The Venetian Read Online Free PDF

Council of Ten.”

Six
    T he man had not realized that Tomaso was there as well. He faltered imperceptibly, regaining his composure in an instant. Murmuring some disingenuous sympathies, more to the expanse of the room than either of them, he stepped back, inviting the two men to join him outside with a thick, muscled arm.
    “Come. Please.” He inclined his head slightly. It was not a request.
    “Where are we going? It is getting late,” said Paolo. He did not want to go anywhere with this man. He knew about the Council of Ten. The real problem was that now, The Council of Ten knew about him.
    “Palazzo Ducale.” The Doge’s Palace. The answer was curt, meant more to silence than offer information. Clearly it would be the last question Paolo would be allowed to ask.
    Paolo shuddered at the thought of being summoned by The Ten. Everyone in Venice knew of the council, but it was precisely what wasn’t known that gave them their power. Fear was a most useful weapon. Created back in the fourteenth century, the council was formally tasked with maintaining the security of the Republic and preserving the government from overthrow. Overseeing Venice’s diplomatic and intelligence services, The Ten employed an extensive network of informants, both in the Republic and abroad. Wearing black mantles as a symbol of their office, they became known as the Black Inquisitors. Their examinations were conducted in darkness, their decisions not open to appeal. The accused could not cross question their accusers. Everything about them dwelled beneath a layer of shadow, even the oath they swore: jura, perjura, secretum, prodere, noli —swear, foreswear, and reveal not the secret.
    Like most secretive organizations designed to serve those in power, the Council of Ten protected ordinary citizens only to the extent that the interests of the citizenry happened to temporarily align with those of the State. Paolo couldn’t help but wonder on what side of the line his interests currently placed him.
    They walked silently through the night, the scrape of their soles muffled by the layer of fog draped over the lagoon. Paolo watched his father in the blurry dark as he shuffled slowly behind the council’s man. The life seemed to seep from his body with each step. He had risen without a word when the visitor asked them to come, his face betraying not a feeling one way or the other. Moments ago he looked as though he could kill a man. Now he seemed resigned to go wherever the prevailing force wished him to, for good or ill, it no longer mattered. His docility was unnerving, and Paolo found himself becoming angry all over again. Ciro was dead, brutally murdered, and this man, their father, should not allow himself to be led about like a side of beef on its way to the knife. Paolo clenched his fists, wondered if he would ever find a reason to love his father again.
    Overlooking the Piazza San Marco, the palace, in addition to being the residence of the Doge, housed the political bodies of the State. The enormous building seemed a jumbled mix of unrelated notions. Courts of law and administrative offices shared space with courtyards, grand staircases, and cavernous ballrooms. But it was the prison on the ground floor that worried Paolo.
    The white arcade of the lower floor was the first part of the palace to emerge from the gloom. Ghostlike, it seemed to float above the lagoon, each line of its stone arches projecting its own diaphanous shadow, glowing with fog filtered moonlight.
    The palace began to assume the familiar shape it held in daylight, the pale pink stone reconstructing itself before their eyes as they approached. How beautiful during the day . How very different now. He glanced at his father, saw little sign that Tomaso knew, or cared, what was happening, or what could happen in this place.
    They were not brought through the courtyard where the sweeping staircase led to the Door of Paper where government decrees were posted. Instead they