The Plague Doctor's Daughter

4. Matteo

The young man with hair the color of Saracen coffee and skin smooth as creama pasticcera extended his long legs as he stepped out of the gondola onto the stone pavers of the Piazzetta. The quay was unusually crowded, and according to the sun's position, Matteo Barozzi was very late. Yet even in his haste, Matteo took note of the increased number of soldiers stationed around the area from just a few days earlier.

Wearing their war-tested morion helmets while carrying long guns in their hands and swords on their hips, the two-by-two patrols looked out of place in the sophisticated city center instead of on a battlefield. But as Matteo rushed under the watchful eyes of the twin statues of St. Theodore and St. Mark's lion perched high above on two granite columns, he supposed that even though his beloved Venice had recently declined to pursue further involvement in the war of Mantuan succession, the city-state was now fighting a different—and ultimately, more dangerous—adversary.

Unhindered by the heightened military presence, Matteo headed past the Biblioteca Marciana on the left and the Palazzo Ducale on the right. A sea of men in billowing black cloaks and matching caps swarmed toward a gate into the palace's courtyard, but Matteo kept going until he reached an older couple exiting the front door of a palazzo adjacent to the basilica.

"It's so good to finally enjoy your presence, my darling," cooed the woman while glancing accusatorially at the nearby clock tower whose big hand was just minutes away from the hour mark. On the surface, the greeting was innocent enough, but Matteo knew what she'd meant: his tardiness hadn't gone unnoticed, and his mother—as oft was the case—was not pleased.

She had a habit of such actions—saying more with understated mannerisms or subtle variations in tone rather than lowering herself to use words that could have been interpreted as impudent. Because Ippolita Barozzi was nothing, if not a noblewoman. Why, a person wouldn't even have had to exchange pleasantries with the raven-haired beauty who bore her first and only child at age twenty to ascertain this. One would know simply by looking at her.

Overdressed for a weekday Mass even by current Venetian standards, Ippolita wore an ornate, black gown embroidered with silver thread, the puffy sleeves slit to reveal a white silk underlay. Her upturned collar was just as elaborate and it reached her ears from where huge, teardrop-shaped pearls hung. These same iridescent beads decorated the multi-strand choker around her neck, and they were also woven into the dark braids twisted around the crown of her head.

"Forgive me, Mamma, for my impertinence," Matteo said, bending down and planting a quick kiss on each of his mother's rouged cheeks. "There was a girl in Giudecca—"

"A girl? In that undignified place, no less?" she balked, pouting with her ruby-tinged lips while waving a lace-trimmed fan furiously at her face. An egret painted on the silk appeared to bob its head.

Matteo smiled, but added nothing to correct her assumptions. Let her think he'd been whoring. He didn't care. It was actually quite amusing how she equated the location of a hospice for pretty girls from poor families sent there to escape temptation with the very place she imagined he'd do such a thing.

Not that anything prevented him from it, if he so wished. His whole life Matteo had been complimented on his striking good looks—with a slender, yet muscular frame and chiseled, but boyish features—and attracting the attention of the fairer sex was never difficult. At nineteen and unmarried, he was also a man who could come and go as he pleased. It was further true that the prior evening he had done something his mother would certainly find shameful. He'd gone to pay a debt, an act he himself wasn't particularly proud of. Yet while overconfidence in his skill at cards had sometimes put him in such unfortunate situations, he was never one to renege on his responsibilities.

Honor omnia superat. Honor above everything.

The righteous phrase was part of the family's ancient motto written in Latin next to the Barozzi name in Venice's revered book of twelve apostolic families. So it would have come as no surprise to the family matriarch—were Matteo to reveal the truth, of course—that her son's delay in getting ready for this important day was due to an act of chivalry, not debauchery.

That is, in fact, how last night's events had transpired. Matteo had just settled his outstanding account on the nearby island when he came upon three youths cornering a little girl in a dark alley. She couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, but she was presentable and, most importantly, terrified. After chasing off the boys with a few choice words, Matteo walked the girl home. Her mother was so grateful for his kindness, she insisted he stay for supper. By the time he realized the hour's lateness, the curfew prevented him from finding a boat to cross the canal back home.

"Must have been some girl for you to still be in your clothes from yesterday," said his father with a smile under his russet beard, gripping Matteo's hand in a firm greeting. The reaction was quite different to his wife's, but their often antithetical viewpoints—as dissimilar as their physical appearance—were what had kept the couple happier than most in their two decades of marriage. Yet there was one thing Signore and Signora Barozzi agreed on, and before letting go of his son's hand, Lorenzo leaned into Matteo's ear and whispered, "Enjoy it while you can, my boy, but discretion over all else. Every eligible lady of Venice would throw herself at your feet for the chance to wed into a Procurator's family. You mustn't tarnish our reputation by wasting yourself on the rabble."

The warning was earnest, blunt, and predictable. It was also unnecessary.

Matteo knew his place well within the complex web of Venetian society. As one of three Procuratori de Citra, his father dispensed charity and attended to wills in the city's most central subdivisions, giving him power only second to the Doge himself. Lorenzo was just one of nine Procurators in total within the Serene Republic, all chosen by the Great Council to their illustrious positions to hold a lifetime appointment. It was also assumed that Matteo would eventually fill his father's role. As someone who had neither a great interest in nor a particular aversion to politics, the young man accepted his path dutifully.

Accepting having to forego breakfast was another matter.

"Do I have time to fetch a sweet roll or even just an apple?" he asked, paying no obvious heed to his father's admonition, but instead turning toward his home a few meters away. The dining room was directly off the entryway and surely a plate of delicacies could still be found on the polished oak table. His mouth watered just thinking about it. As if echoing the request, his empty stomach loudly rumbled.

His mother shook her head. "Absolutely not. You shall not be late for another Great Council meeting. But we can do something about obscuring the twice-worn clothes." Waving to the young servant by the door, she yelled, "Giacomo! My son's cloak and cap, if you will."

The dark-skinned boy jumped at the command. Disappearing inside, within seconds he'd procured the garments before helping Matteo don the councillors' uniform.

"Oh, look. It's the Delfinis," his mother said with unhidden disdain at the family emerging from the Merceria alley as she waited for her son to dress.

The trio had haste in their steps and focus in their sights until the youngest—a slight girl of sixteen—turned her head in the Barozzi's direction. Grabbing her father's elbow, she appeared to utter a quick plea before the group changed course.

Ippolita gasped. "Now why would they be heading straight to us?" she asked, the previous scorn in her tone replaced with annoyance.

Matteo made a final adjustment to his velvet head covering and hid a smirk. "Don't be so dramatic, Mamma. Clara probably just wants news of Simone."

Uttering his best friend's name reminded Matteo that they had agreed to meet on this very spot before going into the palace together. His own lateness had likely put those plans asunder. Simone Falier was now probably sitting in the Great Hall wondering where he was.

"Why would she need news of him? A girl has no say over her betrothed's actions any more than she does after they are wed," his mother pondered, once again madly waving her fan as the Delfinis neared.

"'Tis true, but I'm afraid Clara is very much in love with the unworthy fellow," Matteo said right before a hand unexpectedly slapped his shoulder, making him jump.