The Plague Doctor's Daughter

6. Nicco

The murmurings of old men—always discontent about something or other—quieted as a door to the council chamber creaked open. But it was just two youths sneaking in through the back, barely arriving before the start of the proceedings.

Nicco Grimani didn't know who the latecomers were. More accurately, he didn't care. Even if he could accurately pinpoint their identities from across the massive hall under the uniform guise of black cloaks and caps, it mattered not.

They were noble Venetians, that much was certain. But so was everyone else in this second floor meeting chamber with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Piazzetta San Marco. They may have belonged to one of the original twelve families and their ancestors' likenesses may have even decorated some of the greater than life-sized paintings adorning the walls, but it was Nicco's father's portrait that hung at the end of a long line of chief magistrates. The republic's future belonged to the Grimanis. If that hadn't already been clear, today's announcement about his brother's new appointment would certainly dispel any doubts.

Three measured taps drew Nicco's attention to the near side of the room where a page opened another door, heralding the arrival of the most important members of the government. A collective shuffle rang out as some eight hundred or so men—three-quarters of the number as before the plague had struck—rose to their feet. Standing at their pews perpendicular to an elevated dais, they watched in silence as the senior leadership entered.

First came the Council of Ten with patrician magistrates elected by this very same governing body for one year terms in the legislature. Their faces were mostly austere, criss-crossed by lines brought on by age, rather than exertion from work or exposure to the sun. The six Ducal advisors of the Minor Council followed, their uniquely crimson robes signaling their importance of holding the doge (whose central throne their chairs flanked in an act of keen symbolism) in check. The nine Procurators of St. Mark—distinguished by their violet robes—followed, while three members of the Council of Forty representing the judicial arm of the administration rounded out the Signoria, taking their places at the remaining seats.

"Presenting His Excellent Lord, by the Grace of God, Doge of Venice, Duke of Dalmatia and Croatia, the Most Serene Prince Pietro Grimani," announced the page as the last man entered. Two, large hunting dogs—his constant companions everywhere he went—followed.

Wearing red like his advisors, the most powerful politician on the northern Adriatic topped off his already lavish robes with a golden cape and ceremonial crown. The richness demonstrated by the garment was both metaphorical and literal. No one in the Veneto could question its impact. But unlike many of his predecessors, this doge didn't need clothes to frame his status.

At fifty-three years of age, the wisps of gray in Grimani's dark hair and beard exuded authority, while the vigor in his steps showed unquestionable strength. His gaze scanned the room, fearless in making eye-contact with his most ardent supporters and most fervent adversaries alike. After reaching his gilded throne, he made himself comfortable. Everyone else only sat thereafter, including the floppy-eared hounds who laid at his feet.

Nicco didn't pay much attention to the subsequent opening remarks. It had been months since the whole Council convened—it wasn't practical or necessary for so many to legislate over day-to-day operations—but the key responsibilities of the sovereign assembly had nonetheless been carried out. The various smaller governing bodies that were arranged with strict hierarchical duties and powers did the real work. The courts adjudicated, the inquisitors investigated, and the Senate legislated. And through their collective actions, they helped build Venice into a maritime, commercial, and geographic mini-empire.

The first hour of the session was related to administrative matters including welcoming newly joined members who'd recently celebrated their eighteenth year, thereby earning a place through their birthright—but only if their families had been represented in the Council prior to the great lock-out of 1297. Each young man was introduced separately and handed the accoutrements related to their distinguished positions: the robe, a cap, and finally, a fur stole for feast days. Like many of the Republic's traditions, the process was pretentious, monotonous, and tiresome.

Next came an update from a condottiero Captain-General regarding the war in Milano over the succession of the duchy between Spanish or French heirs. Nicco studied the creases in his calfskin gloves intently as the man delivered a spiritless, yet overtly detailed account about the recent fall of Mantua and the subsequent withdrawal of nearly two-thousand troops, ending Venice's two year long participation in the conflict.

The report was met with mixed reactions. Some of the more vocal opponents filling the chamber with loud boos and nays probably considered the defeat a blight on the city-state's reputation, making her more vulnerable to outside attacks. Those with smiles on their faces were no doubt happy to no longer fight someone else's battles, even if the French were currently considered allies.

Undoubtedly, it was a costly campaign that no one who had any business acumen should have supported. Nicco certainly hadn't. Too bad his father hadn't shared those sentiments. Doge Grimani had managed to convince the Council less than one year into his appointment to challenge the balance of power in northern Italy after the 1626 death of Ferdinando Gonzaga, Duke of Mantua and support a French claim on the duchy against the existing Spanish one centered in Milano. This alliance pitted Venice against both the Hapsburgs and Savoys, and if the doge's gamble had worked, it would have brought him a huge political victory. Now, it seemed, that only embarrassment and debt remained. And if there was a question of the city's current financial state, the review of major commercial transactions in the last quarter that followed the Captain-General's dismissal would certainly clarify the issue.

This topic finally interested Nicco, and he straightened his slumped posture in the near end of the pew. As expected, the news was not good.

The patrician in charge of commerce disclosed that import of silver from the Holy Roman Empire had dropped to just two tonnes during the previous three months, while precious spices from the eastern Mediterranean numbered less than one hundred bundles within the same period. This was just sixty percent of the prior quarter's figures, and it would hardly sustain the existing demand once the warehouses were depleted. Trade in wool and lumber had also steadily decreased since the summer, while export of gold jewelry, glass beads, and leather goods was practically nonexistent.

The Council erupted in disgruntled muttering, yet few in the room were upset by the reduction or delay in imports of food stuffs, as one would naturally expect. That development usually just hurt the everyday man who relied on market days to replenish their kitchens, not the nobility who had access to central stores of grains and produce. No patrician's table had to go without Lebanese olives or Cypriot dates, even during a plague. Why, with the population cut by a quarter, even the remaining peasants had enough to eat during the past winter months.

The problem causing commotion now was based on different priorities, and as usual, those revolved around wealth. Because when commerce was slow, tax revenue fell. And as the coffers emptied, the lavish lifestyle the nobility enjoyed was that much harder to maintain. But among all the surrounding discontent, Nicco smiled.