The carved face of a lion between bat's wings decorated the keystone of an arch over an old palace door. On the left bank of the Canalasso, below la Volta, to the left of San Gregal, the palace was being restored. Its position almost opposite the sacked Mamluk warehouse was a coincidence.
The bat-winged face was carved into a roundel.
A patera, of which there were several thousand in Venice, featuring hundreds of separate insignia. Everyone in the city could identify the lion reading a book. The lion was Venice, the book Saint Mark's gospel. San Marco being their patron saint. So the patera was Venice, which was why it could be seen everywhere.
It marked the Dogana di Mar, the Palazzo Reale on one side of Piazza San Marco, where the city authorities gathered, and the Orseolo Hospice opposite. It marked the Zecca, which minted ducats, and the campanile, which doubled as a lighthouse, and a place from which traitors' bodies could hang.
It practically smothered the bucintoro, Marco IV's ceremonial barge. A vessel so impractical it could barely navigate the Grand Canal and so top heavy it could not survive open sea.
Palaces sported the badges of their owners.
The almshouses and guild schools had symbols of their own. As did the Arsenalotti, and even the Nicoletti and Castellani, whose patera became accepted simply through frequency of use. In a world where few could read, and churches used murals to tell improving tales, most Venetians could identify at least a dozen patera. Slightly fewer could identify two or three dozen. A handful of scholars could identify sixty or so without effort.
In the Street of Scribes, where Jewish letter writers mixed ink and sharpened quills and kept secret the letters they read in whispers for a single grosso, was a rabbi who could identify at least two hundred. But there were patera-flaking and rotted by wind, rain and sea salt-which remained obscure because the last scholar to know the answer was dust.
The bat-winged mask was one of these, supposedly.
The Moor who waited for his gondolino that Friday afternoon in January knew what it represented, and was glad others didn't. He'd purchased the palace, which was near the Dogana, because it amused him that the house now called Ca' il Mauros exhibited one of only two examples of the Assassini's patera. At least, examples that could be publicly seen. The Assassini master who'd had that patera carved was long dead, and his descendants had struggled down the generations, without knowing what it represented. Only selling up, reluctantly and with bad grace, when repairs became too expensive for their pocket.
"You'll be safe?"
"My dear…" Gathering his robes, Atilo kissed his beloved on both cheeks and smiled. "I'll be fine." When Desdaio raised her face, he let his lips touch hers before stepping back. "I'm going to the palace for a few hours. Nothing important."
"You're Ten, now…"
Atilo regarded his victory over the German fleet as far more important than anything that might come from talking with nine other men. But this was Venice. Although Duke Marco IV owned the Istrian coast from Austria to Byzantium, his court looked inwards instinctively, being interested in their own reflection. The briefest glimpse of lovers, seen through the window of a candlelit room overlooking the Grand Canal, carried more interest than princes murdered on Venetian orders miles away. The world outside existed only as a place from which the city could make money. If a deal was good, that was enough. The circumstances, Venice regarded with mild curiosity at best, maybe not even that.
"I'll be back for Compline."
"You'll eat then?"
Atilo sighed. There would be food at Ca' Ducale should he be hungry, but Desdaio obviously wanted them to eat together. "Something light."
"I'll make something."
"Desdaio. We have a cook."
"It's not the same…" Lord Bribanzo's daughter had discovered the joy of dressing herself, brushing her own hair, washing her face and preparing food. Chores that had plagued Atilo's mother, the unlucky bride of a star-gazing poet who wasted his money on instruments while his children ran wild and his estate ran to ruin.
Atilo found it strange and oddly touching. "Eggs, then."
Despite the January cold she remained on the steps, splashed by spray, and with the occasional rough wave soaking her shoes, while Atilo settled back and Iacopo bowed low to Desdaio, his eyes sweeping her body. Then he grabbed his oar with a flourish, untied the ropes holding the gondolino steady, and pushed off into those tides that made steering difficult in the mouth of the Grand Canal. Those young man appeared to have focused on crossing the choppy water as swiftly as possible, but Desdaio couldn't shake the thought he was still watching her.
If Iaco continued to make her uneasy, she'd ask Atilo to find him another job. Either that, or get rid of him altogether. Amelia, however, she liked. Not beautiful but striking. That black skin, lean figure and braided hair with silver thimbles. She wondered if Atilo had… Feeling her stomach knot, Desdaio refused to finish the thought. Her future husband was known to have lived like a monk before he courted her. Everyone said so. She was sure they were right. "Amelia, I need your help in the kitchen."
"My lady?"
"Chopping things."
The young Nubian's eyes flicked to the window, where late afternoon had turned to early evening and the outlines of a dozen gondolini had blended so far into darkness as to become almost invisible. All she said was, "I thought you told me Lord Atilo wanted eggs, my lady."
"I'll include eggs."
"If you make me chop things…" The girl hesitated, and then turned away, deciding her words best left unspoken.
They hadn't really talked, Desdaio realised. A few hellos, the occasional good morning, and pretence at a curtsy from Amelia. Desdaio had no idea where her slave was born. Not even if she was Christian.
"Where are your parents?"
Amelia's mouth shut with a snap. Muttering an apology, she turned away… And Desdaio grabbed her, feeling Amelia struggle, only to fall still when Desdaio pushed her cheek against the other girl's face and refused to let go.
"Stupid," Desdaio said. "That's me. I'm sorry."
Amelia laughed through her tears. "My lady. Iacopo and I… We're orphans. All of the Admiral's servants are."
"Even Francesca the cook?"
"Yes, my lady," Amelia nodded.
"What were you going to say? About chopping things?"
"Francesca lets you in the kitchen, because…"
"She can't refuse?"
"Yes, my lady. You are the mistress of this house. Me, I'm not welcome in her kitchen. No one is. Francesca's been with Lord Atilo for a long time. Even he knocks before he enters."
"Then we'll knock too," Desdaio said brightly.