Pasqual Malipiero strode quickly from the gondola toward the Doge's Palace, his guards forming a line of steel around him. He did not want to be early to the speech, for that bespoke of deference, but not too late, either, for that indicated sloth. The bells were still ringing, summoning the Greater Council, the Council of Ten, and the other myriad parts of the State, so he had time.
Around him, stone buildings were rising. Between them, smaller wood houses and shops stood, freshly painted against the horror of the sacking of Venice by the Hungarians. The fires had been fierce, but water was in abundance, and Venice was recovering from its rape. Malipiero stopped for a moment next to one of the public urinals that had been built on almost every street corner in the wealthier parts of town. Each was adorned with the face of Ugo the Destroyer, and as ever he took a particular satisfaction in pissing on the fat dead bastard's face. A bit of vengence, and a bit of commerce, for in the evening the dye-makers and leather-curers would collect the day's liquid gold for their own unpleasant alchemy.
One duty to State and commerce complete, Malipiero arrived at the Doge's Palace. The guards opened the door for him, and he all but leapt up the steps to the Grand Council chamber, making certain that others saw his youth and vigor, and compared it against the fraility of the aging Doge.
Malipiero swept into the chamber as the Doge entered from an opposite door. He stood for a moment as the Doge shuffled to his podium, scanning the room for faces friendly and hostile. In a high balcony, he could see the lovely, almost alien visage of Marie III Zaccharia, the Princess of Achaea, seated next to the scarred moonscape that was the face of Giacomo III, the warrior Duke of the Archipelago.
The Council of Ten had their place of prominence, and he knew he had at least five votes there. The Inquisitors sat off to one side, in what should have been a dark corner, but actually was bright from sunlight streaming in through a window that overlooked the canal below. The Consiglio dei Pregadi filed in behind the Doge and took their seats below him, and the Greater Council fell silent.
Doge Francesco Foscari cleared his throat with a long, racking cough. Malipiero saw a shadow of grave concern cross the face of the Doge's wife, Maria Nani, and smiled to himself.
His time is almost done. He noticed that the Doge's son was not to be seen.
Drunk, or fornicating, or both. He caught the eye of the Archbishop and was favored with a fatherly smile. He smiled back, though his hair shirt was becoming almost unbearable, after the quick walk in the heat.
The Doge was finally ready to speak. His voice was a frog's croak. "My fellow Venetians, our reconstruction is near completion. Our economic ties and relations remain strong. It is time to look outward again, toward our neighbors, our friends, and our foes. Time to look to our posessions outside of the lagoon, toward the archipelago, and Illyria, and Achaea, and the threats they face. We have money; we need friends. I will be sending emissaries abroad, and receiving foreign ambassadors." He started coughing again, spat something dark into a cloth, and leaned forward.
"We remain in dangerous times. War looms in the north, war that could engulf us if we are not careful. So careful I shall be. I ask this Council, and all arms of the State, to support me in my next actions, and to trust in those actions. My time may be short, but our journey is long. Let me take our great city and empire on those first steps."
Malipiero started to loose interest in the specifics; talk of taxes, trade, construction, ships. His mortification this morning had been especially severe in anticipation of the day's sins: pride, envy, lust and deceit. He wondered if the blood had soaked through the hair shirt; he wore a dark cloak just for that reason. He thought for a moment about the Byzantine princess from Achaea, and whether she was as virginal as they claimed. He hoped the Archbishop would see him later for confession and conspiracy. He almost missed the small commotion accompanying the late and drunken arrival of the Doge's son, Jacopo Foscari, but was happy to see that everyone else noticed.
He let his mind drift to those future days, when he would be the Doge, and the glory that he would bring to God.
