The Plague Doctor's Daughter

26. Nicco

Nicco picked the remaining scraps of meat off the bone before proceeding to gnaw on one end. Although the table had been packed with figs and dates, shellfish and pheasant, as well as cakes and cheeses, he could never resist a perfectly roasted boar. The cartilage pleasantly crunched under his teeth as four sets of inquisitive eyes watched from nearby. When he licked the grease off his fingertips, the two Bracco Italiano pointers anxiously scooted closer.

Holding up the now bare rib, Nicco chuckled before tossing it on the floral-patterned kilim rug. The dogs didn't wait for permission, jumping at the discarded morsel with teeth bared and ears retracted. Their smooth coats shone in a deep amber under the light of the hearth as they angrily tussled over the lone treat, emboldening Nicco's laugh. But as he reached for his cup of wine, not everyone in attendance showed similar amusement.

"Stop!" Pietro Grimani's command bellowed across the room as he stepped out from behind a dressing screen.

Nicco instinctively fell silent, not quite sure whether the directive was meant for him, the dogs or the frazzled looking attendant emerging from the Doge's shadow. Knowing his father's penchant for efficiency and order, it most likely covered all of them.

Dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand, Grimani adjusted his sleeves as he approached. The French silk that stretched over the screen's panels in their gilded frames may have been elegant, but it paled in comparison to the heavy, layered robes weaved with gold thread reserved for the man who ruled the Republic.

With fine slippers on his feet, an ermine collar on his shoulders, and a conical cap on his salt-and-pepper hair, the elder Grimani enjoyed all of the trappings of an oligarch while receiving the wholehearted support of his nobility—but only for as long as he held his esteemed office. While he was expected to rule for life unless he was forcibly removed, there was very little he could do to achieve such humiliation. The complex electoral machinery that had chosen him from an already narrow inner circle of powerful Venetian nobles would not risk admitting that they had picked incorrectly if-not for an undisputed cause of malfeasance.

The dogs respected their master as equally as did his human subjects. Obeying the authoritative, but simple command, the pointers dropped the tug-of-war with the rib and sat. As Grimani neared, their ears flopped back and their tails wagged in a rhythmic show of affection.

"Bravo, Romulus. That's a good boy, Remus," he said, patting each on the head with ring-laden fingers as their appreciation grew into loud thumping on the carpet. Turning to Nicco, the Doge's pleased expression fell into a scowl.

"Your fondness for strife isn't welcome here," he said to his older son while plucking a plump date from a bowl. After biting the sweet fruit in two, he continued. "I would have thought that after the unfortunate events of this morning, you'd be more subdued, Niccolo."

Nicco downed the rest of his wine. "You mean Delfini?"

His father lowered himself into a plush armchair and adjusted the fur draped over his upper body. "Of course I meant Delfini. The Councilman's fate is the talk of the islands."

Nicco shrugged as he placed his cup on the table. "He will not survive until sundown."

The Doge scoffed. "So my intuition was right. You were behind his attack."

"Are you mad, Papá?" Nicco asked, hoping to get an honest reaction out of the man. Respect was certainly welcome, but he'd take appreciation or even acknowledgement. "Tommaso Delfini did question your authority just a few days ago, did he not?"

Grimani leaned forward, the jewel-encrusted cross around his neck clanking on its thick chain. "Does that deserve a death sentence?"

"Some may say so," Nicco answered with indifference.