.
Gritti? He rolled the word around on his tongue as he considered it.
If they had made a deal with Murad then the fall of the City of Man could net them incredible profits – assuming that the Sultan lived up to his promise…and all reports that he had received seemed to suggest that the Turkish ruler was both ruthless and honourable. What he said he would do, he did. And so perhaps the evidence of Gritti involvement – easily found after he had pointed the right men in the right direction – was exactly what it appeared: an attempt by a somewhat poor (by Venetian standards) merchant house to expand its hold over certain markets in exchange for the simple murder of two Greeks that they had no particular reason to love. The first – foiled – attempt on John’s life had nearly certainly been at their command. Why not the second?
The second, in fact, would make even more sense (had it been successful) since the turmoil surrounding the loss of the Doge and at least a couple councillors would have made people even slower to react. This would give the Gritti a window of opportunity to seize even more power – and perhaps even a seat on the Council of Ten. But there were several problems with that. The first was that
surely even the Gritti possessed enough funds to hire a professional to do the deed. That the doge had survived was…unthinkable…if he had been the real target. More troubling, though, was that his spies had been able to uncover no direct activities by the Gritti around the time of time of the assassination…other than a couple of their agents being all-too-easily traced to the chest of powder that was now regarded as the most likely cause of the explosion.
But the thing that he kept coming back to, over and over again, were the actions of the Doge’s right hand man shortly before his recent…demise. Perhaps he had been premature in killing Pietro so quickly since there was no way to make a dead man speak. Now he most desperately needed to know
why Pietro had killed the two Gritti agents and he no longer had the wherewithal to find out. It was improbably that the man had been doing anything other than acting on the Doge’s instructions, and yet now there was a seed of doubt in Francesco’s mind. Could Pietro have possibly been secretly in the employ of the Gritti?
Something just didn’t fit, and more and more he kept spinning around and around the circle of thoughts and could only find one man who benefited from everything.
Murad. When news reached Constantinople that John and Joasaph were dead – and he had no doubts that word
would make it past the blockade one way or another and would be not at all surprised to learn that Murad had personally escorted the bearer to the gates – the blow to the people’s morale would be devastating. If the Doge happened to be dead as well, that further reduced the likelihood of one of the more powerful and likely European powers to involve itself any further in Byzantium’s defence…provided that the Sultan’s hand was never seen in the affair. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. If Murad had agreed to special concessions with the Gritti in exchange for them acting on his behalf… Possible. Yes. Definitely possible. And there
had been correspondence…
Which, unfortunately, seemed to point to Foscarini being innocent – which meant he had allowed his suspicions and hatred of the man to affect his judgement. He picked up another report that highlighted this.
- …referring to you as ‘Augustus reborn’, my Lord, and then reminded me that the people of Italy were unlikely to…
Yet another nameless citizen’s words which, usually, he would happily ignore. But this was different. If they were beginning to worry about his motives then he might quickly have
much more than one or two rebellious families to deal with.
No one would support what they thought was an attempt to re-unite Italy under a rebirth of Rome…particularly if the new Emperor was ‘only’ a condottieri – even a powerful one. But such sentiments didn’t start by themselves. Someone was trying to turn the people against him and, again, his agents had been unable to determine exactly who…but if it continued...
He shuddered. Civil war would be messy.
Pietro, Pietro, Pietro. He began to whisper it over and over again. Part litany. Part curse. [/i]Why did I let you die so quickly?[/i] Francesco had been so sure that he already knew the answer that he hadn’t bothered to ask the question. Now there was only one man who could tell him what Pietro’s true motives had been in killing the Gritti agents, and under who’s orders he had been acting. Foscarini. If the Doge was innocent then he would answer truthfully and would be unlikely to
know anything – although he might be able to find out. But if the Doge was guilty then Francesco would be playing right into his hands – which didn’t bode well at all.
What to do? Perhaps the best plan was to go to the Doge, ask him, and then measure the reaction, not the response. Yes. That might work. It might reveal…
He rang a bell and was shortly rewarded by the appearance of his Mojor Domo.
“Your Grace?”
“Kindly send a messenger to the Doge informing him to expect me this evening. I wish to discuss something with him.”
“Very good, m’Lord.”
As the man left he resumed rubbing his temples. He definitely had a headache.
* * * * *
Several hours later Francesco found himself ushered into the all-too-accommodating Doge’s sitting room, a glass of wine pressed into his hand, and face with the smiling face of Foscarini.
“Count Sforza! What a pleasant surprise. How may I oblige you this evening?”
“Ah Foscari. I must ask you something of greatest importance.”
“I am at your disposal as always, Francesco.”
In more ways than one, he thought, eying the man carefully and looking for any sign of…anything duplicitous…but still finding none. Forcing himself to keep smiling in return, he gave a quick nod of acknowledgement and then decided to try to surprise the man by coming straight to the point. He wondered if Foscarini already knew what had happened to his servant. Possibly…but probably not. Trying to remain as impassive and casual as possible, and yet trying also to be aware of even the slightest flicker of reaction, he posed the question he’d been rehearsing on his way over to the palace.
“Please, Foscari. Please tell me about your dear Pietro. I haven’t seen him recently and I am beginning to think that…well…that something might have happened to him because of something he was ‘involved in’. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to his recent activities so I might better judge his part in things?”
