The morning fog was as thick as a hearty, Tuscan soup.
On such days, a man could barely see the tip of his outstretched hand, and most Venetians stayed inside. Although inconvenient, the ever-present fear of catching the plague from the miasma floating like a ghostly specter among the buildings and above the canals outweighed any need to pursue daily activities. Going to the market was not worth dying for.
But Matteo was not like most people. He had already reneged on a promise once in the last twenty-four hours, so his dignity didn't allow him to make that same mistake again. In conditions like these, however, this gallantry was easier conceived than done. Stepping through the canal-facing door of the Ca' Calergi, the procurator's son nearly stumbled off the curt pier while braving the ethereal, cloud-like conditions to hail a gondola.
He should have been sitting on that bench a full day earlier, and as he neared his destination, Matteo mentally chastised himself for the blunder. What he had sincerely intended to be a quick discussion over a single hand of cards had turned into many more as both the wine and conversation pleasantly flowed. Before he knew it, it was midday and his table mates—who by then had grown to nearly half a dozen—easily talked him into staying for a prodigious meal. Afterward, it would have been quite rude to miss the show from a visiting troupe of commedia dell'arte players. By the time he had resigned himself to leave, the sundown prevented his getaway.
With his back aching from a restless night on a lumpy chaise, Matteo squirmed in his seat while the oarsman paddled the short distance across the Canale Grande. From there, he would cut through the northern part of Santa Croce before entering San Polo. The brisk walk would do his body good, and it would most likely be faster than taking the gondola the long way to approach from the south.
"Be well, good sir," Matteo said, placing a coin in the man's hand when he disembarked.
In less than a quarter of an hour—in spite of taking several wrong turns in the blinding conditions—he finally entered the courtyard he sought.
"The Dottore is not at home." The warning came before he had seen its source, much less before he even had the chance at an inquiry.
Looking up, Matteo noticed an open window on the second story, a void of darkness among the thinning wisps of fog. "Good morning, signora," he said with a bow to the old woman leaning against the ledge.
Unprompted, she talked freely like so many of her age tended to do. "He has gone to help the sick. So many of them these days. Why, I don't think he's been home for days—"
"I am actually looking for someone else," Matteo interrupted, thankful for the inadvertent confirmation that Agostino Rienzo had successfully stayed hidden in his convalescence, but conscious of the value of each passing moment. "If you could then tell me if the esteemed husband of Signora Giovanna is at home, I'd be ever so grateful."
The old woman cackled. "Signore Visconti?" she asked once her mirth subsided. "Why, he's still off in that godforsaken war in Milan, is he not?"
Matteo looked away and smirked. If the return of Giovanna's husband was unknown to neighbors, then it was likely that he was still being held in the doge's jail cell. Perhaps he wasn't too late, after all. Now he could have that promised conversation with Giovanna he'd missed the day before.
"I must be mistaken," Matteo said, looking up at the old woman again. "I will then try my business with Signora Giovanna."
After a quick bow, he made his way toward the staircase leading to the Rienzo's loft, but the woman yelled after him. "Oh, you won't find her home, either. Giovanna left merely minutes before your own arrival."
With his foot on the first riser, Matteo halted. Pushing off, he spun around with such force that his cloak billowed around him. "Thank you, Signora," he called out, while internally cursing his bad timing.
Although Giovanna only had a short head start, she must have been in quite a hurry. Even at a brisk jog, Matteo did not catch up with her until they entered Piazza San Marco. He hoped it was her, at any rate, for he could have completely misjudged her intended destination, having easily followed a complete stranger. But from the graceful movements of the dark figure hurrying ahead in the misty square, he hoped he was right.
"Giovanna!" Matteo called out. "Giovanna Visconti, stop if that is indeed you."
The figure froze. Turning, she pushed the hood off her head as Matteo ran up. "Don Barozzi," she addressed him with an emotionless bow.
"Matteo, please," he replied, silently noting the emergence of dark circles under her eyes since they've last met. No wonder. The girl had been through so much in such a short time. "I am so pleased to have caught up with you. Are you headed to the jails?" he asked based on the direction her feet had been leading her.
Giovanna nodded. "I am. And I would prefer not to waste any time, so if I may—"
"I shall join you," Matteo interrupted before she had a chance to refuse his company, for she sounded cross with him and admittedly rightly so. Gesturing in a polite way toward the palace and beyond, he allowed Giovanna to walk before he followed suit. "Is this your first visit?" he asked, hoping that, like him, she was also a day late fulfilling her obligations.
"It is not. I saw Stefano yesterday morning," she replied as her shoes clicked on the damp cobblestones.
Matteo's heart sank. It seemed that he may have misjudged the situation. For although Giovanna had to keep her husband away to safeguard her father during his illness, apparently she fancied the returned soldier enough to visit him daily. Taking a deep breath to suppress his disappointment, Matteo decided that this revelation would not change his commitment to help.
"Have you found a way to hide your father once Signore Visconti is released?" he asked, hoping that Giovanna's problem had already been solved, but rueing the thought it would mean reuniting her with the man who had treated her so badly.
She hesitated before answering. "I have not."
Only the promise of Visconti's continued punishment tempered Matteo's sadness at the pain in Giovanna's voice. "Would a longer stay behind bars work to your advantage?"
"It would."
The swiftness of this answer pleased him, giving Matteo renewed hope that his assistance in the matter would be welcome. "I will speak with the chief jailer on your behalf then," he said as they passed the imposing columns holding the statues of Saints Theodore and Mark. "You may extend your visit for as long as you'd like. I will wait for you."
Having arrived at the new prison's entrance, Matteo held the door open as Giovanna entered.
"That won't be necessary. I am only here to deliver something and will not be staying long," she said as she crossed under the lobby's dome.
For the first time, Matteo took a close look at the contents of her hands. What he had mistakenly assumed to be the flap of her cloak she'd been closely holding against her chest, on better examination it revealed itself to be a folded blanket.
"The stone floors of a jail cell are undoubtably cold this time of year," he said, once again torn between her kindness and who she was reserving it for. "Nevertheless, I will wait here."
Although Giovanna gained quick access for her purpose, Matteo was forced to wait for his audience with the Chief Clerk of the New Prison. In another instance, he would have made sure that his father knew of the disrespect. Considering the illicit nature of his upcoming request, today's slight would go unreported.
"How is your dear Mamma, the beautiful Madonna Ippolita?" asked the portly man when he finally ushered Matteo into his office. "The spiced pheasant she served last Christmas still haunts my dreams."
As his host turned away, Matteo rolled his eyes. He remembered that dinner well. Held at Palazzo Barozzi for high-ranking officials of the Republic, it was an unnecessarily lavish event during the period of the greatest losses from the plague. Within a week, fifteen of the nearly one hundred guests were dead. Afterward, his father in his capacity as Procurator of Wills banned all such private gatherings, adding to the restrictions already placed on public events. Naturally, the rules were ignored for anyone in government or among the nobility.
"She is well and sends her regards," Matteo lied with a smile. Any goodwill he could establish before voicing his concerns would be worth it.
"Good, good," the clerk said as he sat behind a large desk, his own smile quickly disappearing into a scowl more representative of his trade. "So then what may I do for you today, Don Barozzi?"
Matteo cleared his throat, the rapid beating of his heart becoming louder in his ears. "I come to ask of the fate of a man brought in early yesterday. Stefano Visconti is his name."
The clerk scratched his temple before reaching for a thick ledger. "Oh, yes. The soldier accused of desertion, was he not?" he asked, flipping the book open.
"That's right." Matteo nodded. "What will happen to him? Will he be held long?"
The man on the other side of the desk sat up straight and vigorously shook his head. "I'm sorry, but if you are asking for a special reprieve for this man—"
"No, no, no. Quite the opposite," Matteo said, cutting off the erroneous accusation before it went further. What he needed was to delay the investigation for as long as possible, not for the clerk to look the other way. "I would request that the utmost care be taken to validate Signore Visconti's claims that he has, in fact, not deserted his company."
The clerk's shoulders sagged as he visibly relaxed. "Oh, in that case, you have nothing to worry about," he said before dabbing his forehead with a dirty kerchief pulled from his sleeve.
Matteo leaned forward. "How so? Care to elaborate?" he asked as his anxiety escalated at how quickly the man acquiesced.
"Well, you see, the accused has a document related to his discharge from service. In instances where there was a question regarding its authenticity, we would confirm with a commander in the unit who could often still be off near the original deployment area. But Signore Visconti is in luck for his commanding officer has also returned to Venice. I expect to confer with him later today and the prisoner should learn his fate by no later than tomorrow morning."
Having gotten the worst possible news to his query, Matteo was left speechless. Leaning back, he tried to think of an argument that could keep Giovanna's husband locked up for at least a few days longer. But the clerk wasn't having it.
"If there is nothing else," he said, rising from his chair and motioning toward the door.
No, there wasn't anything else. Standing up, Matteo mumbled his thanks and left the room.
Giovanna was already in the lobby. In spite of her earlier objection, she had now waited for him. That knowledge made it even harder for Matteo to tell her of his failure.
"I was not able to secure a commitment from the man in charge to hold your husband," he said as soon as they stepped out of the building. "I'm afraid you'll have to act quickly in moving your father—"
"That won't be necessary," she replied quietly.
"Why ever not? Are you not fearful that Stefano will be freed possibly by tomorrow morning?"
Giovanna didn't answer.
"You aren't," he said, dumbfounded. Thinking about what could have filled her with such confidence only led to one conclusion. For some reason, she was sure that Stefano was not coming home even if the jail would no longer hold him. And for that to happen, he would need to be in a state where he wasn't going anywhere at all.
Matteo gasped and grabbed her arm."Whose blanket was that which you gave to your husband, Giovanna?"
She stopped and looked at him with teary eyes. "My father's," she whispered.