1500

By Heather Jane Johnson and Lamis Al Huraibi

1499. Children are disappearing in Venice. Rumor has it a demon is to blame, but no one knows for sure. Beatrice de la Pietà, an orphan on the brink of a new life, cannot be bothered with such stories though. Meeting the expectations of her new employer, Cassandra Fedele, is all she cares about, and she'll do any

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Jane Johnson
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9791220070119

Heather Jane Johnson

Before penning her first novel Heather (Jane) Johnson picked strawberries, scooped ice cream, poorly mended opera costumes, waited tables(also poorly), sold children's books, made and decorated wedding cakes, managed bookstores, co-started and ran a book fair company, ran a book department for a chain of gift stores, poured wine in a tasting room, directed activities at an assisted-living center, taught (and still teaches) English as a second language, and attempted to sell American cookies from a bike in Foligno, Italy. She can be found at www.cookicletta.com providing alternative ways for Italians to learn English while simultaneously promoting the superiority of certain American desserts.

Book preview

Prologue - The Lucky Day

T

he scent of fresh bread wafting past Tommaso was simultaneously blissful and painful. Though he was well-practiced at ignoring the angry pit in his stomach, today it was proving more and more difficult. If he didn’t find a way to satisfy the ravenous monster within it was going to be a very long night indeed. The bread at this bakery must be especially good, he thought, because every time he passed, there was a line of people jostling for position, elbows ready for battle, eyes-on-the-prize pointed straight ahead. Manners and politeness in these cases usually preferred napping somewhere near the canal, where emerald water lapped happily against the moored gondolas and stone steps.

He racked his brain for options. He could linger on a crowded street, hoping to snag a loaf of bread out of some unsuspecting passerby’s basket, or he could wander down one of the many calli¹ where food vendors gathered. Tiptoeing undetected amongst the stalls was a particular skill of his, mouse eyes darting about and spotting discarded scraps. He was also adept at narrowing in on merchants too distracted with throngs of customers to notice his dirt creased hands. Occasionally he got lucky at one of the numerous churches if he passed at just the right moment and tugged on the garments of a busy seeming priest, who might direct him to some nearby source of sustenance. The ability to mention, Father so-and-so said it’s okay, sometimes prompted eye rolls, but it often forced a more sympathetic hand. He had learned to be careful though. Sometimes if a priest had enough time on his hands, he may just try to drag him away to one of Venice’s orphanages. From experience, he knew that food was easier to acquire in that environment, but giving up his freedom to roam about the city as he pleased wasn’t a price he was willing to pay, even if it did mean long stretches in which comfort and a full belly were hard to come by.

The ten-fingered foraging often went best around five in the evening. Today, the late winter sun was setting in dramatic, red swathes across the lagoon and the multitudes were out and about, scurrying along determinedly on their various missions—buying, selling, trading, gossiping, scheming, cheating, creating, dreaming. His dark, curly head and skinny limbs slid easily through the spaces in between. His height, stunted from malnutrition, was perfect for hiding amongst the clouds of clergy and nobility draped in voluminous layers of black cloth. His cat-like patience and pounce, per usual, went undetected amongst not only Venetians, but also the immigrants and refugees from places both near and far, who seemed to flow from one shore to another the same way the birds above them flew from one canal to another.

Victory number one was unexpected. A disgruntled baker rounding a corner not far ahead of him tripped and dropped the large bag draped over his shoulder. Out tumbled a cascade of hard biscuits. The baker, even more disgruntled looking now, grabbed the top of the bag, twisted it quickly and threw it back over his shoulder, heading in the direction of the Rialto.² Tommaso raced forward and gathered the dropped biscuits into the fold of his shirt. A big smile crossed his face as he bit down ravenously on the first piece. Pan biscotti fresh out of the oven were rare. Gulping them down as fast as he could, he trotted toward Campo³ Sant’Agostin, his hunger slowly diminishing as his thirst quickly increased.

A few months before, he had found a chipped, but otherwise sturdy cup that had two handles, one on each side. Having looped a long piece of string onto each handle he could easily tie it around his waist and cover it with his shirt, making it less likely to be stolen. He had grown especially fond of this cup for some reason, with its green and brown fish painted on the base, and he often absent-mindedly found himself patting his torso just to make sure it was still there. Having inhaled the last of the pan biscotti he began untying the cup from his waist as he approached the well in the middle of the campo.

A forestière⁴, perhaps a slave, he guessed, from her ebony complexion, was at the well fetching water. Tall and lanky, the whites of her eyes jumped towards him as he came closer and he couldn’t help but notice the pretty, curled lashes that framed them. He began to gather that she had just finished filling her fourth bucket of water and was preparing to pick them up. Pausing, she glanced at the cup in his hand and made note of his general condition. A sad smile crossed her face. She gestured towards a bucket near his feet and said, Please, take some.

Thank you, Tommaso exhaled, giving her the biggest, teethy-est smile he could conjure as he dipped his cup into the bucket. Number one gone in a flash, he glanced up and she laughed lightly, nodding her head. Two more cups of water down, he stood up and looked her squarely in the face, Thanks again.

You’re welcome, she said, and leaned to gather all four buckets, then turned and began heading towards a large building in the corner of the campo. Tommaso suddenly wished he had not eaten the last pan biscotto so he could give her something in return, but then came to his senses and ran after her.

Can I help you carry these buckets? he asked.

No, it’s that house right there. It’s not that far.

Really. I don’t mind at all. Please let me help.

He grabbed the two buckets from her right hand before she could deny his help a second time and proudly marched towards the calle she was now waving him towards. He was shocked at how heavy the sloshy cargo was. Once there, they stopped at a door that led to a slightly subterranean room, one he assumed was for storage or an entry way for the servants. Tommaso’s new friend set the buckets down and gave him a little curtsy. He curtsied back to her.

I suppose it’s my lucky day, she whispered quietly, the former sad smile drifting across her face again.

Mine too! he exclaimed, hoping to brighten her expression, even a little. Maybe we will see each other again?

I hope so. Extending her calloused hand towards him, she said, My name is Sonia.

He lifted his bony one to hers for a tentative shake. I’m Tommaso. Good evening, Sonia.

Good evening, Tommaso.

He turned and began to walk away, stealing a last glance behind him, hoping to get one more dose of Sonia’s eyelashes and quiet kindness, but she had already entered the building. Tommaso reflexively started checking for his cup. Within seconds he realized that he had left it by the well. He rushed to his former spot. There it sat, patiently waiting for him. Maybe it really is my lucky day, he thought, scooping up the cup and tying it back around his waist. He paused briefly to get his bearings, knowing it was only a matter of time before old monster hunger reawakened. Best take advantage of good luck while one can, he whispered to himself, and off he went, headed in the direction of the Frari Basilica. There was often a lot of activity there, and the wheel of fortune seemed to be turning in his direction, so why not play it big.

xxxx

A couple of cupfuls of polenta and some slightly dusty, but tasty, fried sardines later, Tommaso rounded out his meal by ducking under a fruit seller’s cart to grab a few fallen clementines before they got crushed in a stampede of feet. The polenta and sardines had come courtesy of a vendor who needed a wee, but wanted someone to watch his wares for a minute. Thus far, the evening’s efforts had not only been a total success, but much of it had come easily. Meandering slowly amongst the dwindling crowds, Tommaso said a quick prayer of thanks because he knew all too well that some days were the complete opposite.

In the evenings, a gondolier named Francesco sometimes let Tommaso sleep in his boat, but he needed to intercept him at just the right moment, tying up the gondola near the Fondamenta⁵ dell’Olio. Once the boy had made the mistake of sleeping in the wrong boat, and in the morning he woke up splashing about in the Grand Canal after being unceremoniously dumped in by the real owner. Such mishaps were unimportant at the moment though, as the stored blankets Francesco concealed in various nooks and crannies of his gondola began to dance before Tommaso’s eyes, a bit of warmth and the song of sleep pushing him down one calle to the next in a happy trance. It didn’t last long. A fisherman ploughed into Tommaso from a side calle, snapping him out of his reverie.

Scanning his surroundings, he saw he was near Campo Zan Degolà, several minutes northeast of where he wanted to be. There were rumors amongst some of the other orphans that a demon had taken a liking to the Rio⁶ Zan Degolà, now behind him as he walked quickly in the opposite direction. A ticklish breeze grazed the back of his neck. Wishing there were a few more people about, Tommaso rounded a corner and abruptly encountered an orange cat who arched its back, meowing loudly at him, as if in protest. The shock made him jump. He picked up his pace, but not until he reached the Fondamenta del Megio, a full rio to the west, did he breathe a sigh of relief.

Crossing the Ponte⁷ del Megio, Tommaso sped forward faster, hoping to catch Francesco in time. As he rounded the next corner a small flash of movement in an alleyway on his right caught his eye. Before he could whip around to see what it was, an enormous, beefy hand snatched his collar from behind, and then immediately covered his mouth and nose. He began violently thrashing about, limbs in every direction, but whoever had a hold of him seemed completely unaffected by his acrobatics. With his feather weight, he was soon being dragged in skids along the dirt walkway despite his continued attempts to break free. As he began to grow faint, the last thing Tommaso heard was the soft thud of his cup hitting the ground.

Chapter 1 - The Request

D

ong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The morning bells rang loudly as Beatrice (pronounced Bay-ah-tree-chay) reluctantly woke, trying to grasp the last wisps of whatever she had been dreaming. Were there sweets on a large, never-ending table? A grand room with a crackling fire in the corner? Marble floors, majestic rugs, lute music floating in from an adjacent room? The harder she tried to hold the fading image, the more stubbornly it pulled away. Wherever she had been was pleasant, and very, very different from her normal life. Frustrated, Bea grumbled. There was something else, something her dream self had been trying to do. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and tried to force the detail forward. Tiny feet. A long, dark blue curtain. A child tucked in back of it. She recalled a pre-knowledge of this child, as if the dream were a continuation of a story in which she had long been a protagonist. The child was meant to participate in the feast, but it was hiding instead. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and a hushed but urgent voice spoke through it.

Beatrice. Get dressed quickly and come downstairs immediately. Sister Bianca wants to speak with you.

Beatrice blinked groggily and replied, Coming, disappointed she would not have a bit more time to resurrect her dream. She began to put on her clothes. The layers of long undershirts she wore in winter didn’t fit so neatly beneath her dress, and she had to struggle to get things tied and cinched into place. Shivering, she then tried to slip on her shoes, but her thick ash-blonde hair kept falling into her eyes. Eventually, she finished, scurried down the stairs and found Sister Bianca waiting for her. Normally a stern woman, Beatrice’s quick, fumbling entrance took her by surprise and she couldn't help smiling.

Good morning, Beatrice. How did you sleep?

Fine, Sister, she replied, repressing the final yawn that somehow had been separated from the others. The nun motioned Beatrice to a bench below the windows where the morning sun was just peeking through. They sat down facing one another.

I have some news for you, dear. A request has come to us from a most erudite member of our community, a woman.

Beatrice’s eyes grew wide. No adult had ever spoken to her in such a serious and intimate tone, and the combination of the word erudite and woman was a novel and exciting concept.

You see, this woman is considered quite special, not only here in Venice, but also outside of Venice, and recently she has found herself in a challenging situation. Due to her notoriety, the matter needs to be handled with a bit of discretion….do you know what that means?

Ummmm, I think so, Sister. ‘With a bit of discretion’ means we must keep it a secret.

Sister Bianca grunted in a satisfied manner before continuing, "Correct, Bea (Bay-ah). Yes, Signora⁸ Fedele has recently been married to a doctor from Vicenza and she is completely overwhelmed with her new role as a wife, especially with all of the duties of running a home."

At this point the nun looked directly into Bea’s eyes, seeming to want some sort of response, but Bea, not really knowing how to react, simply said, I can imagine.

Another satisfied grunt, So, our task now is to send her a young woman who can help her in all of these domestic tasks. While there are orphans more experienced than yourself, you were the only one all of the sisters could agree upon. We believe Signora Fedele will need not only a competent helper, but also an intelligent one. One who will learn quickly how to interact with such a special person in the best way possible. Does this all make sense to you, Beatrice?

Taking in a deep breath Bea looked down and exhaled into her lap where her hands were now neatly folded. The prospect of leaving the orphanage on a daily basis for this grand adventure, even if it would mean an enormous amount of work, was too exciting to bear. Afraid she would not give the very best answer at this juncture, she looked pointedly at Sister Bianca and plunged in. I believe so. You’re telling me that I must not embarrass Signora Fedele, or treat her with any disrespect regarding her inability to do things well that women normally do?

A huge smile broke across the nun’s face. That is exactly what I mean, Beatrice. I could not have said it any better myself.

xxxx

The morning sun, no longer content to play a supporting role, poured through the windows in thick streaks, dust dancing through it with determined pride. Beatrice could scarcely believe her luck as her body passed through the beams of light.

Half in a daze, she found her way to the kitchen, grabbed an apron from the corner and walked over to a big pot of bubbling polenta in the fireplace. As she peered into the pot one of the cooks passed her and chirped, If you stare any harder at that polenta instead of serving it, Bea, you’ll fall right in and the children will eat you too. Give a heave with me and we’ll bring it out. Bea, still inattentive, grabbed a towel to protect her hands and helped carry the pot into the next room where a line of tired children rubbed both their eyes and their bellies. She began ladling the polenta into bowls, leaving some fuller than others, and earned herself a lifted eyebrow or two as children left the line either pleased with their portion or feeling slightly cheated.

As she carried out her morning duties, Beatrice’s mind returned repeatedly to the opportunity ahead of her. The name ‘Signora Fedele’ rang in her ears like the morning bells that had waken her not long before. Who was this woman? Bea knew very little about Venice beyond the walls of her orphanage. What she did know had been learned from newly arrived street urchins that had lived in the real world longer than she had. But she knew one thing for sure: A woman being celebrated for her intelligence was quite unusual. Some of the nuns around her clearly were smart and could read Latin, but most of their studies were focused on the church, and they rarely shared anything beyond that. By contrast, the women from the outside world most familiar to her were primarily the numerous courtesans and prostitutes that populated her city. It was rumored that many of the children in the orphanage were in fact the abandoned children of such women.

With their brightly colored clothes and famed beauty, courtesans were a topic of intense interest amongst the children during their stolen, hushed conversations, but prostitution in general was obviously a scandalous trade, a half world away from the regimented, spiritually rigorous life within the orphanage. Fearing the wrath of God even more than she yearned for excitement, Bea had never considered becoming a courtesan, but the options remaining weren’t particularly appealing either.

Bea knew little of her parents. A few years before, she’d gathered up the courage to ask the young and soft-spoken Sister Isabella, her favorite, if she knew anything about them. After a couple of days, the sister pulled her aside and solemnly told her that according to some of the older nuns, she had been left as an infant in the deposit doorway, roughly thirteen years before. Unfortunately there was no record of her birthday or last name. Such vagueness was not uncommon.

But back to Signora Fedele…who was she? A princess? A noblewoman? Some societal distinction that Bea was not yet aware of? Venice, she had heard, contained people from as far as the Levant⁹, Constantinople, Dalmatia¹⁰, Cypress, Corfu, Alexandria, Nuremberg, and any feudal casualty of a city up and down the peninsula. The name ‘Fedele’ certainly did not sound like she came from distinctly exotic origins. Her first name? That had not been supplied.

Beatrice’s ruminations and fervent curiosity only intensified as the day wore on, but luckily that evening she was intercepted by another nun. She would start her new job the next day. For the time being, someone from the orphanage would accompany her to and from the house of Signora Fedele. Listening to the evening bells, Bea tried to calm her mind. In half a day’s time she would be face to face with the mysterious Signora Fedele, and hopefully a few of her burning questions would be answered.

Chapter 2 - Signora Fedele

I

know there’s much to see Bea, but we really do need to hurry. You don’t want to arrive late on your first day," said Marco, another orphan about her age who, like many of the boys in her orphanage, had been training at the Arsenale.¹¹ As of this morning, however, he had also been pressed into service as her escort. Unfortunately, this meant Marco had to rise even earlier in the morning, as Signora Fedele lived at one edge of Castello,¹² and the Arsenal was in the opposite direction. The added burden was not particularly welcome, and this led to a bit of a grumpy chaperone.

Beatrice hurried along behind Marco, trying to keep up, and trying to pay attention to the route they were taking. Having been allowed only