The bucintoro was double-decked, with the rowers on the lower deck, and the doge and his entourage on the upper one. The flanks of the upper deck bore depictions of sirens riding seahorses, leaping dolphins, and the like. The prow of the bucintoro carried a golden woman, with a sword in one hand, and scales in another.
"The sword and scales are symbols of justice, I assume."
"Yes, and the woman, Justitia, is a maiden, a virgin. She implies that the government of Venice has not been taken by force."
The prow had a decorative double beak. The upper beak showed waves. The lower beak featured bushes and stones. "And the two beaks, they represent the sea and the earth," said William.
"That's right."
"Where is the doge? He isn't on his throne."
"Look for a golden parasol, near the front."
"Ah, I see him now."
The nautical procession reached the convent of Sant' Elena, and waited there expectantly. After some minutes of suspense, the murmur of the crowd rose in volume. Through the telescope, I could see the flat boat of the patriarch of Castello. It approached the bucintoro and halted. I passed the instrument to William, who took a long look.
"What's happening now?" he asked.
"The benedictio," I answered. "The patriarch says three times, 'We beseech Thee, O Lord, to grant that these waters be calm for our men and all others who sail upon it.' Now watch."
The patriarchal piatto was in motion again, circling the bucintoro. The patriarch touched the doge's ship with an olive branch.
"What's that all about?"
"He dipped the branch in holy water. He has blessed the doge."
Pilot boats leapt ahead of the bucintoro, to guide it, and the bucintoro and the patriarchal piatto followed. The rest of the procession crowded behind them.
"Now what?"
"Not much until we reach the Lido."
William looked disappointed, and looked back the way the way we had come. "I want a better view of the war galleys. I am heading back."
William walked to the stern of our gondola, had a look about, and then turned to look forward. He stayed where he was, however. I smiled; it appeared that the young lord was tired of tutoring. For that matter, I was content to just watch the spectacle myself.
I didn't know it at the time, but he was under observation.
* * *
The procession finally reached the Lido. The patriarch poured water into the sea from a large ampulla. The doge raised his arm above the waves.
"What's going on, Mister Hobbes?" asked William. "Isn't there enough water in the ocean already?"
"The patriarch just blessed the Adriatic with holy water. The doge holds a golden ring in his hands. He will say, 'Desponsamus te mare, in signum veri perpetuique dominii.'"
William's Latin was equal to this challenge. "We marry you, oh sea, as a symbol of perpetual domination."
"Yes. Venice rules the sea even as a husband rules his wife," I said. "In theory, at least." I didn't explain which proposition was true only in theory.
The crowd roared as the doge dropped a golden ring into the Adriatic.
"How long has this ceremony been performed, Mister Hobbes?"
"There has been a Sensa celebration for over six centuries; it honors a naval victory on the Ascension Day of 997. It used to just be the blessing of the waters. But in 1177 Pope Alexander III gave a ring to the doge, and said that it was a symbol of Venetian naval supremacy. The ring which is cast into the sea each year is modeled on that original."
"Is this the original bucintoro?"
"I don't think so." I conferred with the gondolier. "No, there have been several of them, over the years. This bucintoro first sailed in 1606. It cost seventy thousand ducats."
"Did the one before it sink?"
"No. It got too dilapidated and leaky, so the Venetians replaced it." I chuckled. "It would be funny if the bucintoro sank with the doge on it. All Europe would say, 'he finally decided to consummate his marriage to the sea.'"
* * *
I settled into a chair and pulled out a book to read. After a while, I closed my eyes. I felt the pleasant, warm caress of the afternoon sun and relaxed. I needed to relax; the Sensa ceremony had been the culmination of two weeks of carousing in Venice and I had to keep constant attendance on William. But now I could relax.
The next thing I knew, it was dark outside and I was hungry.
"Geoffrey? I would like to speak to His Lordship."
"He's out, sir."
"Out? Out where?"
"A gondola came to pick him up."
"Whose gondola?"
"Some lady or another. Very finely dressed. Lots of pearls."
"My God—you let him go without telling me? You didn't find out her name?"
"There was fancy writing on her gondola, sir. Ask our gondolier. He was up and about at the time."
I rushed down to our townhouse's little dock. Our gondolier was napping, inside his boat. I shook him awake.
"His Lordship, where is he?"
"He is in the best of hands, sir. He went off with Lucrezia Cognati."
"Who might that be? Some contessa? A cittadina?"
"Oh no. A cortigiana honesta. Of the first rank."
A courtesan. "We must rescue him at once." The gondolier rolled his eyes but said nothing. "Where does she live?"
"Near the Campo San Cassiano. On the Ponte delle Tette."
* * *
I stormed into the courtesan's house, followed closely by Samuel and Geoffrey. The lady's bodyguard, a muscular Moor, appeared and asked our business. When he refused to let us interrupt Lucrezia and William, I rushed past him and the estimable Samuel clipped the bodyguard when he turned to follow. What a team we were.
The second line of defense was the lady's maid, who was screaming at us like a harpy out of the myths. Even though she was the servant to a bawd, she could not be treated so forcefully.
"Calm yourself, woman. We are here to claim what is ours."
She stopped screaming, and suddenly looked sly. "Oh, what might that be?"
"A young gentleman, entrusted to my care."
"How young? An infant?"
"Certainly not."
"A pity, for every woman yearns to hold an infant in her arms."
"I don't want to strike you, but if you continue—"
"Wait. Does he have blond curls, lovely enough to make a lady's fingers itch?"
"Don't be impertinent. Where is he?"
"Receiving an education yonder." She pointed, languidly, at a closed door. "That is the purpose of his travels, isn't it?" She smiled at Samuel, who smiled right back, damn him.
"Enough!" I burst into the boudoir, surprising Lucrezia and William in the very act of—
Playing a game of chess.
Northern Italy
May, 1633
"I can't eat anymore," said William. "I just can't."
We had taken the canal boat back to Padua and then followed the main caravan route from Venice to the Germanies: west through Padua and Vicenza to Verona, then north up the Adige, to Trento and Bolzano. There, we left the river valley, and headed northeast toward the Brenner Pass.
We took lodging in Bressanone, at the famous Inn at the Sign of the Elephant. The food at the inn was tasty, and the portions were, well, elephantine. In fact, one of the traditions was to bring you a huge platter of meat, and, if you could finish by yourself, it was on the house. No one, not even a fifteen-and-a-half year old boy who had been riding all day, was equal to the task. With a sigh, William pushed his plate away.
On the outside of the inn was a gigantic fresco, with a life-sized rendition of an Indian elephant, complete with a turbaned mahout on its back. I told William the story behind it.
"In 1550, King John III of Portugal gave an Indian elephant to Archduke Maximilian the Second of Austria. Maximilian, at that time, was living in Spain. Maximilian was summoned home, and he took the elephant with him. We are following in its footsteps."
/> "Watching where we walk," William quipped.
It would have been beneath my dignity to respond. "By the time the beast reached Bressanone its strength had ebbed, and its handlers allowed it to rest at the High Field Inn for two weeks. That's the old name of this inn. Then they rode it across the Brenner Pass, and ultimately made a triumphal entrance into Vienna."
"Well, if an elephant can cross the Alps, we shouldn't have any difficulty," William said. Thereby tempting Fate, I think.
* * *
The next day, we were in Vipiteno, our final stop before the Brenner Pass itself. Knowing that a rough day was ahead of us, I urged William and the servants to retire early that evening.
The following morning, the innkeeper motioned me over. "Plague," he whispered. "Word came in last night."
"Here, in Vipiteno?"
"No, thank God, not here." He crossed himself. "Still, it isn't far away. It is in Innsbruck. Many cases, I hear."
It would not be easy, coming from the Brenner Pass, to swing wide of Innsbruck, and thus avoid the plague carriers.
"What about the Reschen Pass?" I asked. The Reschen Pass lay northwest of Merano, a town further up the Adige than Bolzano.
"Bandits are a big problem right now. One of Tilly's mercenary companies decided that charging tolls was more profitable than soldiering. Then they got tired of that and just used the pass as a base for raiding the villages nearby. The Jaegers will deal with them eventually, but with the plague in Innsbruck, they probably won't clear out the Reschen until June or even July."
"That's too late for me. Any other choices?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
"On how crazy you are."
"Never mind, then. Can I get something to drink?"
My resolution to do nothing didn't last long. Samuel approached me. He had a gift for languages, which no doubt had come in handy in the past.
"You heard about the plague in Innsbruck?"
"Yes."
"Well, there's a rumor going around that the first case was someone who had an argument with an English visitor. So now some folk are saying that the Englishman laid a curse on Innsbruck, and that's what brought the plague."
"Enough." I turned to the innkeeper. "I changed my mind. I am crazy enough to hear about option three."
"It is the high pass, the Passo del Rombo. The Timmelsjoch. Or, as we called it in the village I was born in, the Secret Passage."
"Secret sounds good. Leaving immediately sounds even better."
"I will give you a letter of introduction to your guide. He lives in the village of San Leonardo de Passiria. You head west from here in the direction of Merano, you go over the Jauffen Pass, and then San Leonardo lies below you, where the Veltina meets the Passiria."
"Thank you."
"Mention me in your prayers." The innkeeper checked something in the ledger, then looked up. "I must warn you, the guide is not quite right in the head."
"Why do you say that?"
"He climbs. For the fun of it."
Crossing the Alps
May, 1633
Our guide was Joseph Hofer, a chamois hunter, and the younger son of the innkeeper of San Leonardo.
"So, you wish to cross the Timmelsjoch. You have come to the right man. It is still a bit early in the season, but have no fear.
"There are five of you, yes? With mules?"
I corrected him. "With three mules, and two horses."
"Horses, you say? Unless they be mountain-bred, exchange them for mules. Speak to the innkeeper, while I gather the equipment for five new mountaineers."
"Equipment?" Joseph had already disappeared into a storeroom. I shrugged, and went off to search for the innkeeper.
While I was away, Joseph decided to have some fun with William. I didn't learn the particulars until after we had crossed the Timmelsjoch, but I set the incident down now in its proper place.
Joseph commandeered them to carry out goods suitable for mountain travel. Bearskin coats. Beaver gloves. Backpacks. Alpenstocks.
"What's that for?" William asked. "If it is a walking stick, why is it so long?" The alpenstock was a thick ash staff, perhaps eight feet long, ringed with iron at both ends. It also bore a metal point.
"It is essential in the Alps, young man. It is the only thing that can save you from a dragon."
"A dragon?"
"Indeed. If you shoot a dragon, you will merely annoy it and it will devour you. If you run, the result will be much the same. You must wait bravely until it opens its mouth, and then thrust the alpenstock between its jaws, jamming them open. The dragon will then starve to death." Joseph waited, deadpan, for William's reaction.
"Are dragons common in the mountains? I mean, if they are, wouldn't you need to carry more than one alpenstock?"
"Don't worry. They're rare, so one's enough."
It was then that I returned, as yet ignorant of Joseph's little joke. But I was quite conscious of the ominous pile of gear. "I hope we are going to keep the climbing to a minimum."
"No climbing, sir," Joseph said. "But we also want to keep the slipping to a minimum, so we need these crampoons." He held out devices which looked vaguely like horseshoes, but matched the size and shape of human feet. They were studded with nails, and each was equipped with a leather strap.
"You fasten them under your feet, like so"—he demonstrated—"and now you can walk on ice, if need be."
William tried them on. "Ouch, the bars dig into my feet."
"They take getting used to."
I intervened. "Let's stow them in the saddlebags until we really need them."
* * *
We managed to get off to a mid-morning start. We had eight mules, five for our party to ride, and three to carry supplies. Two of these would ultimately be given to Joseph, so he could take back the loaned mountaineering gear after we crossed the Timmelsjoch.
The path, at first, was fairly easy, as we walked along a mountain stream, the Veltina. After perhaps a dozen miles, Joseph motioned us up the left side of the river valley. It was steep and rocky, and the mules became a little balky.
Then we heard a shriek. We Englishmen halted abruptly, and reached for our weapons. "God's blood, what was that?" I cried.
Joseph had continued up the slope, unperturbed. "The marmot, the mountain squirrel. That was its alarm whistle."
"Can you eat them?" asked Samuel.
Joseph nodded. "They are best caught in April or May, when they have just come out of their winter sleep and are still befuddled." He smacked his lips. "Bop 'em on the head, and then it's dinner time."
The trail now swished back and forth as it climbed further into the mountains. Now and then, we found ourselves in light fog and had to slow down even more.
It was after one such patch that we had our first clear indication of how high we were. No trees.
"Where are the trees?" William asked.
"From here on up there are no trees, until we are over the pass and descend into the Tyrol," said Joseph. He pointed to the relatively flat section ahead, limestone carpeted with white wild flowers, the edelweiss. "These are the Alps."
"I thought the Alps were the mountain peaks."
"No, no. They're the high pastures. Although the shepherds don't usually come this way."
I thought that strange. "If the shepherds don't use this path, who does?"
"Folks who like to move goods from one country to another with a minimum of fuss."
Smugglers, in other words. "How much further up do we have to go to reach the pass?" I asked.
Joseph leaned on his alpenstock. "Let me think. Oh, we are perhaps three-quarters of the way to the top."
Samuel whistled. "And I thought the Kinder Scout back home was high."
"What's the Kinder Scout?" asked Joseph.
"The highest point in the Peak District, back in Derbyshire. But it's just a hillock compared to these Alps."
Before we left this resting place, William collected some of the ede
lweiss, to be dried and pressed, and pasted into his journal as souvenirs. They didn't grow in the lowland.
We trudged on, weaving higher and deeper into the mountain range. A golden eagle soared overhead. At last the trail opened up a bit, and leveled out somewhat. Ahead of us was a valley of sorts. Not a river valley, merely a saddle point between two great peaks. Patches of snow lay helter-skelter on either side of the trail ahead.