3 - Cruel Music Read Free

Maestro Vivaldi. I’d been the toast of Venice, everyone’s darling. Who could I have crossed in the few short hours since my return?
    Gussie approached and extended his hand. “Let me see this warrant. Who authorized it?”
    Messer Grande ignored Gussie and handed the paper to me, holding it by his fingertips as if he couldn’t bear to brush hands with a eunuch. As Gussie hung over my shoulder, I skimmed through the flowery legal language to the signature at the bottom of the page.
    My heart sank.
    “Montorio,” I whispered.
    Gussie was suitably impressed. “Senator Montorio? The State Inquisitor?”
    I nodded. Doge Alvise Pisani and the senate elected by the heads of noble families were the titular rulers of the Venetian Republic. But everybody knew that the real power was concentrated in a secretive body of powerful senators called the Council of Ten. No unacceptable act or opinion escaped the notice of the inexorable Ten. With their well-paid network of spies and informers, they kept an ear to every café, church pew, and, it was rumored, bedroom. The Ten were a law unto themselves, and the instrument of their absolute authority was the Tribunal of State Inquisitors. In chamber, two inquisitors dressed in black robes and one in red. Senator Montorio wore the red.
    Gussie stared in wordless bewilderment. Messer Grande waited by the door, smacking a limp pair of leather gloves against his palm.
    “What am I accused of?” I asked. “Why was the warrant issued?”
    “I’m not here to answer questions.” Messer Grande shrugged disdainfully, but his voice softened a trace. “I will, however, conduct you to someone who can.”
    Despite the hackles rising on the back of my neck, I forced myself to lower the pitch of my natural speaking voice and calmly announce, “Don’t worry, Gussie. Someone has simply made an unfortunate mistake. I expect to sort things out and be home by tomorrow morning.”
    Messer Grande didn’t even try to conceal his smirk.

Chapter Two
    A pair of sbirri seized me under the arms and dragged me, half-walking, half-stumbling, into the night. Messer Grande murmured orders to their sergeant, who relayed his commands in a parade ground bellow. Dense clouds had swept in from the sea, obscuring the stars and turning the sky into an endless mantle of black velvet. The shadowy mass of houses that crowded around the Campo dei Polli provided the only light. Even their friendly dots of yellow lamplight winked out as my neighbors heard the commotion and came to their windows to watch my ignoble progress across the square and down the calle toward the canal.
    Three gondolas bobbed at the landing. Their lanterns threw streaks of silver lightning across the black water. My captors dumped me into the middle boat, and Messer Grande ordered two more men to join us. The other boats, manned by archers, escorted us fore and aft.
    I shivered from more than the sharp breeze whistling down the canal. Why send so many men to secure the person of one less than robust singer? It was not as if I were a prizefighter or some nobleman’s bravo. My strength lay in my throat, not my limbs. The authorities had spared no resources in staging this grand show, but its purpose had me completely baffled.
    The trio of gondolas slowly navigated the narrow channels of my domestic quarter, then picked up speed once we reached the wider waters of the Grand Canal. The nine o’clock bells had only just rung, so there was still plenty of blaze and bustle on Venice’s main throughway. With our boatmen straining at the oars, we flitted around hulking barges bound for the Rialto markets as if they were standing still. Their shadowy crewmen pointed and whispered among themselves. I could imagine the curious questions: Who is this criminal under such stalwart guard? A traitor to the Republic? A murderer?
    I wasn’t surprised when our little fleet turned left at the mouth of the Grand Canal and passed alongside the gothic arcades of the